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.
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