THE OPERA HABITUÉ.
You've heard of an Habitué—an Opera-going man—
Perhaps you sometimes try to look as like one as you can,
But, if you want a faithful sketch—correct as sketch can be,
I'll daguerreotype myself—an old Habitué.
And first, I don't know music—for I haven't got an ear;
And I fear I couldn't tell Jim Crow from strains by Meyerbeer;
And once I made a blunder when the band began to tune,
And asked what Costa was about, to start them off so soon.
The fact is—music bores one, but what is one to do?
It's very clear that one must try to get one's evenings through;
And so I somehow find myself professing vast delight,
And shouting "brava Grisi!"—yes—every Opera night.
I'm got up to perfection. In all that dandy place,
There's no cravat so faultless—no shirt so gay with lace;
My gibus hat—my shiny boots, there's none who see forget.
While words can't tell how tight my gloves, or huge my white lorgnette.
And, every Opera evening, I lounge into my stall,
And nod, and smile to scores—of course—Habitués, one and all;
And then adjust that huge lorgnette; and, grave as grave can be,
From box to box, and tier to tier, commence my scrutiny.
There's first the row of baignoires so dark, and deep, and sly;
Then the Grand Tier—the milky way—around the Opera sky.
The First tier so respectable—beloved of Russell Square,
The Second, where the artist haunts high up in middle air.
And well I know by many a sign, by toilet, and by style,
Whether or no the House be good. Spite managerial wile,
One sweep of my lorgnette, and then, I'll confidently say
Which are the boxes duly filled, and which those given away.
The curtain up—my toils commence—and loungingly I pass
From tier to tier, and box to box, myself, boots, hat and glass.
And flirt with Emily, or Kate, and chat with dear Mamma,
Or even fling myself away five minutes on Papa.
And then we talk, oh, how we talk, of pic-nics, rides, and balls;
Or quiz that lady's strange toilette down yonder in the stalls,
And wonder who the men can be in very dubious stocks,
Who've pinned the bill upon the ledge of Lady Swandown's Box.
But the last loud stirring chorus at length has died away,
And the house is up and buzzing, for the Entre'acte hath sway,
The corridors are thoroughfares—as here and there they flit
Our humming, chatting Opera world from boxes, stalls, and pit.
For now there comes the Quarter hour when everybody meets,
The cheery, chatty Quarter hour, when each some comrade greets,
The Quarter hour so terrible, when Critics deep, who sit
In solemn judgment—pass it—in the lobby near the pit.
A chattering joking conclave, that merry clever ring,
With its gossip of all passing things and scandal of the "wing,"
Deep Opera diplomacy—the last alleged sore throat;
And all the very newest, and most piquant things afloat.
And thus my evening passes in the summer and the spring,
In lorgnette astronomics, and languid listening,
In sauntering, and gossiping, and lounging up and down,
And mixing up the music with the chit-chat of the town.
Till—from the Great Soprano Queen there's nothing more to hear,
Till—the last loud orchestral crash has died upon the ear,
Till—the last lingering lady has made her last delay,
And the last lingering carriage no longer stops the way.
