Every one says that geography is one of the most useful things that can
be learnt; yet nothing is learnt so ill, because nothing is taught so
ill. Look into any of the elementary books of geography, and read what
is said about England. First, we are told that it is divided into forty
counties; then, perhaps, follows an account of the several law circuits;
and then, after some short notices about religion, government, produce,
and manufactures, there are given lists of the chief towns, mountains,
rivers, and lakes. But all these things are given without any connexion
with each other, and it is a mere matter of memory to recollect what is
no more than a string of names. And if a man does recollect them, still
he is not much the wiser for them; he has got no clear and instructive
notions about the country, but has merely learnt his map, and knows
where to find certain names and lines upon it.
If we wish to know geography really, we must set about it in a very
different manner. Take one of the skeleton maps published by the Useful
Knowledge Society; there is not a single name upon them, nothing is
given but the hills and the rivers. These are the true alphabet of
geography. The hills are the bones of a country, and determine its form,
just as the bones of an animal do. For according to the direction of the
hills must be the course of the rivers: if the hills come very near the
sea, it makes the rivers very short and their course very rapid; if they
are a long way from the sea, it makes the rivers long and gentle. But
rivers of this latter sort are generally navigable, and become so large
near the sea as to be capable of receiving ships of large size. Here
then towns will be built, and these towns will become rich and populous,
and so will acquire political importance. Again, on the nature of the
hills depend the mineral riches of a country; if they are composed of
granite or slate, they may contain gold, silver, tin, and copper; if
they are composed of the limestone of Derbyshire or Durham, they are
very likely to have lead mines; if of the sand or gritstone of
Northumberland, Lancashire, and Yorkshire, it is probable that there
will be coal at no great distance. On the contrary, if they are made up
of the yellow limestone of Gloucestershire, Oxfordshire, and
Northamptonshire, or of chalk like the hills in Wiltshire, Berkshire,
and Hampshire, or of clay like those about London, it is quite certain
that they will contain neither coal, nor lead, nor any valuable mineral
whatsoever. But on the mineral wealth of a country, and particularly on
its having coal or not having it, depends the nature of the employment
of its inhabitants. Manufactories are sure to follow coal mines;
whereas, in all those districts of England where there is no coal, that
is, in all the counties to the south-east of a line drawn from the Wash
in Lincolnshire to Plymouth, there are, generally speaking, no
manufactories; but the great bulk of the people are employed in
agriculture.
Thus then on the direction and composition of the hills of a country
depend, first of all, the size and character of its rivers. On the
character of its rivers depend the situation and importance of its
towns, and its greater or less facilities for internal communication and
foreign trade. And again, on the composition of the hills depend the
employment of the people, their numbers on a given space, and in a great
degree their state of morals, intelligence, and political independence.
And here we have a reason for things, and see them connected with one
another in a manner at once easier to remember, and much more
satisfactory to understand when we do remember it. Some instances of
this, given in detail, may appear in one of our future numbers.
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_The Flower Garden_ (June).--It will now be time for you to take up
those bulbs, of which the leaves are nearly decayed. I can fix no
particular day for this operation; because, as the bulbs flower at
different seasons, so the leaves will decay in like manner; but the
general rule is, to take them up carefully as soon as the leaves have
turned yellow, and to lay them under a south wall to dry and ripen;
taking care to cover them with fine, dry, sandy earth, in layers, so
that they may not touch each other. When the leaves are quite decayed,
the bulbs must be removed, and spread again to dry under shelter of a
green-house, or in a room; and, finally, after cleaning them from the
dirt, take off their old coats, or skins, and put them away in bags, or
drawers, in a cool dry place, till they are wanted for replanting in the
autumn. I must here explain why bulbs are taken up every year: the great
object is in this, as in all other operations of gardening, to imitate
Nature; to make the existence of foreign plants as near as it can be to
what they enjoy in their native place. Tulips, hyacinths, and most of
those bulbs which are taken up, come from countries where the whole
summer is dry, and in winter the ground is covered with snow; the spring
rains alone call them into life and flower. Travellers describe whole
regions in Persia as being covered in the spring with enamelled carpets
of scilla (hyacinths), tulips, and other bulbous plants: long drought
succeeds the rains of spring, the leaves die away, and the plant rests
again under the dry earth till the following spring. As in our country
they can have no dry earth naturally to rest in during the summer, the
best imitation of it is to take up the bulb, which would otherwise be
rotted by the summer rains, or caused to grow in the autumn; in which
latter case, the plant would not flower in the spring, as the
flower-stalks would be killed by the wet and cold of winter, before it
came to the surface.
⁂ From ‘The Garden,’ a very agreeable and instructive book for children,
forming one of the volumes of a series called ‘The Little Library.’
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“_A little Learning is a dangerous Thing._”--Then make it greater. No
learning at all is surely the most dangerous thing in the world; and it
is fortunate that, in this country at least, it is a danger which cannot
possibly exist. After all, learning is acquired knowledge, and nothing
else. A man who can read his Bible has a little learning; a man who can
only plough or dig, has less; a man who can only break stones on the
road, less still, but he has some. The savages in one of the islands in
the South Sea, stood with great reverence round a sailor who had lighted
a fire to boil some water in a saucepan, but as soon as the water began
to boil, they ran away in an agony of terror. Compared with the savages,
there is no boy in Europe, of the age of ten years, who may not be
called learned. He has acquired a certain quantity of practical
knowledge in physics; and, as this knowledge is more than instinct, it
is learning; learning which differs in degree only from that which
enables a chemist to separate the simple metals from soda or potash.
The geographer Malte Brun remarks, that in many cities of the United
States, that which is called a mob scarcely exists. Now it will be found
that in these Cities education has been unstintedly bestowed upon all
classes, down to the very lowest.
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