There are some things that speak for themselves. In attempting to understand Champlain's character, we are first met by the fact that he pursued unflinchingly his appointed task. For thirty-two years he persevered, amid every kind of hardship, danger, and discouragement, in the effort to build up New France. He had personal ambitions as an explorer, which were kept in strict subordination to his duty to the king. He possessed concentration of aim without fanaticism. His signal unselfishness was adorned by a patience which equalled that of Marlborough. Inspired by large ideals, he did not scorn imperfect means. Thus there are certain large aspects of Champlain's character that stand forth in the high light of deed, and do not depend for their effect either upon his own words or those of others. But when once we have paid tribute {138} to the fine, positive qualities which are implied by his accomplishment, we must hasten to recognize the extraordinary value of his writings as an index to his mind and soul. His narrative is not an epic of disaster. It is a plain and even statement of great dangers calmly met and treated as a matter of course. Largely it is a record of achievement. At points where it is a record of failure Champlain accepts the inevitable gracefully and conforms his emotions to the will of God. The _Voyages_ reveal a strong man 'well four-squared to the blows of fortune.' They also illustrate the virtue of muscular Christianity. At a time which, like ours, is becoming sated with cleverness, it is a delight to read the unvarnished story of Champlain. In saying that the adjective is ever the enemy of the noun, Voltaire could not have levelled the shaft at him, for few writers have been more sparing in their use of adjectives or other glowing words. His love of the sea and of the forest was profound, but he is never emotional in his expressions. Yet with all his soberness and steadiness he possessed imagination. In its strength and depth his enthusiasm for colonization proves this, even if we omit his picture of the fancied Ludovica. But {139} as a man of action rather than of letters he instinctively omits verbiage. In some respects we suffer from Champlain's directness of mind, for on much that he saw he could have lingered with profit. But very special inducements are needed to draw him from his plain tale into a digression. Such inducements occur at times when he is writing of the Indians, for he recognized that Europe was eager to hear in full detail of their traits and customs. Thus set passages of description, inserted with a sparing hand, seemed to him a proper element of the text, but anything like conscious embellishment of the narrative he avoids--probably more through mere naturalness than conscious self-repression.