The Land of Footprints | Page 3

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THE LAND OF FOOTPRINTS
by Stewart Edward White
1913

I. ON BOOKS OF ADVENTURE
Books of sporting, travel, and adventure in countries little known to the
average reader naturally fall in two classes-neither, with a very few
exceptions, of great value. One class is perhaps the logical result of the
other.
Of the first type is the book that is written to make the most of far
travels, to extract from adventure the last thrill, to impress the
awestricken reader with a full sense of the danger and hardship the
writer has undergone. Thus, if the latter takes out quite an ordinary
routine permit to go into certain districts, he makes the most of

travelling in "closed territory," implying that he has obtained an
especial privilege, and has penetrated where few have gone before him.
As a matter of fact, the permit is issued merely that the authorities may
keep track of who is where. Anybody can get one. This class of writer
tells of shooting beasts at customary ranges of four and five hundred
yards. I remember one in especial who airily and as a matter of fact
killed all his antelope at such ranges. Most men have shot occasional
beasts at a quarter mile or so, but not airily nor as a matter of fact:
rather with thanksgiving and a certain amount of surprise. The
gentleman of whom I speak mentioned getting an eland at seven
hundred and fifty yards. By chance I happened to mention this to a
native Africander.
"Yes," said he, "I remember that; I was there."
This interested me-and I said so.
"He made a long shot," said I.
"A GOOD long shot," replied the Africander.
"Did you pace the distance?"
He laughed. "No," said he, "the old chap was immensely delighted.
'Eight hundred yards if it was an inch!' he cried."
"How far was it?"
"About three hundred and fifty. But it was a long shot, all right."
And it was! Three hundred and fifty yards is a very long shot. It is over
four city blocks-New York size. But if you talk often enough and glibly
enough of "four and five hundred yards," it does not sound like much,
does it?
The same class of writer always gets all the thrills. 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 impossible 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 development of taste precludes skewers in the ears and
polished wire around the neck; so he adorns himself in qualities instead.
It is quite an engaging and