existence of the East, of the jungle, of, so to speak, other worlds? I
have a theory of my own to offer in explanation, and it is this:

_A_, let us say, is a writer who has stayed at home. Let us suppose
that his experience has been largely limited to London, or still more
precisely, to the East End of London. He has either lived or spent a
great deal of time here, and without having actively participated in
the lives of the natives and denizens of the district has observed them
to good purpose and saturated himself with their atmosphere. He has, in
an intimate sense, secured not only his scene, but also, either
actually or potentially, his characters. English--of a sort--is the
language of his community; and the temper of this community, except in
petty externals, is, after all, but little different from his own. He
has lost no time in either travelling or in learning another's
language, he has had a great deal of time for developing his technique.
He has, indeed, spent the greater part of his time in working out his
form. He is, as you may guess, anything but a superlative genius;
certainly, we may venture to assume that he is, at all events, a fine
talent, a careful observer, a painstaking worker, possessed of
inventive powers within limitations. He knows his genre and his milieu,
and he knows his job. He observes his people with an artistic sympathy.
He is an etcher, loving his line, rather than a photographer. Vast
mural decorations are beyond him.

Then there is _B_. _B_ is a traveller, something of an adventurer too.
His _wanderlust_, or possibly his occupation as a minor government
official, journalist, or representative for some commercial firm, has
taken him East. He has spent some time in Shanghai or Hong Kong, in
Calcutta or Rangoon, in Tokyo or Nagasaki. He has lived chiefly in the
foreign quarter and occasionally sallied out to seek adventure in the