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?

"Rather," said she, "where time is limited let us spread ourselves, so
to speak, over the area of culture available. This morning, for example,
you, husband, might ramble round the Tower and try to picture the
various tragedies that have been enacted there. You, daughter, might go
and bring us those impressions from St. Paul's, while I will content