Our first experience with guides was at Westminster Abbey.  As it happened, this guide was one of the Mark Twain survivors.  I think, though, he was genuine; he had documents of apparent authenticity in his possession to help him in proving up his title.  Anyhow, he knew his trade.  He led us up and down those parts of the Abbey which are free to the general public and brought us finally to a wicket gate, opening on the royal chapels, which was as far as he could go.  There he turned us over to a severe-looking dignitary in robes—­an archbishop, I judged, or possibly only a canon—­who, on payment by us of a shilling a head, escorted our party through the remaining inclosures, showing us the tombs of England’s queens and kings, or a good many of them anyway; and the Black Prince’s helmet and breastplate; and the exquisite chapel of Henry the Seventh, and the ancient chair on which all the kings sat for their coronations, with the famous Scotch Stone of Scone under it.

The chair itself was not particularly impressive.  It was not nearly so rickety and decrepit as the chairs one sees in almost any London barber shop.  Nor was my emotion particularly excited by the stone.  I would engage to get a better-looking one out of the handiest rock quarry inside of twenty minutes.  This stone should not be confused with the ordinary scones, which also come from Scotland and which are by some regarded as edible.

What did seem to us rather a queer thing was that the authorities of Westminster should make capital of the dead rulers of the realm and, except on certain days of the week, should charge an admission fee to their sepulchers.  Later, on the Continent, we sustained an even more severe shock when we saw royal palaces—­palaces that on occasion are used by the royal proprietors—­with the quarters of the monarchs upstairs and downstairs novelty shops and tourist agencies and restaurants, and the like of that.  I jotted down a few crisp notes concerning these matters, my intention being to comment on them as evidence of an incomprehensible thrift on the part of our European kins-people; but on second thought I decided to refrain from so doing.  I recalled the fact that we ourselves are not entirely free from certain petty national economies.  Abroad we house our embassies up back streets, next door to bird and animal stores; and at home there is many a public institution where the doormat says welcome! in large letters, but the soap is chained and the roller towel is padlocked to its little roller.

Guides are not particularly numerous in England.  Even in the places most frequented by the sightseer they do not abound in any profusion.  At Madame Tussaud’s, for example, we found only one guide.  We encountered him just after we had spent a mournful five minutes in contemplation of ex-President Taft.  Friends and acquaintances of Mr. Taft will be shocked to note the great change in him when they see him here in wax.  He does not weigh so much as he used to weigh by at least one hundred and fifty pounds; he has lost considerable height too; his hair has turned another color and his eyes also; his mustache is not a close fit any more, either; and he is wearing a suit of English-made clothes.