Of Twain's travelogues, I would place this in the middle of the pack: clearly written in one of his low periods, meant to pay off whatever fiscal mishap he had at the time. But even as the mining chapters go on and the usual nineteenth century attitudes about manifest destiny, attitudes on race, and general white dude exceptionalism prevail, there are also glimmers of Twain's insight beyond his time. His vocabulary may be tragically stranded in an ass-backwards era, but his curiosity, marvel at the ingenuity of humanity, and self-depreciative wit shine through as per.