ON BOOKS OF ADVENTURE 



He speaks of "blanched cheeks," of the "thrilling 

 suspense," and so on down the gamut of the shilling 

 shocker. His stuff makes good reading: there is no 

 doubt of that. The spellbound public likes it, and 

 to that extent it has fulfilled its mission. Also, the 

 reader believes it to the letter — why should he not.^ 

 Only there is this curious result: he carries away in his 

 mind the impression of unreality, of a country im- 

 possible to be understood and gauged and savoured 

 by the ordinary human mental equipment. It is 

 interesting, just as are historical novels, or the 

 copper-riveted heroes of modern fiction, but it has no 

 real relation with human life. In the last analysis 

 the inherent untruth of the thing forces itself on 

 him. He believes, but he does not apprehend; he 

 acknowledges the fact, but he cannot grasp its human 

 quality. The affair is interesting, but it is more or 

 less concocted of pasteboard for his amusement. 

 Thus essential truth asserts its right. 



All this, you must understand, is probably not a 

 deliberate attempt to deceive. It is merely the 

 recrudescence under the stimulus of a brand-new 

 environment of the boyish desire to be a hero. When 

 a man jumps back into the Pleistocene he digs up 

 some of his ancestors' cave-qualities. Among these 

 is the desire for personal adornment. His modern 

 developmient of taste precludes skewers in the ears 



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