Chapter III: Front Matter (3)

Jonathan Edwards, the great light of New England, at this time could have been found in a quiet village on the Connecticut, whence his fame had already spread to the mother country. How Northampton gloried in her matchless preacher! For sixty years his grandfather, Solomon Stoddard, had labored there. Let us linger a moment over those scenes which, though fled like a dream, once witnessed the joys and sorrows of a lifetime. Here in this retired street stands the weather-stained parsonage, graced by a pair of saplings, planted by his own hands, to which Northampton points as 'the Edwards elms,' and which now fling giant shadows across the lawn. This dwelling, though scant of furniture, is passing rich in its domestic treasures. Here is a wife of lustrous beauty, sweet of disposition, fervent of spirit, and 'mighty in prayer.' She is a matchless judge of sermons, wise in human nature, and being wiser still in grace, must long rank as a model of the ministerial wife. Here, too, is her group of daughters, well worthy of such parentage, Esther, Sarah, Mary, and Jerusha, all beautiful and artless as herself. Here a world of daily interest is found in the studies and duties of a New England home. But who is he, of tall and attenuated form, whose days are passed in his solitary study, secluded like a hermit from the common experience of life? Like Moses, he is slow of speech, and might be considered almost severe of countenance. The lineaments tell their story of childlike simplicity of character, and yet they are inspired by an expression of power, which at first seems repellant. Those large black eyes seem to pierce and read on every thought. I have referred to this family in a previous article,[D] but would now speak at more length of its paternal head. This man has but two pursuits, study and prayer. Of the outer world he has ever remained in blissful ignorance, and even of his own parish he only knows what he has learned of his wife. He has no 'turn' for visiting, and can not afford time for vain talk. The secret of this is, that he breathes an atmosphere of his own; his soul is like a star, and dwells apart. Behold him seated at his table, jotting down casual thoughts on the backs of letters and scraps of paper (for paper is very dear); he is building up some great argument, whose vast proportions will in due time be developed, like the uncovering of a colossus. Beware, Mr. Solomon Williams of Hatfield, and you, Chubb and Tyndal, and John Taylor of Norwich, for you will each and all of you find your master in this secluded parson. Thirteen hours per day are given to study, and this has been the average for years.

And _such_ study to create realities out of the fogs of metaphysics, and to span the concrete and the abstract with a bridge such as Milton threw across space. This man can spend hours in pursuit of 'volitions' with all the excitement of the chamois-hunt. Now his eye brightens, for he has transfixed an idea, and holds it up in all the nicety of artistic touch, while he dissects it to its ramifications. It is all _con amore_ with him, though his readers will need a clue to the maze of intricate reasoning.

One can not pass through the streets of Northampton, so broad, so rural, and so picturesque, without being overshadowed by that memory, which may be expressed in the sweet lines of Longfellow,--

'Here in patience and in sorrow, laboring still with busy hand,
Like an emigrant he wandered, seeking for the better land.'

It is gratifying to know that his memory is honored in Northampton by the naming of a church, though all may not understand the connection. The old 'meeting-house' (for the Puritans used the word church only in a spiritual sense) stood fronting the site of the present enormous edifice. It was torn down in 1812. Here for nearly a quarter of a century the tall form, and face pale and meagre from intense thinking, appeared each Sabbath before a people among whom his recluse habits rendered him almost a stranger. Here, having rested upon the desk, upon the elbow of his left arm, whose hand held a tiny book of closely written MS., he read with stooping form and low tones those solemn arguments and tremendous appeals which now thrill us from the printed page. Each of those tiny books was a sermon. Many of these are still preserved, and Dr. Tryon Edwards, of New London, has a chest filled with these memorials of his great ancestor. They are written in so fine a hand as to be hardly legible except to one practiced in their deciphering--a result of the extreme economy of one who, with all carefulness, was the largest consumer of paper and ink in New England. Solemn as was the deportment of this reverend man, sundry practical jokes at his expense are on record. It is said that the house dog was his close attendant, and on Sabbath day would invade even the pulpit in search of his master. Hence he was carefully fastened during 'holy time.' On one occasion, however, some wag not only loosed the animal, but actually garnished his neck with a pair of ministerial bands. The poor dog, unwitting of his sacred insignia, made his way into the pulpit without being noticed by his absent minded master, until some one showed him the dog, _a la parson_, perched up behind him on the pulpit bench.

