It is by way of answer that the following little tale is quoted; it is an old tale but, after a fashion, it seems to fit.
Once upon a time an explorer discovered a country and set about to write a book concerning it. Then the people of the country became somewhat indignant and asked:
"Why should a stranger, who has scarcely learned his way about in our land, attempt to describe it? We, who have lived in it and know it, will write its chronicles ourselves."
So the traveller sat down and shut the book in which he had begun to write and said:
"Well and good. Do you write about your country, the land you have lived in so long and know so well, and we will see what we shall see."
So the people of the country—or their scribes, a most gifted company—began the task of describing that which they knew and loved, and had lived in and with since birth. And after they were through they took the fruits of their joint labours to an assemblage of kings in a far-off place.
And the kings said, after they had read:
"This is beautiful literature, but what is the country like,—that of which they write?"
So one of their chamberlains, who was a plain soul, said sensibly: