Numerously encountered are the tourists who are doing Europe under a time limit as exact as the schedule of a limited train.  They go through Europe on the dead run, being intent on seeing it all and therefore seeing none of it.  They cover ten countries in a space of time which a sane person gives to one; after which they return home exhausted, but triumphant.  I think it must be months before some of them quit panting, and certainly their poor, misused feet can never again be the feet they were.

With them adherence to the time card is everything.  If a look at the calendar shows the day to be Monday, they know they are in Munich, and as they lope along they get out their guidebooks and study the chapters devoted to Munich.  But if it be Tuesday, then it is Dresden, and they give their attention to literature dealing with the attractions of Dresden; seeing Dresden after the fashion of one sitting before a runaway moving picture film.

Then they pack up and depart, galloping, for Prague with their tongues hanging out.  For Wednesday is Prague and Prague is Wednesday —­the two words are synonymous and interchangeable.  Surely to such as these, the places they have visited must mean as much to them, afterward, as the labels upon their trunks mean to the trunks —­just flimsy names pasted on, all confused and overlapping, and certain to be scraped off in time, leaving nothing but faint marks upon an indurated surface.

There is yet again another type, always of the female gender and generally middle-aged and very schoolteacherish in aspect, who, in company with a group of kindred spirits, is viewing Europe under a contract arrangement by which a worn and wearied-looking gentleman, a retired clergyman usually, acts as escort and mentor for a given price.  I don’t know how much he gets a head for this job; but whatever it is, he earns it ninety-and-nine times over.  This lady tourist is much given to missing trains and getting lost and having disputes with natives and wearing rubber overshoes and asking strange questions—­but let me illustrate with a story I heard.

The man from Cook’s had convoyed his party through the Vatican, until he brought them to the Apollo Belvidere.  As they ranged themselves wearily about the statue, he rattled off his regular patter without pause or punctuation: 

“Here we have the far-famed Apollo Belvidere found about the middle of the fifteenth century at Frascati purchased by Pope Julius the Second restored by the great Michelangelo taken away by the French in 1797 but returned in 1815 made of Carara marble holding in his hand a portion of the bow with which he slew the Python observe please the beauty of the pose the realistic attitude of the limbs the noble and exalted expression of the face of Apollo Belvidere he being known also as Phoebus the god of oracles the god of music and medicine the son of Leto and Jupiter—­”

Here he ran out of breath and stopped.  Fora moment no one spoke.  Then from a flat-chested little spinster came this query in tired yet interested tones: