a story-telling or music-composing artist, why not a singing artist?  Why not a basso-profondo?  Why not a primo tenore?  And if a singer, why should not a ballet-dancer come bounding on the stage with his cordon, and cut capers to the music of a row of decorated fiddlers?  A chemist puts in his claim for having invented a new color; an apothecary for a new pill; the cook for a new sauce; the tailor for a new cut of trousers.  We have brought the star of Minerva down from the breast to the pantaloons.  Stars and garters! can we go any farther; or shall we give the shoe maker the yellow ribbon of the order for his shoetie?

     * That of Lord Derby, in 1859, which included Mr. Disraeli
     and Sir Edward Bulwer Lytton.

When I began this present Roundabout excursion, I think I had not quite made up my mind whether we would have an Order of all the Talents or not:  perhaps I rather had a hankering for a rich ribbon and gorgeous star, in which my family might like to see me at parties in my best waistcoat.  But then the door opens, and there come in, and by the same right too, Sir Alexis Soyer!  Sir Alessandro Tamburini!  Sir Agostino Velluti!  Sir Antonio Paganini (violinist)!  Sir Sandy McGuffog (piper to the most noble the Marquis of Farintosh)!  Sir Alcide Flicflac (premier danseur of H. M. Theatre)!  Sir Harley Quin and Sir Joseph Grimaldi (from Covent Garden)!  They have all the yellow ribbon.  They are all honorable, and clever, and distinguished artists.  Let us elbow through the rooms, make a bow to the lady of the house, give a nod to Sir George Thrum, who is leading the orchestra, and go and get some champagne and seltzer-water from Sir Richard Gunter, who is presiding at the buffet.  A national decoration might be well and good:  a token awarded by the country to all its benemerentibus:  but most gentlemen with Minerva stars would, I think, be inclined to wear very wide breast-collars to their coats.  Suppose yourself, brother penman, decorated with this ribbon, and looking in the glass, would you not laugh?  Would not wife and daughters laugh at that canary-colored emblem?

But suppose a man, old or young, of figure ever so stout, thin, stumpy, homely, indulging in looking-glass reflections with that hideous ribbon and cross called V. C. on his coat, would he not be proud? and his family, would they not be prouder?  For your nobleman there is the famous old blue garter and star, and welcome.  If I were a marquis—­if I had thirty—­forty thousand a year (settle the sum, my dear Alnaschar, according to your liking), I should consider myself entitled to my seat in Parliament and to my garter.  The garter belongs to the Ornamental Classes.  Have you seen the new magnificent Pavo Spicifer at the Zoological Gardens, and do you grudge him his jewelled coronet and the azure splendor of his waistcoat?  I like my Lord Mayor to have a gilt coach; my magnificent monarch to be surrounded by magnificent nobles:  I huzzay respectfully