The William F. Cody Archive: Documenting the life and times of Buffalo Bill

WOMAN'S MIRROR.

"DEAREST EMMELINE,—We should feel quite lost without an exhibition of some sort in London, and yet every interesting industry and leading country had been represented here, and people seemed at their wits' end to know what to show next. I was so thankful when some happy-thoughted man hit on flowers and gardens; for though these attractions cannot exactly be classed as novelties, yet 'age cannot wither, nor custom stale' them, if we are treated to constantly fresh supplies of blossoms and perfectly-tended grounds.' As for the Wild West, can it be really five years since we listened to the warhoops and watched the fight between palefaces and redskins? Yes, and there is no denying that we are that much older. After comparing romance with reality, I have come to the conclusion that the red man and his squaw never could have been particularly good-looking. At a little distance war-paint and plumage may lend some slight enchantment to the view, but even the finest-feathered Indian appears strangely plain visaged if one draws a little nearer. It is no use expecting to meet Chingachhook, or Hiawatha, in these degenerate days, and as for Minnehaha the Beautiful, I refuse to believe that she ever existed outside a poet's brain.

"Sooner than jog over Wild West prairies and mountains in one of those jolting waggons, of Deadwood coaches, with the poorest toilette accommodation, also the constant fear of being waylaid by robbers or red men, I would much rather stay in our tame East, and travel along easy well-made roads, in a large, new-fashioned caravan, like a houseboat on land. According to some accounts, caravan life promises to become the craze. People are tiring of the river, its winds, turns, shallowness, and occasional stretches of dreariness, and are taking to the road instead. The old coaching times may have passed away, but there is no reason why the new caravan days should not replace them. Can you not fancy the glorious fun a party of congenial spirits could enjoy while touring round their native land in a string of roofed vehicles, like a well-to-do gipsy band, or a menagerie on the march? The Adventures of a Phaeton, or Diary in a Dog-cart, may suit strong men well enough, but for spending several weeks along the highways, give me the house on wheels.