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