Any one wanting a fair and yet amusing account of what really occurs to a
person travelling in America should read G. A. Sala’s book called
_America Revisited_. He speaks of a gentleman from the Eastern States
whom he met in the train across the continent, and who thus held forth
upon the difference between reality and guide-books:—
“There ain’t no bottling up of things about me. This overland journey’s
a fraud, and you oughter know it. Don’t tell me. It’s a fraud. This
Ring must be busted up. Where are your buffalers? Perhaps you’ll tell
me that them cows is buffalers. They ain’t. Where are your prairie
dogs? They ain’t dogs to begin with, they’re squirrels. Ain’t you
ashamed to call the mean little cusses dogs? But where are they? There
ain’t none. Where are your grizzlies? You might have imported a few
grizzlies to keep up the name of your railroad. Where are your herds of
antelopes scudding before the advancing train? Nary an antelope have you
got for to scud. Rocky Mountains, sir? They ain’t rocky at all—they’re
as flat as my hand. Where are your savage gorges? I can’t see none.
Where are your wild injuns? Do you call them loafing tramps in dirty
blankets, injuns? My belief is that they are greasers looking out for an
engagement as song and dance men. They’re ‘beats,’ sir, ‘dead beats,’
they’re ‘pudcocks,’ and you oughter be told so.”
Another passenger in the train with Mr. Sala was of a poetic mind, and he
softly sang to himself during the whole journey over the Rocky Mountains
the following effusion:—
Beautiful snow,
Beautiful snow,
B-e-e-e-eautiful snow,
How I’d like to have a revolver and go
For the beast that wrote about beautiful snow.