What plates the Bugsbys had on the shelf, Crockery, china, wooden, or delf?

And if the parlor of Mrs. O'Grady Had a wicked French print, or Death and the Lady?

Did Snip and his wife continue to jangle?

Had Mrs. Wilkinson sold her mangle?

What liquor was drunk by Jones and Brown?

And the weekly score they ran up at the Crown?

If the Cobbler could read, and believed in the Pope?

And how the Grubbs were off for soap?

If the Snobbs had furnish'd their room upstairs, And how they managed for tables and chairs, Beds, and other household affairs, Iron, wooden, and Staffordshire wares?

And if they could muster a whole pair of bellows?

In fact, she had much of the spirit that lies Perdu in a notable set of Paul Prys, By courtesy called Statistical Fellows-- A prying, spying, inquisitive clan, Who have gone upon much of the self-same plan, Jotting the Laboring Class's riches; And after poking in pot and pan, And routing garments in want of stitches, Have ascertained that a working man Wears a pair and a quarter of average breeches!

But this, alas! from her loss of hearing, Was all a seal'd book to Dame Eleanor Spearing; And often her tears would rise to their founts-- Supposing a little scandal at play 'Twixt Mrs. O'Fie and Mrs. An Fait-- That she couldn't audit the Gossips' accounts.

'Tis true, to her cottage still they came, And ate her muffins just the same, And drank the tea of the widow'd Dame, And never swallow'd a thimble the less Of something the Reader is left to guess, For all the deafness of Mrs. S., Who _saw_ them talk, and chuckle, and cough, But to _see_ and not share in the social flow, She might as well have lived, you know, In one of the houses in Owen's Row, Near the New River Head, with its water cut off

And yet the almond-oil she had tried, And fifty infallible things beside, Hot, and cold, and thick, and thin, Dabb'd, and dribbled, and squirted in: But all remedies fail'd; and though some it was clear (Like the brandy and salt We now exalt) Had made a noise in the public ear, She was just as deaf as ever, poor dear!

At last--one very fine day in June-- Suppose her sitting, Busily knitting, And humming she didn't quite know what tune; For nothing she heard but a sort of a whizz, Which, unless the sound of the circulation, Or of Thoughts in the process of fabrication, By a Spinning-Jennyish operation, It's hard to say what buzzing it is.

However, except that ghost of a sound, She sat in a silence most profound-- The cat was purring about the mat, But her Mistress heard no more of that Than if it had been a boatswain's cat; And as for the clock the moments nicking, The Dame only gave it credit for ticking.

The bark of her dog she did not catch; Nor yet the click of the lifted latch; Nor yet the creak of the opening door; Nor yet the fall of a foot on the floor-- But she saw the shadow that crept on her gown And turn'd its skirt of a darker brown.

And lo! a man! a Pedlar! ay, marry, With the little back-shop that such tradesmen carry Stock'd with brooches, ribbons, and rings, Spectacles, razors, and other odd things, For lad and lass, as Autolycus sings; A chapman for goodness and cheapness of ware, Held a fair dealer enough at a fair, But deem'd a piratical sort of invader By him we dub the "regular trader,"

Who--luring the passengers in as they pass By lamps, gay panels, and mouldings of brass, And windows with only one huge pane of glass, And his name in gilt characters, German or Roman,-- If he isn't a Pedlar, at least he's a Showman!

However, in the stranger came, And, the moment he met the eyes of the Dame, Threw her as knowing a nod as though He had known her fifty long years ago; And presto! before she could utter "Jack"-- Much less "Robinson"--open'd his pack-- And then from amongst his portable gear, With even more than a Pedlar's tact,-- (Slick himself might have envied the act)-- Before she had time to be deaf, in fact-- Popp'd a Trumpet into her ear.

"There, Ma'am! try it!

You needn't buy it-- The last New Patent--and nothing comes nigh it For affording the Deaf, at a little expense, The sense of hearing, and hearing of sense!

A Real Blessing--and no mistake, Invented for poor Humanity's sake; For what can be a greater privation Than playing Dummy to all creation, And only looking at conversation-- Great Philosophers talking like Platos, And Members of Parliament moral as Catos, And your ears as dull as waxy potatoes!

Not to name the mischievous quizzers, Sharp as knives, but double as scissors, Who get you to answer quite by guess Yes for No, and No for Yes."

("That's very true," says Dame Eleanor S.)