As a public speaker Edwards' delivery was the minimum of force, and in this feature he admitted his utter failure. Indeed, when driven from Northampton, he replied to Erskine's invitation to remove to Scotland, that he was assured that his style would not be acceptable. After his dismission, the sorrows of poverty fell heavily upon him, and he writes to the same correspondent that 'he and his large and helpless family were to be cast upon the world.' A collection was made for him in Scotland, and forwarded at this time of need. The Scottish saints, indeed, held strong sympathy with the colonies, and it was their 'benefactions' which supported the mission of Brainerd, the most successful of modern days. Edwards remained more than a year at Northampton after leaving its pulpit, and was humbled by seeing the people assemble to hear sermons read by laymen in preference to his own ministrations. What a bitter cup this must have been: but Sarah cheered his heart, and grace reigned. In the mean time the girls wrought fancy work, which was sent to Boston, and sold in their behalf, and thus they were spared from want. Subsequently he was appointed missionary to the Stockbridge Indians. It was Orpheus among the wild beasts, but without his success. President Wayland quotes this fact in order to support a theory which is palpably false, that a preacher should not be much above the literary platform of his people; whereas, Edwards' ill success was in a large measure owing to the troubles and opposition incident to frontier life. With all his sorrows, however, he had one great satisfaction. His chief assailant, Joseph Ashley, of Northampton, who had borne so large a part in his expulsion, came in deep penitence, and besought his forgiveness, which was granted with Christian tenderness. Ashley's compunctions continued, and after Edwards' death increased in horror so greatly that to obtain relief he published to the world an explicit confession of his sins against 'that eminent servant of God.'

Edwards, like Milton, had long meditated a work which 'the world would not willingly let die,' but, although he had for some years been gathering materials, yet it was not until his removal to Stockbridge that he addressed himself fully to the mighty task of authorship. His habits of abstraction grew upon him amazingly during this effort, and the notable Sarah sheltered him from intrusion, and anticipated his wants. She was conscious of the greatness of the work with which he had grappled, and stood by his side like a guardian angel while he demolished errorists. It was her custom after the labors of the day to steal up to the study, where, like Numa and Egeria, they held serene communion. This was his sole medium of secular information, for in his occasional walks he was like one in a dream. The whole man was engrossed in what he alone could perform; indeed, to reconcile liberty and necessity were a task for which he seemed providentially set apart. But beneath these arguments, which rise Alp on Alp, there lurked a quiet perception of humor, and the _reductio ad absurdum_, which he occasionally drives home, showed the keenness of Puritan wit. How he must have smiled, nay even laughed, in the midst of his abstractions at that[E] metaphysical animal which illustrates the absurdity of his opponents. When 'The Freedom of the Will' was finished, and the author had sent it forth to do battle, he felt that the work of his life was done.

Just at this time a deputation waited on him to solicit his acceptance of the presidency of Nassau Hall. It was a strange sight to that rude hamlet of Stockbridge--those reverend forms finishing their long journey at the feet of the poor exiled missionary. When their errand was announced, he burst into tears, overcome by a sense of unworthiness, and in a subsequent letter he confirms his unfitness by reference to his 'flaccid solids and weak and sizy fluids.' But the demand was pressed, and Northampton learns with astonishment the exaltation of her banished pastor. The successful deputation possessed one member of rare interest. This was John Brainerd, who had succeeded his brother David as a missionary, and whom Edwards had met ten years before at the bedside of his dying brother. David would have been, had both lived, the husband of Jerusha--but now they slept side by side in Northampton burial-ground, and the surviving brother reappeared bearing this invitation. It was one not easily resisted; and so, amid dangers and infirmity, he was fain to say,

'To-morrow to fresh woods and pastures new.'

Before another spring, a higher glory awaited him; and the same year, five of his family, including the incomparable Sarah, were likewise 'received up.' A sad year was that to Princeton and to the church.

We have stated our opinion, that the activity of the New England mind arose from the digestion of strong doctrine; that very activity now generated a new style of preaching, which may be termed the metaphysical school. The days of _thaumaturgia_ were passed, and in place of discussing demonology and temptation, an appetite for subtle dogma prevailed. I doubt if Britain and Germany, with their combined universities, could have equaled, during the last century, the New England pulpit in mental acuteness or philosophical discrimination. A reference to Edwards recalls mention among his followers of such names as Smally, Bellamy, Emmons, and Hopkins. Those who listened to the preaching of such men could not avoid becoming thinkers, and thought has made our country what it is. Very possibly what is known as 'Yankee ingenuity' arose from the thinking habits of careful sermon-hearers. A man who could follow the subtle theories of the pulpit, could think out the most elaborate machinery. Next to Jonathan Edwards, Dr. Emmons possessed the most philosophical mind of the age. So severe and invincible is his logic, that it is said that the New Haven lawyers often sharpened their minds on Emmons' sermons. His scheme of making God the author of sin may be considered one of the errors of a great mind. A modern novelist has placed old Dr. Hopkins among the characters of a romance. But however great may be the powers of Mrs. Stowe, it was quite impossible for an æsthetic and poetic mind to grasp that bundle of dried-up syllogisms which once occupied the Newport pulpit. Hopkins had preached the church at Great Barrington empty, and that of Newport died by lingering degrees. Only to think of that tall, ungainly form, the head covered with a linen cap, stiff and white, coming forth like an apparition once a week to the public gaze. We do not wonder at the child's inquiry '_if it was God that stood up there_.' Hopkins' scheme of 'indifferent affection' was a grand conception, but as unnatural as grand: yet it showed an amazing boldness for a public teacher to lay down as a postulate that a willingness to be damned was a condition of salvation.

From a survey of the earlier clergy, even as superficial as the present one, we are struck with its ambition of a lofty range of doctrine. They

'reasoned high
Of providence, foreknowledge, will, and fate,
Fixed fate, free-will, foreknowledge absolute,
And found no end in wandering mazes lost.
Of good and evil much they argued then,
Of happiness, and final misery,
Passion, and apathy, glory, and shame.'

The highest tribute which Milton could offer the fallen angels was that mental power which survived the general wreck. And no lesser flight would have satisfied the subjects of this sketch. Their lifelong effort was still to climb higher, ever exclaiming

'--Paula majora canamus.'

Their services in the cause of public education are beyond our appreciation, and it may be well for us to remember that Harvard, Yale, Williams, Union, Princeton, Amherst, Hanover, and other institutions, sprang from the bold philanthrophy of men so poor as often to be objects of pity. They saw that knowledge is power, and that power they would not only possess, but bequeath to coming generations.

Long as these rambles have been, they would still be incomplete without a tribute to the influence of wives and mothers which soothed and mellowed the sterner aspect of primitive life; but this can only be referred to as a theme worthy of distinct treatment. It should not be forgotten that the children reared under such influences have often been counted worthy of the highest stations of honor and trust; and although the scapegrace character of ministers' sons is a common fling, yet careful research has proved that it has many and brilliant exceptions.

While penning these pages, my mind has often wandered over ancient burial-grounds where pastor and people sleep side by side. One may find them in every New England town, and they chain with a spell of which the modern cemetery with its showy marbles knows nothing! We turn from the fresh mortality, which chills us with its recent sorrows, to those massy headstones whose faint inscriptions tell of generations long since freed from toil. Here one may find the rude monuments of those who still walk the earth and lead its progress, and here the heart may run over, as Byron says,

'With silent worship of the great of old!
The dead but sceptered sovereigns who still rule
Our spirits from their urns.'

* * * * *

HEMMING COTTON.

'Hem them in!' is the country's cry;
See how the bayonet needles fly!
Nothing neglect and nothing leave,
Hem them in from the skirt to sleeve.
Little they reek of scratch or hurt
Who toil at hemming the Southern shirt;
Little they'll care, as they shout aloud,
If the Southern shirt prove a Southern shroud.
Hurrah for the needles sharp and thin!
Cotton is saved by hemming it in.'

* * * * *

ONE OF MY PREDECESSORS.

