The most impressively got-up civilians in England—­or in the world, either, for that matter—­are the assistant managers and the deputy cashiers of the big London hotels.  Compared with them the lilies of the field are as lilies in the bulb.  Their collars are higher, their ties are more resplendent, their frock coats more floppy as to the tail and more flappy as to the lapel, than it is possible to imagine until you have seen it all with your own wondering eyes.  They are haughty creatures, too, austere and full of a starchy dignity; but when you come to pay your bill you find at least one of them lined up with the valet and the waiter, the manservant and the maidservant, the ox and the ass, hand out and palm open to get his tip.  Having tipped him you depart feeling ennobled and uplifted —­as though you had conferred a purse of gold on a marquis.

Chapter XI

Dressed to Kill

With us it is the dress of the women that gives life and color to the shifting show of street life.  In Europe it is the soldier, and in England the private soldier particularly.  The German private soldier is too stiff, and the French private soldier is too limber, and the Italian private soldier has been away from the dry-cleanser’s too long; but the British Tommy Atkins is a perfect piece of work —­what with his dinky cap tilted over one eye, and his red tunic that fits him without blemish or wrinkle, and his snappy little swagger stick flirting the air.  As a picture of a first-class fighting man I know of but one to match him, and that is a khaki-clad, service-hatted Yankee regular—­long may he wave!

There may be something finer in the way of a military spectacle than the change of horse-guards at Whitehall or the march of the foot-guards across the green in St. James’ Park on a fine, bright morning—­but I do not know what it is.  One day, passing Buckingham Palace, I came on a footguard on duty in one of the little sentry boxes just outside the walls.  He did not look as though he were alive.  He looked as though he had been stuffed and mounted by a most expert taxidermist.  From under his bearskin shako and from over his brazen chin-strap his face stared out unwinking and solemn and barren of thought.

I said to myself:  “It is taking a long chance, but I shall ascertain whether this party has any human emotions.”  So I halted directly in front of him and began staring fixedly at his midriff as though I saw a button unfastened there or a buckle disarranged.  For a space of minutes I kept my gaze on him without cessation.

Finally the situation grew painful; but it was not that British grenadier who grew embarrassed and fidgety—­it was the other party to the transaction.  His gaze never shifted, his eyes never wavered—­but I came away feeling all wriggly.

In no outward regard whatsoever do the soldiers on the Continent compare with the soldiers of the British archipelago.  When he is not on actual duty the German private is always going somewhere in a great hurry with something belonging to his superior officer—­usually a riding horse or a specially heavy valise.  On duty and off he wears that woodenness of expression—­or, rather, that wooden lack of expression—­which is found nowhere in such flower of perfection as on the faces of German soldiers and German toys.