An Ode to the Underbelly

The Sewer Museum wasn’t something I imagined I would go to when visiting Paris. It felt like a strange detour at first—a descent into the literal underbelly of the city, far from the typical romanticism above ground. But as Victor Hugo once said, we must shine a light on the underbelly of society. I made my way through the echoing corridors and listened to the water trickling alongside history. I realized I had stumbled upon a hidden cornerstone of one of the great achievements of Paris. This wasn’t just about engineering. This was about progress.

Victor Hugo understood this. In Les Misérables, he devoted entire chapters to the Parisian sewers—not out of grim curiosity, but because he saw in them a triumph of human achievement. The sewers were more than just tunnels; they were the arteries of a modern city, essential to its health, growth, and dignity.

“There is no good historian of the evidence, the manifest and the remarkable, of the public life of nations, who is not also to some extent the historian of their underlying and hidden life.”

— Victor Hugo, Les Miserables

Solving the sewage system was one of the most important public health advancements in modern history. Disease once swept through cities unchecked, carried in contaminated water and poor sanitation. But by daring to look where no one wanted to—into the filth, the waste, the infrastructure no one celebrated—engineers, visionaries, and reformers transformed the future. Civilization didn’t advance by avoiding what was unpleasant. It progressed by confronting it directly, with courage and imagination.

And it was true. Walking through the museum, you could feel that: the filth and the function, the darkness and the design. It is easy to take clean water and efficient systems for granted, but the museum makes you realize that these are triumphs, hard-won by centuries of failure, labor, and vision. Displays trace the system’s evolution—from Bruneseau’s early explorations through Haussmann’s sweeping 19th-century reforms, right up to today’s digital monitoring networks. It’s a story not just of pipes and tunnels, but of politics, sacrifice, and the will to imagine a better life for all.

The story of the Paris sewers mirrors the story of civilization itself: jagged, uneven, full of setbacks and breakthroughs. It’s not a straight path, and it certainly isn’t glamorous. It costs lives, it demands political will, and it requires people with the courage to imagine something better long before it’s possible. But the result—cleaner cities, longer lives, a foundation for society to build itself upon—is worth every difficult step.

But I think Hugo added the sewers for another reason. To show different forms of progress. On one side, we see the heroic men who fought and died for this country on the barricades, and that certainly is worthy progress. But this kind of progress is quiet. Underground. Often unnoticed. It doesn’t carry a flag or chant songs, but it lays the groundwork upon which all revolutions must be built. That was what Hugo grasped so profoundly. He romanticized the barricades, yes. But he also understood that beneath them ran the sewer, and without that base, the society that the revolution fought for would not be here.

As I left the museum, I thought back to a conversation I had earlier about human progress and the thoughts of Enjolras. He represents the more visible, dramatic kind of change—urgent, idealistic, uncompromising. Enjolras charges ahead, demanding that the future arrive faster and at whatever cost. His barricades were noble, yes, but they were temporary. The loud revolutions get the praise, but that praise doesn’t last. The quiet revolutions? They endure.

In today's world, progress is less about the roar of revolution and more about the hum of technology, policy, and global awareness. Our barricades are climate change, inequality, mental health, and justice reform. And still, like in the tunnels below Paris, much of the necessary work happens in quiet spaces: in back offices, in research labs, in data centers—or underground.

Later in the novel, Hugo spends a few chapters describing Jean Valjean’s trek through the sewers while saving Marius. Valjean has multiple close encounters with danger and death, yet Marius has no idea and for a while later he never realizes how hard Valjean fought so he could be there. I think it’s funny how Hugo depicted this scene in the sewers since the sewers serve society as Jean Valjean served Marius. Without the sewer, society would not function the way it does today. And it didn’t happen without setbacks. But it goes to show that progress isn't always glorious. Sometimes it's dirty. Sometimes it smells. Sometimes it takes centuries to get right. But to me, that doesn’t diminish its value—it elevates it. To recognize the sewer is to recognize the importance of Valjean’s trek, and to recognize truth of society: that beneath every shining city lies the labor of many, mostly unseen and unthanked.

“If I have seen further [than others], it is by standing on the shoulders of giants.”

— Isaac Newton

Revolution happens both above and below. It is both poetic and practical. And it continues. Always.