No books have quite the same fascination for me as the narratives of old travelers. Give me a rainy day, a state of affairs which renders the performance of a more serious task impossible, and a volume of Hakluyt or Purchas, or even of Pinkerton's agreeable collection, and I experience a condition of felicity which leaves Gray and his new novel far in the background. For I thus not only behold again the familiar scenery of the earth,--never forgetting a landscape that I have once seen,--but I am also a living participant in the adventures of those who have wandered the same paths, hundreds of years before. I visit Constantinople while the Porphyrogenite emperors still sit upon the throne of the East; I look upon the barbaric court of Muscovy before the name of Russia is known in the world; I make acquaintance with Genghis Khan at Karakorum, and with Aurungzebe at Delhi; I invade Japan with Kampfer, penetrate the Arctic Seas with Barentz, or view the gardens of Ispahan in the company of the gallant Sir John Chardin.

This taste was not the cause, but is the result, of my own experience. My far-off, unknown Arab progenitor says, in one of his poems: 'Fly thy home, and journey, if thou strivest for great deeds. Five advantages thou wilt at least procure by traveling. Thou wilt have pleasure and profit; thou wilt enlarge thy prospects, cultivate thyself, and acquire friends. It is better to be dead, than, like an insect, to remain always chained to the same spot of earth.' In the Middle Ages, and especially among the members of the enlightened Saracenic race, the instinct of travel was mainly an instinctive desire for education. There was no other school of knowledge so complete and practical, in the dearth of books and the absence of other than commercial intercourse between the ends of the earth, I fancy that this 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 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.

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
OTHER WONDERS ENCOUNTERED IN
TRAVEL.

'In the name of God, the Clement, the Merciful: Behold what says the Shekh, the judge, the learned man, the truthful, the noble, the devout, the very benevolent, the guest of God; who has acquitted himself of the visit to the holy places, to the honor of religion; who, in the course of his travels, has placed his confidence in the Lord of all creatures--Abou Abdallah Mohammed, son of Abdallah, son of Ibrahim Allewatee Alhandjee, known under the name of Ibn Batuta: may God be merciful to him, and be content with him, in his great bounty and generosity! Amen.

'Praise be to God, who has subjected the earth to those who serve him, in order that they may march by spacious roads--who has placed them on the earth, and there located the three vicissitudes of their destiny: the creation, the return to the earth, and the resurrection from its bowels. He has extended it by his power, and it has become a bed for his servants. He has fixed it by means of inaccessible mountains, of considerable elevation, and has raised over it the summit of heaven, unsupported by a pillar. He has made the stars to appear as a guide in the midst of the darkness of the land and the sea; he has made a lamp of the moon, and a torch of the sun. From heaven he has caused waters to descend, which vivified the ground when it was dried up. He has made all varieties of fruits to grow, and has created diversified regions, giving them all sorts of plants. He has caused the two seas to flow--one of sweet and refreshing waters, the other salt and bitter. He has completed his bounties towards his creatures, in subjecting to them the camels, and in submitting to them the ships, similar to mountains, serving them as vehicles, instead of the surface of the desert, or the back of the sea.'

After having, in like manner, pronounced a benediction on Mohammed, the Prophet's friends, and all others in any way connected with him, he greets the Sultan of Morocco with a panegyric so dazzling, so unapproachable in the splendor of its assertions, that we must quote it as a standard whereby all similar compositions may be measured, sure that it will maintain its pre-eminence through all time.

'It is his reign (that of Abou Inau Faris) which has cured Religion of her sickness, which has caused the sword of Injustice to return into the scabbard whence it had been drawn, which has corrected fortune, when it had been corrupted, and which has procured custom for the markets of Science, formerly given up to stagnation. He has rendered manifest the rules of piety when they would have been obliterated; he has calmed the regions of the earth when they were agitated; he has caused the tradition of acts of generosity to revive after his death; he has occasioned the death of tyrannic customs; he has abated the flame of discord at the moment when it was most enkindled; he has destroyed the commands of tyranny, when they exercised an absolute power; he has elevated the edifices of equity on the pillars of the fear of God, and has assured himself, by the strongest evidences, that he possesses confidence in the Eternal. His reign possesses a glory, the crown whereof is placed on the forehead of Orion, and an illumination which covers the Milky Way with the skirts of his robe; a beneficence which has given a new youth to the age; a justice which incloses the righteous within its vast tent; a liberality similar to a cloud which waters at once the leaves that have fallen from the trees and the trees themselves; a courage which, even when the clouds shed torrents of rain, causes a torrent of blood to flow; a patience which never tires of hoping; a prudence which prevents his enemies from approaching his pastures; a resolution which puts their troops to flight before the action commences; a mildness which delights to pluck pardon from the tree of crime; a goodness which gains him all hearts; a science, the lustre whereof enlightens the darkest difficulties; a conduct conformable to his sincerity, and acts conformable to his designs!'

