as tall as another; and one man is as good as another--and a great dale
betther, as the Irish philosopher said.

Is this so? Titles and badges of honor are vanity; and in the American
Revolution you have his Excellency General Washington sending back, and
with proper spirit sending back, a letter in which he is not addressed
as Excellency and General. Titles are abolished; and the American
Republic swarms with men claiming and bearing them. You have the French
soldier cheered and happy in his dying agony, and kissing with frantic
joy the chief's hand who lays the little cross on the bleeding bosom. At
home you have the Dukes and Earls jobbing and intriguing for the Garter;
the Military Knights grumbling at the Civil Knights of the bath; the
little ribbon eager for the collar; the soldiers and seamen from India
and the Crimea marching in procession before the Queen, and receiving
from her hands the cross bearing her royal name. And, remember, there
are not only the cross wearers, but all the fathers and friends; all the
women who have prayed for their absent heroes; Harry's wife, and Tom's
mother, and Jack's daughter, and Frank's sweetheart, each of whom wears
in her heart of hearts afterwards the badge which son, father, lover,
has won by his merit; each of whom is made happy and proud, and is bound
to the country by that little bit of ribbon.

I have heard, in a lecture about George the Third, that, at his
accession, the King had a mind to establish an order for literary men.
It was to have been called the Order of Minerva--I suppose with an Owl
for a badge. The knights were to have worn a star of sixteen points, and
a yellow ribbon; and good old Samuel Johnson was talked of as President,
or Grand Cross, or Grand Owl, of the society. Now about such an order
as this there certainly may be doubts. Consider the claimants, the
difficulty of settling their claims, the rows and squabbles amongst the