leggings, which could never by any possibility
—short of a piece of " elastic," which was not
then invented— be kept up, and of a crown of
laurels and a loose pigtail tied at the back with
ribbon. He would observe, further, that the
English gentleman of this period never stirred
out without that truncheon, of which mention
has already been made. Charles the Second at
Chelsea Hospital has such a weapon, and is
indeed, in all respects, a model Roman. This
statue, as well as that at the back of Whitehall,
was put up by a gentleman of the remarkable
name of Tobias Unstick, who, having some
small place about the court, thought he could
not do better than spend some of its proceeds
in bronze Romans.

Almost coeval with these noble Romans, the
student of British costume finds in front of St.
Paul's a figure of a lady in a dress of another
description. The short and gentle sway of
Anne is commemorated not only by the dismal
figure already spoken of in Queen-square,
Bloomsbury, and by another, in another Queen-
square, Westminster, but by a statue of the
queen in her " habit as she lived," standing in
the enclosed space before St. Paul's Cathedral.
There is a great beauty and piquancy in the way
in which this figure stands—this little, weak
woman—backed by the huge structure of
"Paul's," and by its thundering dome. The
attitude of Anne is quiet and feminine, and the
contrast between her small stature and the
almost ostentatious grandeur of the magnificent
cathedral is greatly to the advantage of both.

With the figure of Anne and that mentioned
before of Charles the First, the list of those
London statues that one cares twopence about
comes to an abrupt end; that of George the
Third in Cockspur-street, though superior to
some of more recent date, being hardly of much
interest to any of us. It is, by-the-by,
questionable whether an out-door equestrian should
be represented with his hat in his hand. The
sensation—and the writer has experienced it—
of seeing such a figure rained upon violently
being a dreadfully uncomfortable one, and quite
different from what one experiences in seeing a
torrent fall upon those statues which have left
their head-coverings hanging on the hat-pegs at
home.

And now comes a time when, in losing sight
of George the Third's pigtail, and of the coat-
skirts of good Captain Coram as he stands
before the Foundling Hospital, we part company
again with realities in dress and plunge back
again into the classic regions—not this time of
Rome, but—of Greece. If a Roman conquest
took place in the reign of Charles the Second, it
is equally certain that a Grecian descent was
made upon this capital in that of the fourth
George, and that a horde of fierce philosophers,
armed with blankets and scrolls, took undisputed
possession at that period of our unhappy
country. It is a triumph to those gentry to have
conquered us with such weapons, of which the
blanket appears to be the more formidable, the
scroll itself being, to say the truth, a flabby and
innocuous instrument to look at. What the
truncheon was to the Roman, however, that
tremendous scroll was to the Grecian of the days
of the Regency. Catch a public character at
that time without it. "I hold in my hand" is
still a legend of the House of Commons, which
probably originated in the scroll period. The
illustrious men of that time were nearly all
provided with a blanket, but there is no exception
whatever to the scroll, or the uncomfortable
things which they do with it. Mr. Pitt, in
Hanover-square, is using it as a prop. Canning's
disgust is shown by an endeavour to crumple up
and put out of sight this tiresome accompaniment
of his official position. Perhaps the only
member of this Grecian assembly who is
thoroughly resigned to his scroll, and who has made
up his mind to accept it and all that it involves,
with a good grace, is Mr. Fox, who is sleepily
and sullenly indifferent on this as on all other
points.

The wardrobe of a noble Grecian seems to be
perfectly simple and inexpensive, the two
ingredients already mentioned being the principal
articles required. With these, a pair of rather
mysterious tights, and nothing else—no, not so
much as a crown of laurels the reader may, if
he likes, set up in business as a Grecian to-morrow.
The only difficulty is with regard to the
tights, which are so vague about the region
where they join the shoe, that one is sometimes
tempted to believe that the wearer of these
sinister garments has no shoe, but is dressed—
were such a thing possible— in stockings with a
sole (double) fastened on to them.

The Grecians bring us down to comparatively
modern times; to the Achilles in Hyde Park, in
yet more simple costume than the above-named
philosophers—his outfit consisting of a long
jack-towel and a shield; to the Duke of
Wellington as he appears on Constitution-hill, and
before the Royal Exchange; to the Duke of
York, Nelson, and the other glories of
Trafalgar-square: to wit, " the first gentleman," Sir
Charles Napier, Jenner, and the Northumberland
House Lion.

What a thing it would be if we could make a
clean sweep of these, all except the last! What
a thing if we could get up one morning and find
Trafalgar-square a tabula rasa! What
inconsistent people we are! We rave and roar about
an Indicator lamp in Piccadilly, and while straining
at this poor gnat we swallow a camel— would
that it were a camel— in the shape of the
Wellington statue. Is there no getting rid of that
statue? Will the censuring gentleman, from
the Isle of Wight who placards the walls on the
subject of his indignantly meeting the men of
London at St. Martin's Hall meet them on this
subject? Can no "Indignation meeting" be
got up about it? Is there no ingenious chemist
who can invent some subtle and devouring acid
with which we might play upon that monster
through a fire-engine, and which would slowly
undermine its hated Constitution? Surely this
might be done, and what joy it would be to see
such a force beginning to tell— to imagine the