The Weight of an Emperor

Napoleon Bonaparte is a shadow that never quite lifts from French history. For better or worse—and depending on the decade, both were argued—his presence looms not only over the story of Les Misérables, but over the very streets and monuments of modern Paris. And so today, book in hand and Hugo on my mind, I set out to see how the man who crowned himself emperor is remembered—in marble, in memory, and in myth.

I will start in the most recent part of my journey, on the Champs-Élysées, arguably the most imperial street in France. Once called the “Triumphal Way,” it is where Napoleon’s Grande Armée marched, and where the Arc de Triomphe stands—the massive structure commissioned by Napoleon to honor his soldiers and victories.

In a previous blog, I explored how English monuments often preserve a feudal illusion, celebrating monarchs without acknowledging the labor and lives beneath them. Napoleon’s monument is a direct contrast to the idea that a single person should be remembered for national triumphs. In fact, there is only 1 place where his name is found, and 1 statue of him (located in a group). More importantly, the monument is covered in remembrances for those who fought alongside him in battles across Europe and Africa. And there have been additions that follow suit, with the Flame of the Unknown Soldier and multiple remembrances not for those who ruled at the time, but for those who fought in the wars that claimed the lives of so many. It doesn’t feel like a monument of Napoleon; it feels like a monument of France.

And I found even more interesting than what the statue represents, standing under the Arc, was how popular it was. I was watching tourists from all over the globe snap selfies in front of a monument that once symbolized imperial domination, making it clear that Napoleon is still deeply present. His name is carved into the stone; his victories etched like ancient scripture. If history is a story told by those with the loudest echoes, Napoleon’s echo is deafening.

But then, there’s the strange contradiction: the people walking the Champs-Élysées today don’t seem to notice him. Luxury stores, cafés, designer boutiques—the empire now is of commerce, not conquest. That’s the paradox Hugo hinted at: how someone so immense in history could become so faint in the public memory. In Les Misérables, he refers it more towards the attempt to forget Napoleon by the subsequent monarchies, but there is a parallel line running through today: we aren’t trying to forget him, but why should we care when we are surrounded by so much wealth today? How can we appreciate this history when it is enclosed by distractions? Walking along the street, it felt like people were there to shop at Louis Vuitton and Hermes rather than to see a historic monument highlighting the glory of France.

Two days earlier, I visited Versailles—originally to see the Ancien Régime and the magnificent estate, but more apparent than the gilded columns was the strange relationship between Napoleon and Louis Phillipe. During Louis-Philippe’s reign in the 1830s and 1840s, he made a concentrated effort to incorporate Napoleon into the fabric of France’s royal history.

Inside Versailles, beyond the Hall of Mirrors and gold-dripped ceilings, are entire rooms devoted to Napoleon—portraits, busts, and war scenes celebrating him not as a usurper, but as a rightful part of the French narrative. It was Louis-Philippe who added many of these depictions, in an effort to unite royalist and Bonapartist factions under one national story. Versailles, which once symbolized the monarchy, now tries to make room for the emperor who dismantled it and then rebranded it.

Hugo, of course, was no stranger to reverence for Napoleon. In Les Misérables, he often speaks of the emperor in near-mythic terms—as a man of extraordinary vision, intellect, and will. He admired Napoleon’s ability to transform France, to command destiny itself, even if Hugo did not spare him from criticizing the heavy cost of that ambition. For him, Napoleon embodied a kind of greatness. Not just political or military. But poetic greatness. And yet, Les Misérables does not shy away from the human toll of such greatness. Hugo may have admired the emperor, but he loved the country. He may have commended the general, but he mourned the soldiers. He could marvel at the man while still questioning the machinery of war. In Hugo’s vision of France, it is possible to respect the dreamer and still grieve the dream’s casualties.

The final leg of the journey was to Les Invalides, Napoleon’s final resting place. It is one of the most solemn and strangely grand sites in Paris—a golden dome rising above the sunken tomb of a man who once ruled over half of Europe. Around the tomb are carved victories, praises, and emblems of power. It’s a space designed for reverence. Literally. He has his tomb below the ground level, so all who look at it are bowing to him. I couldn’t help but contrast it with Hugo’s words. In Les Misérables, he tells us about another tomb—that of Jean Valjean. Not grand, not engraved, not visited. A simple grave for a simple man who lived a life of sacrifice and love. That, for Hugo, is the kind of life worth memorializing.