Let us here take a long breath, and rest a minute. O, Abou Inau Faris! we envy the blessed people that were gathered under thy wing; we weep for our degenerate age, wherein thy like is nowhere to be found. No wonder that Ibn Batuta declares that he lays aside forever his pilgrim's staff--that, after traversing the Orient, he sits down under the full moon of the Occident, preferring it to all other regions, 'as one prefers gold-dust to the sands of the highway.' We, too, had we found such a ruler, would have laid aside our staff, and taken the oath of allegiance.

The traveler gives us the day of his departure from home: June 14, 1325. 'I was alone,' says he, 'without a companion with whom I could live familiarly, without a caravan of which I could have made part; but I was forced onward by a spirit firm in its resolution, and the desire of visiting the Holy Places was implanted in my bosom. I therefore determined to separate myself from my friends of both sexes, and I abandoned my home as the birds abandon their nest. My father and mother were still alive. I resigned myself, with grief, to separate from them, and this was a common cause of sorrow. I was then in my twenty-second year.'

Having safely reached the town of Tlemeen, he found two ambassadors of the king of Tunis, about to set out on their return, and attached himself to their suite. On arriving at Bougie, he was attacked with a violent fever, and was advised to remain behind. 'No,' said the determined youth, 'if God wills that I should die, let me die on the road to Mecca,' and pushed on, through Constantina and Bona, in such a state of weakness that he was obliged to unwind his turban and bind himself to his saddle, in order to avoid falling from the horse. He thus reached Tunis, in a state of extreme exhaustion and despondency. 'No one saluted me,' says he, 'for I was not acquainted with a single person there. I was seized with such an emotion of sadness that I could not suppress my sobs, and my tears flowed in abundance. One of the pilgrims, remarking my condition, advanced towards me, saluting and comforting me. He did not cease to cheer me up with his conversation, until I had entered the city.'

In a short time, he seems to have recovered both his health and spirits; for, on reaching the town of Sefakos, he married the daughter of one of the syndics of the corporation of Tunis. This proceeding strikes us as a singular preparation for a long and dangerous journey, but it is a preliminary which would immediately suggest itself to a Mussulman of good character. In fact, it was equivalent in those days--and still would be, in some parts of the Orient--to a proclamation of his respectability. Ibn Batuta, however, was not fortunate in this matrimonial adventure. Two months afterwards, he naïvely informs us: 'There arose such a disagreement between myself and my father-in-law, that I was obliged to separate from my wife. I thereupon married the daughter of an official of Fez. The marriage was consummated at the castle of Zanah, and I celebrated it by a feast, for which I detained the caravan for a whole day.'

After this announcement, he is silent concerning his domestic relations. Perhaps the number of his connubial changes was too great to be recorded; perhaps no son was born to establish his honor among men; perhaps, with increasing sanctity, he forswore the sex. The last conjecture is probably correct, as it tallies with the reputation for wisdom and purity which he gradually acquired.

Finally, in April, 1326, our traveler reached Alexandria, the first strange city which impressed him by its size and splendor. 'Alexandria,' says he, 'is a jewel whereof the brilliancy is manifest--a virgin which sparkles with her ornaments. She illumines the Occident with her splendor: she unites the most diverse beauties, on account of her situation midway between the Rising and the Setting.' At that time the celebrated Pharos was still standing, and the following description of it, though not very clear, will interest the reader: 'It is a square edifice, which towers into the air. Its gate is raised above the surface of the earth, and opposite to it there is an edifice of similar height, which serves to support planks, across which one must wait to arrive at the gate of the Pharos. When these planks are taken away, there is no means of crossing. Inside of the entrance is a space where the guardian of the edifice is stationed. The interior of the Pharos contains many apartments. Each of its four sides is a hundred and forty spans in length. The building is situated on a high hill, one parasang from the city, and on a tongue of land which the sea surrounds on three sides. One can therefore only reach the Pharos from the land side, by leaving the city. I directed my course towards the Pharos a second time, on my return to the West, in the year 1349, and I found that its ruin was complete, so that one could neither enter, nor even reach the gate.'

