And I said “Where is the box-keeper, to open yonder door?
For the tapping is a bore.”
And myself the door unlocking, just to end the tiresome knocking,
In there stepped a solemn Croaker of the palmy days of yore;
Not the least obeisance made he, not a minute stopped or stayed he,
Passed each fashionable lady with long skirts upon the floor,
Scanned his voucher through gold-mounted and green spectacles he wore,
Took his seat, and nothing more.
Then this Croaker grave, beguiling my sad fancy into smiling
By the grave and stem decorum of the countenance he wore.