Accounts of travel fall broadly into two classes. The first are those records of explorations undertaken for the sake of scientific information. Such accounts are under obligation to be absolutely accurate in minor as well as in major matters, and are to be respected first and enjoyed afterward, if, by a rare chance, the scientist is an artist as well as a geographer. The second class consists of those accounts of travel which are read for pleasure and for general information rather than for exact data, which interest us in the traveler as much as in his travels, and which are distinctly literary because of the personal comments, reactions, and reflections of the author. This does not mean that such books are not accurate within the limits of their purpose, but, rather, that accuracy alone is not sufficient to qualify a book for a place on this list. The account must be true to the country described, but need not haggle over details in the experience of the writer. To alter geographical facts or details of climate would make the author ridiculous, but to open with the most picturesque approach to the spot whether or not that is the way in which he actually entered it for the first time is to serve the reader as he has a right to demand. To trail a frowsy party of tourists through many pages because they dogged the author’s footsteps is unkind, but to introduce a purely imaginary companion whose comments and store of information add pleasure is perfectly in keeping with the task in hand. It seems almost unnecessary to say that the first requirement for writing successful travel sketches is to be a good traveler. An honest pleasure and a swinging readiness in meeting the chances of the road must somehow become apparent in the writing, not, indeed, by protestations of delight, but rather through the tone of zestful appreciation of new flavors in living. A pessimist or a misanthrope may be endured among the comforts of home, but no one chooses him as a traveling companion either in the flesh or on paper. The distinguished foreigner whose record of his experiences with American trains is a tirade against the inconvenience of shaving on a Pullman exemplifies the lack of that urbanity, the presence of which so delights us in Mr. Street’s account of his adjustment to Japanese customs and conveniences. It is not necessary, of course, that all discomforts be denied or suppressed for the sake of a Polly-Anna-ish happiness--such experiences are a part of almost all travel, but they must be treated with that good grace with which all of us wish to endure the pin pricks of existence both at home and abroad.