Les Invalides is thought-provoking. It forces you to reckon with the duality of Napoleon: the strategist and the arrogant, the visionary and the oppressor. The man who has little to mention of himself in the Arc de Triomphe, but also makes those who see his tomb bow to his grave. The man who many viewed as the people’s man, but also the man who crowned himself and his family as royalty. There’s no denying his impact. Nor his flaws. And in many ways, that’s history: it doesn’t offer easy answers. It doesn’t tell us whether to worship or reject, only to remember, and to remember critically. Hugo’s novel does this masterfully, and I think it is one of its greatest aspects. Hugo might be writing an autobiography in parts of the novel, but notice the critical thinking with Marius in his journey from royalist to overly zealous Bonapartist:

“Evidently, like all new converts to a religion, he was elated by his conversion, threw himself into it, and went too far… In seeking truth, there is a way of being misled… he neglected attenuating circumstances.”

— Victor Hugo, Les Miserables

Hugo encourages us to appreciate history, to get involved, to fall in love with it. But eventually, we need to reel ourselves back. Continuing unchecked can lead you to the same place on the opposite end of the spectrum.

Walking back into the daylight, I thought about the contrast between Valjean and Napoleon, between the man forgotten by the state and the man glorified by it. One changed a single life at a time. The other, the course of nations. But Hugo suggests that in the long run, it is the former who carries the true weight of greatness.

Napoleon’s France may be cast in stone across the city, but Hugo’s France—the one of humility, redemption, and strength—still lives in the hearts of those who choose to see it.

“There is nothing like a dream to create the future”

— Victor Hugo, Les Miserables

A Trail of Two Tales

Today, I embarked on a journey through the heart of Paris, tracing a path made famous by Victor Hugo's Les Misérables. My mission: to follow the spirited Gavroche and the two orphans on their way to the Elephant of the Bastille, a monument that once stood where the July Column now proudly rises. As I moved along this trail, this "bookpacking" adventure brought to life the lingering echoes of two tales.

The walk began near the Church of Saint-Gervais-Saint-Protais, a church named after an elm tree that was once a prominent landmark. In Les Misérables, Hugo describes Gavroche as "entranced in front of a wig maker's shop near Orme-St-Gervais," a vivid detail that anchors his journey in the particular geography of old Paris. From there, just as Gavroche would have done with the two gamins, I headed east, "up Rue St-Antoine in the direction of the Bastille."

A significant stop along this route was the magnificent Church of Saint-Paul-Saint-Louis. For those who read Victor Hugo’s novel, this church holds a layer of significance as the very place where Cosette and Marius eventually marry, a beacon of hope amidst the novel's tumultuous backdrop. A church so beautiful that the author insisted that they get married there. And he was not lying. The tall ceilings, beautiful architecture, and detailed statues made this church especially stunning. On a topic outside the novel, this grand edifice, with its imposing facade, held a subtle yet powerful testament to the French Revolution. Inside, on a pillar, I observed faint but discernible graffiti: "RÉPUBLIQUE FRANÇAISE OU LA MORT" ("French Republic or Death"). This stark declaration, likely scrawled during the fervor of the Revolution due to its frantic endings of each word’s spelling, was a chilling reminder of the radical choices and profound sacrifices made in the pursuit of liberty. The quiet reverence of the church now contrasts sharply with the violent passion once etched into its walls, not too dissimilar from Cosette and Marius. Cosette, the physically beautiful, innocent young lady, and Marius, the intellectually beautiful, with plenty of tumult along his journey. The graffiti was a reminder of the chaotic times in which this novel took place.

Another reminder of the time period of the novel is right across the street. Directly across the street from Saint-Paul-Saint-Louis, a modern-day bakery stands. However, in the vivid imagination of a "bookpacker," this is precisely where the wine shop of Defarge and Madame Defarge, from Charles Dickens' A Tale of Two Cities, would have stood. This proximity highlights the incredible interconnectedness of these two literary masterpieces in terms of their shared Parisian landscape. Something about this street was so crucial that both Dickens and Hugo wrote about it in their novels. It's as if the revolutionary spirit and the lives of their characters intertwine in these very streets.

Also interesting is the stark contrast between how the same location is used. On one side of the street, we have the pure church where two heavenly beings get married, and on the other side, the epicenter of brutality in the Revolution. On one side, we have all that is good and right with the world, and on the other side, we have all that was wrong with the Revolution. Inside the church, we have two opposing views, two different kinds of people coming together to form one union, where at the wine shop, we have a fragmented society, where even among cliques, there are cliques, where even among the Revolutionaries, if you were not revolutionary enough, you were killed.

Continuing along Rue St-Antoine, just as Hugo describes, we passed "the corner of that dismal Rue des Ballets, at the end of which you can see the low, hostile gate of La Force prison." This grim historical marker, the Prison de la Grande Force, was a place of immense suffering during the Revolution. A plaque on a building indicates its former entrance, chillingly recounting how, between 1782 and 1845, 161 detainees, including the Princesse de Lamballe, were put to death there on September 3, 4, and 5, 1792. For readers of A Tale of Two Cities, La Force is particularly poignant as the very prison where Charles Darnay was held captive, awaiting his fate during the Reign of Terror. The sheer number of lives lost at this very spot, in such a short span, underscored the immense human cost of the revolutionary zeal, making the suffering depicted in both novels feel incredibly immediate and real.

“...they were finishing their pieces of bread and cominig up to the corner of that dismal Rue des Ballets, at the end of which you can see the low, hostile gate of La Force prison...”

— Victor Hugo, Les Miserables

We also took a small detour, where we got to see a bit of the actual wall remaining from La Force. Looking back at where the plaque that marked the entrance and the bit of wall from the back was, it was clear just how big this prison was and how none of it stands today. Instead, a street runs through the middle with numerous stores and shops for the people to enjoy.

Finally, just as Gavroche led the orphans, I arrived at the Place de la Bastille. Today, the majestic July Column stands proudly in the place of Napoleon's Elephant. In Les Misérables, the elephant was a powerful symbol of neglect and the unfulfilled promises of the revolution, a colossal, decaying structure that served as a makeshift home for Gavroche and the two boys. While the actual monument is gone, replaced by a different symbol of revolutionary triumph (the July Revolution of 1830), the location’s spirit remains deeply rooted in the struggles of the working class and the ideals of a new France. Imagining the boys finding refuge beneath the elephant, in the shadow of so much history, made the bustling square feel imbued with their presence.

This walk was more than just a historical tour; it was an immersion into the very fabric of Paris as depicted in Les Misérables and A Tale of Two Cities. The faint revolutionary graffiti, the stark reminder of the prison massacres, the proximity of iconic literary locations, and the imposing presence of the July Column all combined to create a visceral understanding of the historical context in which Gavroche, Jean Valjean, Charles Darnay, and countless others lived and struggled. The resilience of the human spirit, the enduring fight for liberty, and the indelible marks of history are truly etched into the heart of this city.

London Recalled to Life

“... it was the age of wisdom, it was the age of foolishness”

— Charles Dickens, ATOTC

Have you ever walked such a historically significant street or place that appears in the present day so… ordinary? That is how I felt walking along Fleet Street, one of those old London roads where the city seems to be torn into two: the old brick buildings where printing and publishing thrived and where the oldest tea company in the UK, Twinings, still stands, and the modern glass structures that envelope the relatively newly-introduced financial sector. As I was working my way through Charles Dickens’s A Tale of Two Cities, I was also searching for the physical remnants of Dickens’ novel.

The Tale is as much about London as it is about Paris (hence the name). But while Paris in the novel is fiery and on the brink, Dickens’s London is shadowy and restrained — a place of quiet power and tightly held traditions. And that power, for Dickens, is often tied to institutions: law, finance, empire. So I went looking for one of them — Tellson’s Bank, the fictional financial institution that serves as a kind of anchor for the English chapters of the novel.

“It was an old-fashioned place, moreover, in the moral attribute that the partners of Tellson’s Bank were proud of its smallness, proud of its darkness, proud of its ugliness, proud of its incommodiousness”

— Charles Dickens, ATOTC

Tellson’s is described as very small, very dark, very ugly, and very uncomfortable. It’s old-fashioned to a fault, but on purpose — the kind of place that prides itself on never having changed anything, even if that means working in the dark or hiring employees who are half-dead. However, Tellson’s isn’t a one-dimensional location; it is a symbol of English stubbornness, of power preserved through dust and tradition.

It’s fictional, but based on Child & Co., one of London’s oldest private banks, which used to sit at 1 Fleet Street, right where I was standing. The original building has since been refurbished, but still holds a similar structure to the old bank. Standing on that spot, I imagined Mr. Lorry emerging from the shadows of a gloomy night with a letter tucked inside his coat, bound for Dover, for danger, for revolution.