Commencing with Alexandria, Ibn Batuta is careful, in every city which he visits, to give an account of the distinguished _shekhs_ or _imams_, with characteristic anecdotes of their saintly or miraculous lives. The value and interest of these sketches reconcile us to the brevity of his descriptions. He tells us, for example, that the _kadi_ (judge) of Alexandria, who was likewise a master of the art of eloquence, 'covered his head with a turban which surpassed in volume all the turbans then to be seen. I have never beheld, neither in the East nor the West, one so voluminous. He was one day seated in a mosque, before the pulpit, and his turban filled almost the entire space.' At the town of Fooah, in the Delta, on his way to Cairo, occurred his first marvelous adventure. 'During the night,' says he, 'while I slept on the roof of the dwelling of the shekh Abou Abdallah, I saw myself, in a dream, carried on the wing of a great bird, which flew in the direction of Mecca, then in that of Yemen; then it transported me to the East, after which it passed towards the South; then it flew again far to the East, alighted upon a dark and misty country, and there abandoned me. I was amazed at this vision, and said to myself, "If the shekh can interpret my dream, he is truly as holy as he is said to be." When I presented myself, in the morning, to take part in the early prayer, he charged me to take the lead, in the quality of _imam_. Afterwards he called me to him, and explained my dream; in fact, when I had related it to him, he said: "Thou wilt make the pilgrimage to Mecca, thou wilt visit the tomb of the Prophet, thou wilt traverse Yemen, Irak, the country of the Turks, and India; thou wilt remain a long time in the latter country, where thou wilt see my brother Dilehad, who will extricate thee from an affliction into which thou shalt fall." Having spoken, he provided me with money, and small biscuits for the journey. I said my farewells and departed. Since I left him, I have experienced nothing but good treatment in the course of my travels, and his benedictions always came to my aid.'

Passing over the traveler's visit to Damietta and the other towns of the Delta, let us hear his enthusiastic description of Cairo, at the time of its greatest prosperity: 'Finally, I reached the city of Cairo, the metropolis of the country and the ancient residence of Pharaoh the Impaler; mistress of rich and extended regions, attaining the utmost limits of possibility in the multitude of its population, and exalting itself on account of its beauty and splendor. It is the rendezvous of travelers, the station of the weak and the powerful. Thou wilt there find all that thou desirest--the wise and the ignorant, the industrious and the trifling, the mild or the angry, men of low extraction or of lofty birth, the illustrious and the obscure. The number of its inhabitants is so considerable that their currents resemble those of an agitated sea, and the city lacks very little of being too small to contain them, notwithstanding its extent and capacity. Although founded long since, it enjoys a youth forever renewed; the star of its horoscope does not cease to inhabit a fortunate house. It is in speaking of Cairo that Wasr ed-deen has written:

"It is a paradise in truth; its gardens ever smile,
Adorned and fed so plenteously by all the waves of Kile,
Which, fretted by the blowing wind, from shore across to shore,
Mimic the armor's azure scales the prophet David wore;
Within its fluid element the naked fear to glide,
And ships, like winged heavenly spheres, go up and down the tide.'"

Ibn Batuta's description of the pyramids is very curious, and we can account for it on no other supposition than that he merely saw them in the distance (probably from the citadel of Cairo), relying on hearsay for further particulars. After stating that they were built by the ancient _Hermes_, whom he supposes to be identical with Enoch, as a repository for the antediluvian arts and sciences, he says: 'The pyramids are built of hard, well-cut stone. They are of a very considerable elevation, and of a circular form, capacious at the base and narrow at the summit, _in the fashion of cones_. They have no doors, and one is ignorant of the manner in which they have been constructed.'

In his journey up the Nile, Ibn Batuta never fails to give an account of every Moslem saint or theologian whom he meets, but only in one or two instances does he mention the antiquities, which, in that age, must have been still more conspicuous than now. He even passes over the plain of Thebes without the slightest notice of the great temple of Karnak. Disappointed in his plan of crossing the Red Sea to Jidda, he returned to Cairo, and at once set out for Syria. Here, the first place of interest which he visited was Hebron, where he performed his devotions at the tombs of the patriarchs. We learn that there were archæcological writings in those days, for he quotes from a work entitled 'The Torch of Hearts, on the Subject of the Authenticity of the Tombs of Abraham, Isaac, and Jacob.' Unfortunately, the evidence adduced would not be very satisfactory to us, for it rests entirely on the following statement made by Mohammed to a certain Abou Horairah: 'When the angel Gabriel took me on the noctural journey to Jerusalem, we passed above the tomb of Abraham, and he said to me, "Descend, and make a prayer of two genuflexions, for here is the sepulchre of thy father Abraham!" Then we traversed Bethlehem, and he said also, "Descend, make a prayer of two genuflexions, for here was born thy brother Jesus!"'

