ELSON and Trafalgar.
We can still run up the rigging (there isn't any but that is an
unimportant detail) like kittens, and reef a sail (there's not one
left, but what does _that_ matter?) in a Nor-Wester as our ancestors
did before us. And if you don't believe me, go to any public dinner
when response is being made for the Navy."

"But if the ships have changed, would it not be better if the crews
had undergone an appropriate transformation?"

"We don't think so. But, there, it's no use palavering. Some day the
matter will be put to the test?"

"By a war?"

"No; by the Fleet starting for a cruise in calm weather. Some say we
should all go to the bottom. But I am talking of the Planet Neptune.
On your little Earth, I suppose, things are _very_ different?"

"Very," replied _Mr. Punch_. "_We_ have the Admiralty!"

And considering this an appropriate moment for departure, the Sage and
his Venerable Companion floated amongst the stars.

* * * * *

[Illustration: AMONG THE DRAMATIC AND OPERATIC STARS.

AIRY FAIRY LILIAN.

KING ARTHUR.

THE ONLY ADELINA.

OUR ELLEN.

OUR HENRY.

THE GRASSHOPERATIC STAR.

THE SOCIETY CLOWN.

"O.K."

OUR JOHNNIE.]

* * * * *

ARTISTIC STARS.

[Illustration]

"It's wonderful!" exclaimed TIME. "We haven't got anything like this
on Earth."

"Plenty more where they come from," said his Guide Philosopher and
Friend; "but now just give me a lock of your hair, and I'll stand you
a fly through the artistic quarter."

And Mr. PUNCH, like Beauty, "drawing him with a single hair," carried
the Ancient Wanderer along with him, past galaxies of talent,
musical, dramatic, and operatic, refusing to stop and gratify the old
Gentleman's pardonable curiosity.

"I know I've got Time for it all," quoth the flying Sage, "but I
haven't space, that's where the difficulty is. As for Literary Stars,
from TENNYSON and SWINBURNE, to LANG, STEVENSON, BLACK, BESANT, and
our excellent friend, Miss BRADDON, with other novelists too numerous
to mention, we must leave our cards on them, pay a flying visit, and
just skirt the artistic quarter."

"There's the President!" exclaimed Old TIME.

"Ah! everyone knows _him_," said _Mr. Punch_--"artist and orator, and
ever a Grand Young Man, the flower of the Royal Academy."

"Sir JOHN, too," cried TIME.

"As fresh as his own paint is our MILLAIS," returned _Mr. Punch_.
"But 'on we goes