instinct, skipping over some
centuries, reappeared, in my case, in its original form; for it was not
until after I had seen a large portion of the earth, that I became
acquainted with the narratives of my predecessors, and recognized my
kinship with them. With the ghost of the mercantile Marco Polo, or those
of the sharp fellows, Bernier and Tavernier, I do not anticipate much
satisfaction, in the next world; but--if they are not too far off--I
shall shake hands at once with the old monk Rubruquis, and the Knight
Arnold von der Harff, and the far traveled son of the Atlas, Ibn Batuta.

These old narratives have a charm for me, which I do not find in the
works of modern tourists. There is an honest homeliness and unreserve
about them, which I would not exchange for any graces of style. The
writers need no apologetic or explanatory preface; they sit down with
the pressure of a solemn duty upon them. When much of the world was but
dimly known, the man who had reached India, China, or the Islands of the
Sea, and returned to describe his adventures, made his narrative a
matter of conscience, and justly considered that he had added something
to the stock of human knowledge. The world of fable had not then
contracted into as narrow limits as at present; foreign countries were
full of marvels, and science had not made clear the phenomena of nature.
The old travelers had all the wonder and the credulity of children. All
was fish that came to their nets, and their works are singular compounds
of personal adventure, historical episodes, statistics of trade, and
reflections on the laws, manners and religions of races, interwoven with
many astonishing stories, and with the most amusing conjectures and
speculations. Their sincerity is apparent on every page. How delightful
is that remark of honest old Bernal Diaz, when, in describing the
battle of Tlascala, he states that many of the Spanish soldiers believed
that St. James and St. Thomas fought in person against the pagans, and
adds, in the simplicity of his heart, 'Sinner that I am, it was not
given to my eyes to behold either the one or the other of those holy
persons.' Montanus, in his travels through Muscovy, speaks of a
wonderful plant on the borders of Tartary, which resembled a
pumpkin-vine in appearance, only that instead of pumpkins it produced
lambs covered with wool. He calls this 'a mighty pleasant story,' but
takes care to say that he had never seen with his own eyes the