As you can see, not much has changed with Lincoln’s Inn Court (other than the cars)

Fleet Street today is much different. It’s modern, swarming with lawyers and financiers. But the bones are still there if you know what you’re looking for. But what was really fascinating was stepping into Lincoln’s Inn Court just a block away from Fleet Street, where time seemed to stand still, where the buildings look the same as they did in the 18th century, where the bustling of modern life is replaced with the songs of birds flying through its field.

Walking through Lincoln’s Inn Court, it was interesting to see that the directories posted at the front of each building, describing the content of each edifice, were handcrafted. It wasn’t printed or pasted in glass like today’s, but was instead painted by the hand of a real person. To me, something else was written. That no matter the passage of time, some traditions are worth keeping, for they add a richness and texture that shouldn’t disappear.

Just a few steps away from Tellson’s should have been Temple Bar. In Dickens’s novel, this is where Tellson’s kept its archives — “in a horrible little back room.” The symbolism is pretty clear: England’s secrets, stored behind gates, cataloged but inaccessible. Temple Bar marked the boundary between the City of London and Westminster — between finance and government, between commerce and rule.

The arch itself became a nuisance in such a busy street, and was dismantled. Years later, it miraculously reappeared after it was purchased by Valerie Susan and Sir Henry Meux, the fabulously wealthy heir to the Meux Brewery, which was based near Tottenham Court Road, who resurrected the building in their estate: Theobald’s House (image on left). It was then returned to the city of London and placed next to St. Paul’s Church, where I ended my stroll (image on right).

Earlier that day, I ate at Ye Olde Cheshire Cheese, a 17th-century pub tucked away on Wine Office Court, just off Fleet Street. The walls are low, the air thick with centuries of smoke and conversation. It’s the kind of place that feels like it still talks of memories of years ago, giving you hints of it through the historic images and famous texts written by its numerous visitors, including Dickens and Winston Churchill, to name a few.

I sat in the booth where Dickens supposedly liked to sit. There’s a plaque, of course, because in England they love a good plaque. But that small brass sign had nothing on that feeling — that feeling of sitting where Dickens might have scribbled in the margins of his notes, watching the faces around him and storing them for later.

“They were even boastful of the inconvenience of Tellson’s, as if it were the only place left in the world where it was a virtue to be uncomfortable.”

— Charles Dickens, ATOTC

In that seat, with fish and chips in front of me and A Tale of Two Cities still fresh in my mind, I could clearly see where Dickens got his inspiration from. The grimy nature of the Cheshire Cheese was something he replicated in many of his novel’s locations, and also spoke to a real-life example of what we said about Tellson’s Bank. The short ceilings, dim lighting, thick air, and distinct smells of the antiquated restaurant were something that the English cherished. They prided themselves on the idea that modernizing or improving anything traditional is a moral weakness.

As I made my way out of Ye Olde Cheshire Cheese and back into the daylight, I realized how profoundly Dickens was writing about the tension between tradition and transformation — not just in France, where revolution burned in the streets, but in England too, where the revolution was quieter, slower, more hidden under powdered wigs and cobbled lanes. It struck me that A Tale of Two Cities is not only a political novel — it’s a novel about inertia. About a country that clings to its institutions not because they work, but because they’re old. Because they’re familiar.

And yet, Dickens doesn’t totally dismiss this tradition. He sat in those same pubs, he walked those same streets. He was critical, yes, but also affectionate. He knew that the grime and discomfort were part of what gave London its soul. That contradiction — the beauty in the ugliness — is at the heart of the English chapters of the novel.

By tracing Dickens’s steps through the city, I wasn’t just visiting the settings of a story. I was witnessing how some novels are inseparable from place — how a city can shape a writer, and in turn how a writer can shape how we see a city. Standing on Fleet Street, ducking into hidden courts and aging pubs, watching the light fall on old stone, I wasn’t just reading A Tale of Two Cities — I was walking in it. And I wasn’t just traveling through the streets of London — I was experiencing Dickens’ London recalled to life.