Of Jerusalem, which he calls 'the noble, the holy--may God glorify it!' he says: 'Among the sanctuaries on the borders of the valley known under the name of Gehenna, east of the city and on an elevated hill (the Mount of Olives), one sees an edifice which is said to stand on the spot whence Jesus ascended to heaven. In the middle of the same valley there is a church where the Christians worship: they affirm that it contains the sepulchre of Mary. There is also another church, equally venerated, to which the Christians make a pilgrimage. The reason whereof, however, is a lie, for they pretend that it contains the tomb of Jesus. Each person who goes thither as a pilgrim is obliged to pay a certain tribute to the Mussulmans, and to undergo divers sorts of humiliations, which the Christians perform very much against their will. They there see the place where the cradle of Jesus stood, and come to implore his intercession.'

I have not space to follow our traveler through all the cities of the Syrian coast, northward to Aleppo, but I can not omit offering one flower from the garland of poetical quotations which Ibu Batuta (or rather his amanuensis, Ibn Djozay) hangs on the citadel of the latter capital. I presume the city then occupied the same position as at present, on a plain surrounding the rocky acropolis, which is so striking and picturesque a feature as to justify the enthusiasm of the Oriental bards. Djemal ed-deen All, however, surpasses them all in the splendor of his images. Hear him:--

'So lofty soars this castle, so high its summit stands,
Immense and far uplifted above the lower lands,
It lacks but little, truly, that with the heavenly sphere
Around the earth revolving, its towers would interfere.
And they who dwell within it must seek the Milky Way;
There is no nearer cistern which win their thirst allay:
Their horses there go browsing, and crop the stars that pass,
As other beasts the blossoms that open in the grass!'

After this flight, I think I can afford to omit the string of quotations concerning Damascus, which is celebrated with an equal extravagance. Ibn Batuta gives a very careful account of the great mosque, including its priests and scholars. During his stay the plague raged with such violence that the deaths at one time amounted to two thousand a day. He relates one circumstance which shows that even religious intolerance vanished in times of distress. 'All the inhabitants of the city, men, women, large and small, took part in a procession to the Mosque of El-Akdam, two miles south of Damascus. The Jews came forth with their Pentateuch, and the Christians with their Gospel, followed by their women and children. All wept, supplicated, and sought help from God, through the means of his Word and his prophets. They repaired to the mosque, where they remained, praying and invoking God, until three o'clock in the afternoon. Then they returned to the city, made the prayer of Friday, and the Lord consoled them.'

On the 1st of September, 1326, he left Damascus, with the great caravan of pilgrims, for Mecca. He enumerates all the stations on the route, and his itinerary is almost identical with that which the caravan follows at the present day. Much space is devoted to a description of the religious observances which he followed; and, singularly enough, if any confirmation of his fidelity as a narrator were needed, it is furnished by the work of Captain Burton. The account of the sacred cities of Medineh and Mecca corresponds in every important particular with that of the modern traveler. Thus the integrity of Ibn Batuta, like that of Marco Polo, is established, after the lapse of five hundred years.

In speaking of the chair of Mohammed, which is preserved in the mosque at Medineh, he relates the following beautiful tradition: 'It is said that the ambassador of God at first preached near the trunk of a palm-tree in the mosque, and that after he had constructed the chair and transported it thither, the trunk of the palm-tree groaned, as the female camel groans after her young. Mohammed thereupon went down to the tree and embraced it; after which it remained silent. The Prophet said, "If I had not embraced it, it would have continued to groan until the day of the resurrection."'

