freethinking opinions; and her sex, as well as her republican sentiments, might have interfered with the knighthood of the immortal Mrs. Catharine Macaulay.  How Goldsmith would have paraded the ribbon at Madame Cornelys’s, or the Academy dinner!  How Peter Pindar would have railed at it!  Fifty years later, the noble Scott would have worn the Grand Cross and deserved it; but Gifford would have had it; and Byron, and Shelley, and Hazlitt, and Hunt would have been without it; and had Keats been proposed as officer, how the Tory prints would have yelled with rage and scorn!  Had the star of Minerva lasted to our present time—­but I pause, not because the idea is dazzling, but too awful.  Fancy the claimants, and the row about their precedence!  Which philosopher shall have the grand cordon?—­which the collar?—­which the little scrap no bigger than a buttercup?  Of the historians—­A, say,—­and C, and F, and G, and S, and T,—­which shall be Companion and which Grand Owl?  Of the poets, who wears, or claims, the largest and brightest star?  Of the novelists, there is A, and B and C D; and E (star of first magnitude, newly discovered), and F (a magazine of wit), and fair G, and H, and I, and brave old J, and charming K, and L, and M, and N, and O (fair twinklers), and I am puzzled between three P’s—­Peacock, Miss Pardoe, and Paul Pry—­and Queechy, and R, and S, and T, mere et fils, and very likely U, O gentle reader, for who has not written his novel now-a-days?—­who has not a claim to the star and straw-colored ribbon?—­and who shall have the biggest and largest?  Fancy the struggle!  Fancy the squabble!  Fancy the distribution of prizes!

Who shall decide on them?  Shall it be the sovereign? shall it be the Minister for the time being? and has Lord Palmerston made a deep study of novels?  In this matter the late Ministry,* to be sure, was better qualified; but even then, grumblers who had not got their canary cordons, would have hinted at professional jealousies entering the Cabinet; and, the ribbons being awarded, Jack would have scowled at his because Dick had a broader one; Ned been indignant because Bob’s was as large:  Tom would have thrust his into the drawer, and scorned to wear it at all.  No—­no:  the so-called literary world was well rid of Minerva and her yellow ribbon.  The great poets would have been indifferent, the little poets jealous, the funny men furious, the philosophers satirical, the historians supercilious, and, finally, the jobs without end.  Say, ingenuity and cleverness are to be rewarded by State tokens and prizes—­and take for granted the Order of Minerva is established—­who shall have it?  A great philosopher? no doubt we cordially salute him G.C.M.  A great historian?  G.C.M. of course.  A great engineer?  G.C.M.  A great poet? received with acclamation G.C.M.  A great painter? oh! certainly, G.C.M.  If a great painter, why not a great novelist?  Well, pass, great novelist, G.C.M.  But if a poetic, a pictorial,