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. [Illustration] [Illustration] MR. BULL'S GLASS OF WATER. Mr. John Bull, suddenly impressed with the excellence of water, demanded that his town mansion should forthwith be supplied. "Bless your soul, Sir," cried nine of his servants, "the house has water enough, and very good water, brought twice a week." "Bring me a glass of it," said Bull, and while they were fetching the glass (for John's servants are the dreariest dawdles on the face of the earth, and are as long opening a door, cleaning a passage, or doing any little job, except a money job, as the servants of Monsieur le Nez, over the way, are in throwing his whole house out of windows), Mr. Bull took up a Blue Book.