After faithfully performing all the observances prescribed for the pilgrim to Mecca, Ibn Batuta left that city and returned to Medineh. He then crossed the Arabian peninsula in a north-eastern direction, to the city of Meshed Ali, near the Euphrates, and thence descended that river to Bassora. Here he gives us two amusing anecdotes, which reflectively illustrate his shrewdness and the sturdiness with which he maintained his religious views. 'The inhabitants of Bassora,' says he, 'are gifted with a generous character. They are familiar with strangers, rendering them that which is their due, in such a manner that no one finds a sojourn among them tiresome. They make their Sunday prayers in the mosque of the Prince of Believers, Ali. I once attended the prayers in this mosque; and when the preacher arose and began to recite the sermon, he made numerous and evident faults. I was surprised thereat, and spoke of it to the judge Hodjat-ed-deen, who answered, "In this city, there is no longer an individual who has any knowledge of grammar." This is an instruction for whoever reflects thereon, and let us praise God, who changes things and reverses the face of affairs! In fact, this city of Bassora, the inhabitants whereof had obtained preëminence in grammar, which there had its origin and received its development,--this city, which gave to the world the master of this noble science, whose priority no one contests,--does not now possess a single preacher who pronounces the Sunday sermon according to grammatical rules!

'The mosque has seven minarets, one of which, according to the belief of the inhabitants, shakes whenever the name of Ali, son of Abou Talib, is invoked. I ascended to the terrace (roof) of this mosque, accompanied by one of the men of Bassora. There I saw, at one of the corners, a piece of wood nailed to the minaret, and resembling the handle of a mason's trowel. He who was with me took hold of it, saying, "By the head of the prince of believers, Ali, shake thyself!" Therewith he shook the handle, and the minaret trembled. In turn, I placed my hand upon it, and I said to the man, "And _I_ say, by the head of Abou Bekr, successor to the Ambassador of God, shake thyself!" Therewith I shook the handle, and the minaret trembled as before. The people were very much astonished.' The amanuensis, Ibn Djozay, here interpolates the following remark: 'I have seen, in a town in the valley of Almansura, in Spain,--which may God defend!--a tower which shakes without the name of a caliph, or anybody else, being mentioned.'

At the city of Idhedj, in Irak, then the capital of one of the many Mongol sultans who at that time reigned in southern Persia, Ibn Batuta gives another proof of his boldness. Calling upon the Sultan Afrasiab, who was notorious for his drunken and dissolute habits, the traveler found him seated upon a divan, with two covered vases--one of gold and one of silver--before him. A green carpet was brought and placed near him, upon which the traveler was invited to take his seat, after which the sultan asked him many questions concerning his travels. 'It seemed to me, however,' says Ibn Batuta, 'that he was quite intoxicated, for I had been previously apprized of his habit of giving himself up to drink. Finally, he said to me in Arabic, which he spoke with elegance. "Speak!" I said to him, "If thou wouldst listen to me, I would say to thee--Thou art one of the children of Sultan Ahmed, celebrated for his piety and devotion; there is no cause of reproach to thee, in thy manner of life, except _that_!" and I pointed with my finger to the two vases. These words covered him with shame, and he was silent. I wished to withdraw, but he ordered me to keep my seat, and said, "It is a mark of the Divine mercy to meet with such as thou!" Afterwards, seeing that he swayed from side to side, and desired to sleep, I left him. I had placed my sandals at the door, and could not find them again. The Fakir Fadhill sought for them in the hall, and at last brought them to me. His kindness embarrassed me, and I made apologies. Thereupon he kissed my sandals, placed them upon his head, in token of respect, and said to me, "May God bless thee! What thou hast said to our sultan, nobody else would have dared to say. I hope it will make an impression on him!"'

Continuing his journey to Ispahan and Shiraz, he gives us, as usual, conscientious accounts of the mosques, priests, and holy men, but no hint whatever as to his manner of travel, or the character of the country through which he passed. This portion of his work, however, contains many interesting historical fragments, relating to the reigns of the Mongol sultans of Persia, and the dissensions between the two Moslem sects. After a stay of some length at Shiraz, he returned through Irak to the celebrated city of Cufa, and thence to Bagdad, which was then the residence of a simple Mongol prince. Here he describes at length the mosques, colleges, mausoleums and baths, while Ibn Djozay takes occasion to introduce his favorite quotations from the poets. The reader, we think, will find the following more picturesque than the somewhat formal descriptions of Ibn Batuta:--