literature--OUR poets--that, if not immortal, at any rate, are to
last their fifty, their hundred years--oh, sirs, don't you think a very
small cellar will hold them?

Those poor people in brass, on pedestals, hectoring about Trafalgar
Square and that neighborhood, don't you think many of them--apart even
from the ridiculous execution--cut rather a ridiculous figure, and that
we are too eager to set up our ordinaire heroism and talent for port?
A Duke of Wellington or two I will grant, though even of these idols a
moderate supply will be sufficient. Some years ago a famous and witty
French critic was in London, with whom I walked the streets. I am
ashamed to say that I informed him (being in hopes that he was about
to write some papers regarding the manners and customs of this country)
that all the statues he saw represented the Duke of Wellington. That on
the arch opposite Apsley House? the Duke in a cloak, and cocked hat,
on horseback. That behind Apsley House in an airy fig-leaf costume? the
Duke again. That in Cockspur Street? the Duke with a pigtail--and so on.
I showed him an army of Dukes. There are many bronze heroes who after a
few years look already as foolish, awkward, and out of place as a
man, say at Shoolbred's or Swan and Edgar's. For example, those three
Grenadiers in Pall Mall, who have been up only a few months, don't you
pity those unhappy household troops, who have to stand frowning and
looking fierce there; and think they would like to step down and go to
barracks? That they fought very bravely there is no doubt; but so did
the Russians fight very bravely; and the French fight very bravely; and
so did Colonel Jones and the 99th, and Colonel Brown and the 100th; and
I say again that ordinaire should not give itself port airs, and that an
honest ordinaire would blush to be found swaggering so. I am sure if you
could consult the Duke of York, who is impaled on his column between the
two clubs, and ask his late Royal Highness whether he thought he ought
to remain there, he would say no. A brave, worthy man, not a braggart or
boaster, to be put upon that heroic perch must be painful to him. Lord
George Bentinck, I suppose, being in the midst of the family park in
Cavendish Square, may conceive that he has a right to remain in his
place. But look at William of Cumberland, with his hat cocked over his
eye, prancing behind Lord George on his Roman-nosed charger; he, depend
on it, would be for getting off hi