"Try it again! No harm in trying-- I'm sure you'll find it worth your buying, A little practice--that is all-- And you'll hear a whisper, however small, Through an Act of Parliament party-wall,-- Every syllable clear as day, And even what people are going to say-- I wouldn't tell a lie, I wouldn't, But my Trumpets have heard what Solomon's couldn't; And as for Scott he promises fine, But can he warrant his horns like mine Never to hear what a Lady shouldn't-- Only a guinea--and can't take less."

("That's very dear," says Dame Eleanor S.)

"Dear!--Oh dear, to call it dear!

Why it isn't a horn you buy, but an ear; Only think, you'll find on reflection You're bargaining, Ma'am, for the Voice of Affection; For the language of Wisdom, and Virtue, and Truth, And the sweet little innocent prattle of youth: Not to mention the striking of clocks--, Cackle of hens--crowing of cocks-- Lowing of cow, and bull, and ox-- Bleating of pretty pastoral flocks-- Murmur of waterfall over the rocks-- Every sound that Echo mocks-- Vocals, fiddles, and musical-box-- And zounds! to call such a concert dear!

But I musn't swear with my horn in your ear.

Why, in buying that Trumpet you buy all those That Harper, or any trumpeter, blows At the Queen's Levees or the Lord Mayor's Shows, At least as far as the music goes, Including the wonderful lively sound, Of the Guards' keg-bugles all the year round: Come--suppose we call it a pound!

"Come," said the talkative Man of the Pack, "Before I put my box on my back, For this elegant, useful Conductor of Sound, Come--suppose we call it a pound!

"Only a pound! it's only the price Of hearing a Concert once or twice, It's only the fee You might give Mr. C.

And after all not hear his advice, But common prudence would bid you stump it; For, not to enlarge, It's the regular charge At a Fancy Fair for a penny trumpet.

Lord! what's a pound to the blessing of hearing!"

("A pound's a pound," said Dame Eleanor Spearing.)

"Try it again! no harm in trying!

A pound's a pound there's no denying; But think what thousands and thousands of pounds We pay for nothing but hearing sounds: Sounds of Equity, Justice, and Law, Parliamentary jabber and jaw, Pious cant and moral saw, Hocus-pocus, and Nong-tong-paw, And empty sounds not worth a straw; Why it costs a guinea, as I'm a sinner, To hear the sounds at a Public Dinner!

One pound one thrown into the puddle, To listen to Fiddle, Faddle, and Fuddle!

Not to forget the sounds we buy From those who sell their sounds so high, That, unless the Managers pitch it strong, To get a Signora to warble a song, You must fork out the blunt with a haymaker's prong!

"It's not the thing for me--I know it, To crack my own Trumpet up and blow it; But it is the best, and time will show it, There was Mrs. F.

So very deaf, That she might have worn a percussion-cap, And been knock'd on the head without hearing it snap.

Well, I sold her a horn, and the very next day She heard from her husband at Botany Bay!

Come--eighteen shillings--that's very low, You'll save the money as shillings go, And I never knew so bad a lot, By hearing whether they ring or not!

"Eighteen shillings! it's worth the price, Supposing you're delicate-minded and nice, To have the medical man of your choice, Instead of the one with the strongest voice-- Who comes and asks you, how's your liver, And where you ache, and whether you shiver, And as to your nerves, so apt to quiver, As if he was hailing a boat in the river!

And then with a shout, like Pat in a riot, Tells you to keep yourself perfectly quiet!

Or a tradesman comes--as tradesmen will-- Short and crusty about his bill, Of patience, indeed, a perfect scorner, And because you're deaf and unable to pay, Shouts whatever he has to say, In a vulgar voice, that goes over the way, Down the street and round the corner!

Come--speak your mind--it's 'No or Yes,'"

("I've half a mind," said Dame Eleanor S.)

"Try it again--no harm in trying, Of course you hear me, as easy as lying; No pain at all, like a surgical trick, To make you squall, and struggle, and kick, Like Juno, or Rose, Whose ear undergoes Such horrid tugs at membrane and gristle, For being as deaf as yourself to a whistle!

"You may go to surgical chaps if you choose, Who will blow up your tubes like copper flues, Or cut your tonsils right away, As you'd shell out your almonds for Christmas-day; And after all a matter of doubt, Whether you ever would hear the shout: Of the little blackguards that bawl about, 'There you go with your tonsils out!'

Why I knew a deaf Welshman, who came from Glamorgan On purpose to try a surgical spell, And paid a guinea, and might as well Have call'd a monkey into his organ!

