Spooks, is bogies and ghostesses, CHARLIE, according to latter-day
      chat,—­
  And the place where DIANNER conveyed, me was spooky, and spectral
      at that. 
  “Where are we, Miss, if I may arsk?” I sez, orfully ’umbl for me. 
  Then she turns ’er two lamps on me sparkling.  “Of course we’re in
      Limbo,” sez she.

  Didn’t quite like the lay on it, CHARLIE, for Limbo sounds precious
      like quod: 
  But she meant Lunar Limbo, dear boy, sort o’ store-room, where
      everythink odd,
  Out of date, foolish, faddy, and sech like, is kept like old curio
      stock. 
  (Ef yer want to know more about Limbo, read Mr. POPE’s Rape of the
      Lock.)

  “So this ’ere is the Moon, Miss!” sez I.  “Where’s the Man there’s
      sech talk on downstairs?”
  She looked at me ’orty.  Thinks I, “You’re a ’ot ’un to give yourself
      hairs. 
  I may level you down a bit later:  The Man in the Moon, Miss,” I adds. 
  Sez she, “We don’t ’ave Men up here; they are most of them tyrants or
      cads!”

  “Oh,” sez I, “on the MONA CAIRD lay, eh, my lady?” Jest then, mate, I
      looks
  And sees male-looking things by the dozen:  but then they turned out
      to be spooks. 
  There was TOLSTOI the Rooshian romancer, a grim-looking son of a gun,
  Welting into young Cupid like scissors, and wallopping Hymen like fun.

  [Illustration]

  Old Hymen looked ’orrified rayther; but as for young Arrers-and-’Arts,
  He turned up his nose at the old ’un, whilst all the gay donas and
      tarts,
  Not to mention the matronly mivvies, were arter the boy with the bow,
  Plainly looking on TOLSTOI and IBSEN as crackpots, and not in the know.

  “Queer paper, my dear Miss DIANNER,” sez I, “wot do you think?” Sez
      she,
  “A mere Vision of Vanities, mortal, of no speshal interest to me.
  I am not the keeper of Limbo, although it is found in my sphere. 
  Everything that’s absurd and unnatural claims a clear right to come
      here.

  “See, the latest Art-Hobbies are ambling about with their ’eads in the
      air,
  And their riders are tilting like true toothpick paladins.  SMUDGE over
      there
  Makes a bee-line for SCRATCH in this corner, whilst MUCK and the
      Mawkish at odds,
  Clash wildly, and Naturalism pink Sentiment painfully prods.”

  Then I twigged Penny WHISTLER’s white plume, and the haddypose HOSCAR
      upreared,
  His big hairy horryflame, CHARLIE, whilst Phillistines looked on and
      jeered. 
  I see Nature, as Narstiness, ramping at wot Nambypamby dubbed Nice,
  And Twoddle parading as Virtue, and Silliness playing at Vice.

  Here was pooty girls Primrosing madly, and spiling their tempers a lump,
  By telling absurd taradiddles for some big political pump;