ON BOOKS OF ADVENTURE 



which we could not possibly imagine happening to 

 ourselves. 



This type of book is directly responsible for the 

 second sort. The author of this is deadly afraid of 

 being thought to brag of his adventures. He feels 

 constantly on him the amusedly critical eye of the 

 old-timer. When he comes to describe the first time 

 a rhino dashed in his direction, he remembers that 

 old hunters, who have been so charged hundreds of 

 times, may read the book. Suddenly, in that light, 

 the adventure becomes pitifully unimportant. He 

 sets down the fact that "we met a rhino that turned 

 a bit nasty, but after a shot in the shoulder decided 

 to leave us alone.'' Throughout he keeps before his 

 mind's eye the imaginary audience of those who have 

 done. He writes for them, to please them, to con- 

 vince them that he is not "swelled head," nor 

 *' cocky," nor "fancies himself," nor thinks he has 

 done, been, or seen anything wonderful. It is a 

 good, healthy frame of mind to be in; but it, no more 

 than the other type, can produce books that leave 

 on the minds of the general public any impression of 

 a country in relation to a real human being. 



As a matter of fact, the same trouble is at the 

 bottom of both failures. The adventure writer, half 

 unconsciously perhaps, has been too much occupied 

 in play-acting himself into half-forgotten boyhood 



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