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 his horse if he had the permission.  He did not hesitate about trifles, as we know; but he was a very truth-telling and honorable soldier:  and as for heroic rank and statuesque dignity, I would wager a dozen of ’20 port against a bottle of pure and sound Bordeaux, at 18s. per dozen (bottles included), that he never would think of claiming any such absurd distinction.  They have got a statue of Thomas Moore at Dublin, I hear.  Is he on horseback?  Some men should have, say, a fifty years’ lease of glory.  After a while some gentlemen now in brass should go to the melting furnace, and reappear in some other gentleman’s shape.  Lately I saw that Melville column rising over Edinburgh;