I must be permitted to generalise in this way about our London experiences because they only lasted a day and a half, and it is impossible to get many particulars into that space.  It was really a pity we had so little time.  Nothing would have been more interesting than to bring momma into contact with the Poets’ Corner, or introduce poppa to the House of Lords, and watch the effect.  I am sure, from what I know of my parents, that the effect would have been crisp.  But we decided that six weeks was not too much to give to the Continent, also that an opportunity, six weeks long, of absorbing Europe is not likely to occur twice in the average American lifetime.  We stayed over two or three trains in London, however, just long enough to get in a background, as it were, for our Continental experiences.  The weather was typical, and the background, from an artistic point of view, was perfect.  While not precisely opaque, you couldn’t see through it anywhere.

When it became a question of how we were to put in the time, it seemed to momma as if she would rather lie down than anything.

“You and your father, dear,” she said, “might drive to St. Paul’s, when it stops raining.  Have a good look at the dome and try to bring me back the sound of the echo.  It is said to be very weird.  See that poppa doesn’t forget to take off his hat in the body of the church, but he might put it on in the Whispering Gallery, where it is sure to be draughty.  And remember that the funeral coach of the Duke of Wellington is down in the crypt, darling.  You might bring me an impression of that.  I think I’ll have a cup of chocolate and try to get a little sleep.”

“Is it,” asked poppa, “the coach which the Duke sent to represent him at the other people’s funerals, or the one in which he attended his own?”

“You can look that up,” momma replied; “but my belief is that it was presented to the Duke by a grateful nation after his demise.  In which case he couldn’t possibly have used it more than once.”

I looked at momma reprovingly, but, seeing that she had no suspicion of being humorous, I said nothing.  The Senator pushed out his under lip and pulled his beard.

“I don’t know about St. Paul’s,” he said; “wouldn’t any other impression do as well, momma?  It doesn’t seem to be just the weather for crypts, and I don’t suppose the hearse of a military man is going to make the surroundings any more cheerful.  Now, my idea is that when time is limited you’ve got to let some things go.  I’d let the historical go every time.  I’d let the instructive go—­we can’t drag around an idea of the British Museum, for instance.  I’d let ancient associations go—­unless you’re particularly interested in the parties associated.”

I thought of the morning I once spent picking up details, traditions, and remains of Dr. Johnson in various parts of the West Central district, and privately sympathised with this view, though I felt compelled to look severe.  Momma, who was now lying down, dissented.  What, then, she demanded, had we crossed the ocean for?