"Over two thousand years," continued the Senator impressively, "and every year you may be sure has left its architectural imprint." "Does Baedeker say that, Senator?" I asked, with a certain severity. "No, the expression is entirely my own; you may take it down and use it freely. Two thousand years of remains is what we've got before us in Rome, and pretty well scattered too--nothing like the convenience of Pisa. I expect we shall have to allow at least four days for it. That Piazza del Duomo," continued poppa, thoughtfully, "seems to have been laid out with a view to the American tourist of the future. But I don't suppose that kind of forethought is common." "How exquisite it was, that cluster of white marble relics of the past on the bosom of dusky Pisa. It reminded me," said momma, poetically, "of an old maid's pearls." "I should suggest," said the Senator to me, "that you make a note of that. A little sentiment won't do us any harm--just a little. And they _are_ like an old maid's pearls in connection with that middle-aged, one-horse little city. Or I should say a widow's--Pisa was once a bride of the sea. A grass widow's," improved the Senator. "It's all meadow-land round there--did you notice?" "I did not," I said coldly; "but, of course, if I'm to call Pisa a grass widow, it will have to be. Although I warn you, poppa, that in case of any critic being able to arise and indicate that it is laid out in oyster beds, I shall make it plain that the responsibility is yours."