During our scientific explorations in the Eastern Hemisphere, we
met two guides who had served the late Samuel L. Clemens, one who
had served the late J. Pierpont Morgan, and one who had acted as
courier to ex-President Theodore Roosevelt. After inquiry among
persons who were also lately abroad, I have come to the conclusion
that my experience in this regard was remarkable, not because I
met so many as four of the guides who had attended these distinguished
Americans, but because I met so few as four of them. One man with
whom I discussed the matter told of having encountered, in the
course of a brief scurry across Europe, five members in good
standing of the International Association of Former Guides to Mark
Twain. All of them had union cards to prove it too. Others said
that in practically every city of any size visited by them there
was a guide who told of his deep attachment to the memory of Mr.
Morgan, and described how Mr. Morgan had hired him without inquiring
in advance what his rate for professional services a day would be;
and how - lingering with wistful emphasis on the words along here
and looking meaningly the while at the present patron - how very,
very generous Mr. Morgan had been in bestowing gratuities on parting.
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.
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