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.
In all that concerns man, indeed, a much plainer speech was permitted to the old traveler. There were no squeamish readers in those days, and hence, in some respects, he is too candid for modern taste. But it often happens that precisely the characteristics or customs of strange races which are of most value to the anthropologist, belong to those cryptic mysteries of human nature, to which, in our refined age, one is prohibited from referring. At least, the absence of constraint—the possibility of entire frankness, even though the writer should have no occasion to avail himself of the privilege—imparts a rare loveliness and raciness to the narrative. On the other hand, in modern works which I have tested by my own personal knowledge of the subject, I have been quite as much struck with the amount of suppressed as with that of expressed truth. Mansfield Parkyns and Captain Burton, I have no doubt, will bear me out in this statement. Why has no African explorer, for instance, yet ventured to announce the fact,—at once interesting and important,—that if a traveler in the central regions of that continent could be accompanied by his wife, the chances of his success would be greatly improved? In the apparent celibacy of explorers, barbarous races perceive simply an absence or perversion of the masculine instinct, which at once excites their distrust.
Let me resume the volume which I have laid down to pursue the foregoing reflections, and, while the eastern storm drives through the autumn woods, hurling its mingled volume of rain and leaves against my window, ask the reader to look over my shoulder and follow with me for a while the pilgrimage of Abou Abdallah Mohammed, better known under the name of Ibn Batuta,—'may God be satisfied with him, and confound those who have an aversion towards him!'—to apply to himself his own invocation in favor of another.
Ibn Batuta, a native of Tangier, in Morocco, unquestionably takes the first rank among the travelers of the Middle Ages, if we consider the distances he traversed, the remote points he reached, or the number of years consumed by his wanderings. From Pekin to Timbuctoo, from the Volga to the Ganges, from Bukhara to Zanzibar, he vibrated to and fro, making himself acquainted, with the exception of Christian Europe, with the greater part of the known world. He touched, in many directions, the borderland of darkness, beyond which the earth fell off precipitously into chaotic depths which no mortal might explore. Having reached home again after uncounted perils, he sat down to tell the story of his adventures. Many of his notes had been lost by the way, and he was obliged to depend mainly on his memory; but as this is a faculty which all genuine travelers must not only possess, but cultivate by constant exercise, his narrative is remarkably clear, complete, and truthful.
Born on the 24th of February, 1304, he set out, in his twenty-second year, on a pilgrimage to Mecca, traversing the Barbary States and Egypt on the way. Once fairly launched in the world, twenty-four years elapsed before he again saw his native town. He explored the various provinces of Arabia; visited Syria, Persia, and Armenia; resided for a while in Southern Russia (Kipchak), then belonging to princes of the line of Genghis Khan; traveled by land to Constantinople, where he was presented to the emperor; repeated his pilgrimage to Mecca, and reached Zanzibar. Then, returning, he made his way to Bukhara, and through Afghanistan to the Indus; exercised, for two years, the functions of a Kadi, or judge, at Delhi; was appointed by the Sultan Mohammed, the son of Togluk Khan, on an embassy to the emperor of China, but, missing the Chinese vessel, was obliged to remain a year and a half among the Maldive Islands. Nothing daunted by the delay, he started again, by way of Ceylon and the Indian Archipelago, and finally succeeded in reaching Pekin. He appears to have returned to Tangier in the year 1349, and to have taken up his residence soon afterwards in Granada, under the protection of the caliph Yusef. His thirst for exploration, however, was not yet quenched, and in two years he was ready to undertake a second journey of greater difficulty and danger. Leaving Fez with a caravan, in the year 1351, he crossed the Sahara, and spent three years in Central Africa, visiting the great cities Melli and Timbuctoo. He was thus the first to give the world an authentic account of those regions. His descriptions correspond, in almost all respects, with those given by the travelers of modern times.
Ibn Batuta returned to Morocco in 1354, and there remained until his death, in 1378. During the year after his arrival, he dictated the history of his travels to Ibn Djozay, a young Moorish poet, who, having been unjustly treated by Yusef, in Granada, fled to Fez, where he was appointed secretary to the Sultan, Abau Inau Faris. The latter, it appears, commanded that the work should be written, and it was also, no doubt, by his order that Ibn Djozay became the amanuensis of our traveler. 'He was recommended,' says the introduction, 'to bestow great care on the correctness and elegance of the style, to render it clear and intelligible, in order that the reader may better enjoy the rare adventures, and draw the greatest profit from the pearl, after it shall have been extracted from its shell!' To Ibn Djozay, therefore, we are indebted for the abundant poetic quotations interspersed throughout the work—the ornaments which hang, sometimes with curious effect, on the plain, straight-forward story which Ibn Batuta tells us. Making the usual allowance for Oriental exaggeration, and the occasional confusion which must occur in a memory so overcharged, we do not hesitate to pronounce the work worthy of all credit. Burkhardt, Seetzen, and Carl Ritter have expressed their entire confidence in the fidelity of the narrative.
This interesting work was known to European scholars, until quite recently, in a fragmentary condition, frequently disfigured by errors of transcription. Since the French occupation of Algiers, however, two or three perfect copies have been discovered, one of which, now in the Imperial Library at Paris, bears the autograph of Ibn Djozay. The publications of the Société Asiatique furnish us with the narrative, carefully collated, and differing but slightly, in all probability, from the original text. Let us now run over it, freely translating for the reader as we go. The introduction, which is evidently from the elegant hand of the amanuensis, is so characteristic that we must extract a few Title and all, it opens as follows:
A PRESENT MADE TO OBSERVERS,
TREATING OF THE
CURIOSITIES OFFERED BY THE CITIES AND