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 lambs growing upon the vines, but only the wool thereof, which the natives manufactured into garments.

Another characteristic of the old books of travel is, that they are, unconsciously, autobiographical.  The honest pilgrim, in his desire to give a faithful description of new lands, is little aware that he is all the time describing himself as well.  His prejudice, his likings, his disappointments and aspirations are all transparently revealed to us, and through him we lay hold on the living character of his age.  We follow him, step by step, on his slow and wearisome journey, enjoying his fatigues and dangers with the better zest, since we know in advance that he reached home safely at last.  One of the most popular modern books of travel—­Eothen—­is a poem which gives us the very atmosphere and odor of the Orient, but nothing more; and the author floats before our vision in so dim and wraith-like a manner, that many readers have doubted whether the work was founded on actual experience.  On the other hand, those old narratives, of which Robinson Crusoe is the ideal type, bear unmistakable stains of the soil on every page.  You not only feel the vital personality of the traveler, but you would distinguish his doublet and hose among a thousand.  He does not soar, with an airy grace, from one hill-top to another, picking out for you a choice scene here and there, as he skims the land—­he plods along the road, laboriously and with muddy shoes, and sees the common much oftener than the sublime.