For the Aurist only took a mug, And pour'd in his ear some acoustical drug, That, instead of curing, deafen'd him rather, As Hamlet's uncle served Hamlet's father!

That's the way with your surgical gentry!

And happy your luck If you don't get stuck Through your liver and lights at a royal entry, Because you never answer'd the sentry!

"Try it again, dear Madam, try it!

Many would sell their beds to buy it.

I warrant you often wake up in the night, Ready to shake to a jelly with fright, And up you must get to strike a light, And down you go, in you know what, Whether the weather is chilly or hot,-- That's the way a cold is got,-- To see if you heard a noise or not!"

"Why, bless you, a woman with organs like yours Is hardly safe to step out of doors!

Just fancy a horse that comes full pelt, But as quiet as if he was 'shod with felt,'

Till he rushes against you with all his force, And then I needn't describe the course, While he kicks you about without remorse, How awkward it is to be groom'd by a horse!

Or a bullock comes, as mad as King Lear, And you never dream that the brute is near, Till he pokes his horn right into your ear, Whether you like the thing or lump it,-- And all for want of buying a trumpet!

"I'm not a female to fret and vex, But if I belonged to the sensitive sex, Exposed to all sorts of indelicate sounds, I wouldn't be deaf for a thousand pounds.

Lord! only think of chucking a copper To Jack or Bob with a timber limb, Who looks as if he was singing a hymn, Instead of a song that's very improper!

Or just suppose in a public place You see a great fellow a-pulling a face, With his staring eyes and his mouth like an O,-- And how is a poor deaf lady to know,-- The lower orders are up to such games-- If he's calling 'Green Peas,' or calling her names?"

("They're tenpence a peck!" said the deafest of Dames.)

"'Tis strange what very strong advising, By word of mouth, or advertising, By chalking on walls, or placarding on vans, With fifty other different plans, The very high pressure, in fact, of pressing, It needs to persuade one to purchase a blessing!

Whether the Soothing American Syrup, A Safety Hat, or a Safety Stirrup,-- Infallible Pills for the human frame, Or Rowland's O-don't-o (an ominous name), A Doudney's suit which the shape so hits That it beats all others into _fits_; A Mechi's razor for beards unshorn, Or a Ghost-of-a-Whisper-Catching Horn!

"Try it again, Ma'am, only try!"

Was still the voluble Pedlar's cry; "It's a great privation, there's no dispute, To live like the dumb unsociable brute, And to hear no more of the _pro_ and _con_, And how Society's going on, Than Mumbo Jumbo or Prester John, And all for want of this _sine qua non_; Whereas, with a horn that never offends, You may join the genteelest party that is, And enjoy all the scandal, and gossip, and quiz, And be certain to hear of your absent friends;-- Not that elegant ladies, in fact, In genteel society ever detract, Or lend a brush when a friend is black'd,-- At least as a mere malicious act,-- But only talk scandal for fear some fool Should think they were bred at _charity_ school.

Or, maybe, you like a little flirtation, Which even the most Don Juanish rake Would surely object to undertake At the same high pitch as an altercation.

It's not for me, of course, to judge How much a Deaf Lady ought to begrudge; But half-a-guinea seems no great matter-- Letting alone more rational patter-- Only to hear a parrot chatter: Not to mention that feather'd wit, The Starling, who speaks when his tongue is slit; The Pies and Jays that utter words, And other Dicky Gossips of birds, That talk with as much good sense and decorum, As many _Beaks_ who belong to the quorum.

"Try it--buy it--say ten and six, The lowest price a miser could fix: I don't pretend with horns of mine, Like some in the advertising line, To '_magnify sounds_' on such marvellous scales, That the sounds of a cod seem as big as a whale's; But popular rumors, right or wrong,-- Charity sermons, short or long,-- Lecture, speech, concerto, or song, All noises and voices, feeble or strong, From the hum of a gnat to the clash of a gong, This tube will deliver distinct and clear; Or, supposing by chance You wish to dance, Why, it's putting a _Horn-pipe_ into your ear!

Try it--buy it!

Buy it--try it!

The last New Patent, and nothing comes nigh it, For guiding sounds to their proper tunnel: Only try till the end of June, And if you and the Trumpet are out of tune I'll turn it gratis into a funnel!"

In short, the Pedlar so beset her,-- Lord Bacon couldn't have gammon'd her better,-- With flatteries plump and indirect, And plied his tongue with such effect,-- A tongue that could almost have butter'd a crumpet,-- The deaf old woman bought the Trumpet.