The Weight of a Leader

It was my third day in London, and I found myself on a stroll through Piccadilly, St. James, and Westminster, one of the many hearts of historic London. Having just finished Victor Hugo’s Les Misérables, a certain quote echoed in my mind. As I walked through the grandeur of a city that was once, and still is, a metropolis, I was constantly reminded of Victor Hugo’s critique of England:

“But this great England will be angry at what we are saying here. She still cherishes, after her own 1688 and our 1789, the feudal illusion. She believes in heredity and hierarchy. This people, surpassed by none in power and glory, regards itself as a nation, and not as a people. And as a people, it willingly subordinates itself and takes a lord for its head. As a workman, it allows itself to be disdained; as a soldier, it allows itself to be flogged.”

— Victor Hugo, Les Miserables

Hugo makes this comment when recounting the Battle of Waterloo, one of the most important moments in European history. The battle ended the Napoleonic Wars, marked the end of Napoleon's ambitions to dominate Europe, and resulted in a significant shift in French public opinion, leading to his abdication and exile to Saint Helena. But Waterloo's impact reached far beyond the battlefield. It played a role in shaping the political landscape of Europe for the next century. It led to the restoration of the Bourbon monarchy in France and contributed to a period of relative peace in Europe, though Hugo points out that peace alone did not solve France’s problems, highlighting the enduring consequences of poverty and social injustice.

Hugo gives merits to Duke of Wellington on the victory, but says that he should not have a statue because it does not give credit to the equally important soldiers who fought this battle; a comment that he says the English people will not take to kindly, since they view themselves as subordinates to the Royal Family. They do not view England as the common man, but rather as the aristocracy and royalty. He argues that even after the Glorious Revolution, the French Revolution, and all the progress made since then, they would not erect a statue for the brave men who risked their lives in the victory, but instead make one for the Duke of Wellington.

Victor Hugo applies this mentality to the time period of the battle, but also inherently to the time of writing the novel, and I would argue it still lingers to this day. London still holds its roots in hierarchy and heredity. Walking through Piccadilly, I passed exclusive Gentlemen’s Clubs and statues of “heroic” kings and dukes, fantastic feats of architecture built to house the aristocracy, and, at the peak of it all, Buckingham Palace: a place where the Royal Family of England has occupied since 1837, the very definition of living in the past.

At Buckingham Palace, it was fascinating to see a regiment of current-serving British officers practicing instruments for a ceremony. These British Army regiments, called the Household Division, do this as part of their ceremonial duties and public engagements. They guard the royal residences, conduct events like the Changing of the Guard, and often play the music for these ceremonial occasions, contributing to the pageantry associated with the British monarchy (which, to be clear, is no longer the legitimate governing body of England).

Continuing the walk to Westminster Abbey, the church’s tour guide led us through the numerous tombs and shrines as if narrating a gilded book of English kings. Every alcove had a story, every stone a name I’d heard in some history class or BBC documentary. The walls were adorned with intricate engravings of Tudor roses and emblems of past kingdoms. And every now and then the tour guide would say, casual and confident: “We liked this king because he won this war.”

It was said with a smile, almost like a punchline. I don’t even remember which king it was — one of the Georges or Henrys, probably — but the line stuck. We liked this king because he won this war. As if the war had been a solo duel, the king the lone swordsman. There was no mention of the countless men who bled on muddy fields or the towns that starved to keep supply lines open. No mention of the mothers or the farmers or the craftsmen who backboned every soldier.

And that’s exactly what Hugo was pointing to: a nation that remembers its aristocrats like heroes and forgets the people who made their victories possible. The king did not win that war. The people did. The foot soldiers did. The cooks and quartermasters, the smiths and sailors. But when it comes to history — at least the version we most commonly see in touristy places like these — it is the noble, not the nameless, who are remembered. 

Westminster Abbey, magnificent as it is, felt more like a hall of royal rememberance than a church. It spoke in whispers of monarchy and martyrdom, of greatness made manifest in birthright. Standing beneath vaulted ceilings, I was among royal tombs and marble tributes, for many of whom did nothing other than subjugate the people so the wealthy could live lavish lives. A place that suggests a nation's soul can be found in the bloodlines of its rulers, rather than in the lives of its people.

Now, this is not an attack on England or its history. Many of today’s societies follow the same path, and many still praise prior kings and queens. History, after all, is told by the victors, and England’s victors were its aristocrats. So, of course they threw up statues for those who shaped the course of history. And there was the tomb of the unknown soldier, one of the most decorated tombs, sitting right at the entrance. So progress has definitely been made. It was just interesting how, even through so many revolutions, so much reform, so much progress towards the common man, the very thing that defines this country is the governmental figurehead of the past.