On the deck of a Trans-Atlantic Skiff, a certain Old Traveler, who owed
allegiance to George and Mary, reclined on his Cervical Vertebrae with
a Plaid Shawl across him and roasted Our Native Land.
He told the American in the next Steamer Chair that he had been unable
to get his Tea at the usual Hour, and out in the place called Minnie-
Apples the stupid Waiter never had heard of Bloaters for Breakfast.
Furthermore, he had not seen his Boots again after placing them outside
the Door in Chicago.
The Houses were overheated and the Railway Carriages were not like
those at Home, and the Reporters were Forward Chaps, and Ice should not
be added with the Soda, because it was not being Done.
He was jolly glad to escape from the Wretched Hole and get back to his
own Lodgings, where he could go into Cold Storage and have a Joint of
Mutton and Brussels Sprouts as often as desired.
The Yankee cringed under the Attack and then fully agreed with the Son
of amphibious Albion. He said we were a new and crude People who did
not know how to wear Evening Clothes or eat Stilton Cheese, and our
Politicians were corrupt, and Murderers went unpunished, while the
Average Citizen was a dyspeptic Skate afflicted with Moral Strabismus.
Then he retired to his State Room to weep over the Situation, and the
British Subject said: "The American is a Poltroon, for he will not
defend his own Hearth and Fireside."
A Cook's Tourist from Emporia, Kansas, dropped into the Vacant Chair.
When the Delegate from The Rookery, Wormwood Scrubs, Islington S. E.,
resumed his scorching Arraignment of the U. S. A., he got an awful Rise
out of the Boy from the Corn Belt.
The Emporia Man said there were more Bath Tubs to the Square Mile out
in his Burg than you could find in the West End of London, and more
Paupers and Beggars in one Square Mile of the East End of London than
you could find in the whole State of Kansas. He said there were fewer
Murders in England because good Opportunities were being overlooked.
He said he could Tip any one in England except, possibly, the
Archbishop of Canterbury.
It was his unbiased Opinion that London consisted of a vast swarm of
melancholy Members of the Middle and Lower Classes of the Animal
Kingdom who ate Sponge Cake with Clinkers in it, drank Tea, smoked
Pipes and rode by Bus, and thought they were Living.
Standing beneath the rippling folds of Old Glory, the proud Citizen of
the Great Republic declared that we could wallop Great Britain at any
Game from Polo up to Prize-Fighting and if we cut down on the Food
Supplies the whole blamed Runt of an undersized Island would starve to
death in a Week.
With quivering Nostrils, he heaped Scorn and Contumely upon any Race
that would call a Pie a Tart. In conclusion, he expressed Pity for
those who never had tasted Corn on the Cob.
After he had gone up to the Bridge Deck to play Shuffle-Board, the
Representative of the Tightest little Island on the Map took out his
Note-Book and made the following Entry: "Every Beggar living in the
States is a Bounder and a Braggart."
That evening in the Smoke Room he began to pull his favorite Specialty
of ragging the Yanks on a New Yorker, who interrupted him by saying:
"Really, I know nothing about my own Country. I spend the Winter in
Egypt, the Spring in London, the Summer in Carlsbad, and the Autumn in
Paree."
So the Traveler afterward reported to a Learned Society that the
Typical American had become a denatured Expatriate.
MORAL: No Chance.