The quarter where I linger,

My square, is Fashion's acme;

I'm conscious that the finger

Of scorn may well attack me;

At number six a Viscount

Resides, in proper season;

No wonder, then, that I count

As vulgar now, with reason.

To stay in London, here too!—

This neighbourhood majestic!

Oh! what must it appear to

A nobleman's domestic?

I feel, I can't help stating,

Each morn I feel (it tries me),

His Lordship's lords-in-waiting

Both pity and despise me.

His blinds are drawn sedately;

Mine blazon low disaster;

How desolate, how stately,

That mansion mourns its master!

His Lordship is at Como—

At least so folks are saying;

His Lordship's Major-Domo

Reproaches me for staying.

But, prowling, like a Polar

Bear, up and down the pavement

Last eve, and grinding molar

Teeth over forced enslavement,

A miracle I noted,

A "spook," deserving quires

Of commentaries quoted

By "psychic" Mr. Myers.

Upon his Lordship's hinges

Revolved his Lordship's portal,

Till thence, with stealthy twinges,

Emerged what seemed a mortal;

A lamp was nigh to show him,—

I'd not been quaffing toddy,—

I'm privileged to know him,—

It was—His Lordship's Body.

Now if his Major-Domo

Told truth—and who can doubt him?

His Lordship was at Como,

And number six without him.

His Lordship, I reflected,

Can earthly trammels o'erstep,

And, "astrally projected"

From Como, reach his doorstep.

'Twas very odd—I know that;

But then the "spook"-deriding

Must undertake to show that

His Lordship was in hiding;

That London still detained him—

Him one of Britain's leaders!

And frank avowal pained him.—

Well, you must judge, my readers.