first hints of dissolution, the first falling away
in that noble nose, the first symptoms of corrosion
in the cocked-hat. Can no one start a panic
in connexion with this figure and persuade us
that it is dangerous during high winds to leave
it exposed at so great an altitude? The writer
of this paper is poor, but will cheerfully put down
his subscription towards any scheme that shall
have for its object the destruction of this
monster, and also the annihilation of Sir Charles
Napier and Dr. Jenner.

In the annals of failure and hideousuess, is
there an instance of such abject and desperate
badness as is manifested in our recent experiments
in sculpture? Let the reader judge for
himself: let him take the Demon of Constitution-hill
to start with, and after examining him
from various points of view— by no means omitting
that which is to be obtained in the centre
of the park—after thoroughly mastering this
terrific phenomenon, and reaching a condition in
which he doubts the evidence of his senses as
to the existence of anything so preposterous—
let him proceed to Cavendish-square, and take
an observation of the memorial raised to my
Lord George Bentinck. Consider that monument
well. Can feebleness go beyond that?
Can a cloak—which is in itself a bleak and
desolate garment— can a cloak be held more feebly
than by that eminent statesman's left hand?
Can human legs be conceived by the richest
imagination more hopeless than those? They
are clad in strapped and damp unmentionables,
and have obviously suggested that well-known
but aggravating cartoon, with which we are all
but too familiar—the Sydenham trousers. If
that statue has not the Sydenham trousers to
answer for, what has?

Perhaps the beautiful portrait of the late Sir
Robert Peel has. This statue, at the west end
of Cheapside, another of our comparatively
recent efforts, seems also to have had a share in
the Sydenham trousers. The responsibility of
calling that design into existence seems to rest
about equally upon—not the shoulders, but—
the legs of these two politicians. In both the
figures we observe, to our joy, the reappearance
of the scroll—with paper three-quarters of an
inch thick, and with a tight curl in it, awkward
to write on it would seem, and aggravatingly
ready to roll up again of its own accord when
referred to in debates.

Having now got within that extraordinary and
elastic phenomenon called " a stone's throw"
of the Royal Exchange and King William-street,
it may be well to visit the two statues which
adorn those sites. Beyond a wild yearning for
stumps in the case of the equestrian, and a
savage joy at the reappearance of new phases
of the blanket, with its spiral fold, and of the
truncheon, in the case of the pedestrian figure,
we shall be disposed to waste no thought on
these two works of art, which are incapable of
suggesting anything— no, not the Sydenham
trousers even. We shall fly before them,
and, taking a river steamer, return to Charing-
cross, congratulating ourselves that there are
no statues on the river—though would to
Heaven there were several in it. So we come
to the base of the monument raised to the fourth
William's august brother in Trafalgar-square.
But what has this worthy gentleman got on? A
curtain, with cords and tassels complete, hangs
upon his shoulders; sculptors' tights with soles
as before, are on his legs; on his head is a
beautiful wig, and in his hand a truncheon. There
are bounds to all things, even to royal meekness:
"I come out without my hat, without
my trousers, I ride without a saddle or stirrups,
but stir from home without my truncheon, I
will NOT." This is the speech of the Royal
George.

This instrument being of a winning and
irresistible order, one is surprised to find a great
general like Sir Charles Napier putting up with
the civilian's scroll. What right has Sir Charles
Napier to take the wind out of the sails of his
neighbour, the imbecile Jenner, by having a rival
scroll in his hand? Sir Charles has a sword too,
with which he might have made play; a beautiful
hooked sword, like the outline of his own
eagle nose. In every way the unhappy Jenner
is vilely used, and is taken so little account of
by the Trafalgar-square authorities as a statue,
that a thumping lamp on the pedestal
corresponding to that which the doctor occupies, is
considered a proper pendant to him.

But how to get a look at Nelson? that is the
question. One can see him, it is true, on the
base in certain phases of his existence, in all of
which he appears to be seventy years old and
seven feet high. There is too much cordage about
this monument; a rope has doubtless a
captivating twist in it which it must be pleasant to
tackle in clay, but we should be moderate in the
use of such pleasures. One can get a sight of
Nelson, then, on the base; but how to inspect
the figure, to honour which that base exists at
all, is the difficulty. It is vain to ascend the
steps of the National Gallery; for from thence
one can only see the hero's back, with a cable
tail—more rope—peeping from between his
coat-flaps. It is useless to descend Parliament-
street. It is madness to go near, as you can
then only see the capital of the pillar. It is
frenzy to go far off, for then you can see nothing.
There are only two places this statue can be
seen from: the back of the Lion on Northumberland
House, and the top of the Duke of
York Column.

His Grace the Duke of Northumberland being
that peer whom your Eye-witness does not
know, the back of his Grace's lion was an
inaccessible spot, and so the only thing to do was to
adopt the other, or Duke of York alternative.
And this was the more desirable, because your
servant, in seeking to estimate truly the nature
of the statue at the top of that pillar, had
arrived at certain conclusions respecting it as
seen from below with which it was impossible
to remain for a moment satisfied. Seen from
below, it had appeared to your Eye-witness that
this royal personage was dressed in a mantle, a
breastplate, a pair of drawers, and a lightning-