and everything that rankly sprouts from a foolish earth; I went to look at the soldier who, in a huge sheep-skin cap and a red coat, runs up and down in front of the Tower and at every turn stamps his feet in such an odd way, as when a dog scrapes in the sand with his hind legs; I do not know to what historical event this peculiar custom refers.
Then I was at Madame Tussaud’s. Madame Tussaud’s is a museum of famous people, or rather of their wax-effigies. The Royal Family is there (also King Alphonso, somewhat moth-eaten). Mr. MacDonald’s Ministry, French Presidents, Dickens and Kipling, marshals, Mademoiselle Lenglen, famous murderers of last century and souvenirs of Napoleon, such as his socks, belt and hat; then in a place of dishonour Kaiser Wilhelm and Franz Josef, still looking spruce for his age. Before one particularly effective effigy of a gentleman in a top-hat I stopped and looked into the catalogue to see who it was; suddenly the gentleman with the top-hat moved and walked away;
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