The most ancient people spoken of by the Greek geographers appear to have been the Ethiopians. The accounts transmitted to us respecting them by Herodotus, Diodorus, and Strabo, especially, give us such clear proofs of their barbarism, that we may plausibly infer that their mode of life was too similar to what is now led by the wandering Tartars, to allow of their having paid any attention to geography. It may be questioned whether they generally had cities. It is vain therefore for us to speculate on their geographical nomenclature or the boundaries of their territories. There are few things more striking in ancient history than the records which we possess relative to the civilisation of the Egyptians. There is an occult sublimity about this people that may induce us to presume that, if the geography of their country was not generally known, it was laid down pretty systematically by their priests (in whom Egyptian civilisation seems almost wholly to have been centred) especially when we consider that Egypt was the nurse of geometry, and that astronomical knowledge attained there so high a pitch that the conjectures derived from the study of their monuments have inspired in the learned of our times no small degree of admiration. If, however, such documents ever existed, shut up in the gloomy corridors of the Memphian or Theban temples, we have no data as to the ancient divisions of the country previous to the Ptolemies. We know not what were the limits of the Thebais; and if we possessed the learning of a Jablonski or a Balbi, it would be fruitless to attempt to decide whether the more ancient Egyptian nomenclature was meagre or full, harmonious or harsh. The same obscurity is shed over the geography of the west of Africa before it was colonised by the Greeks and Romans, though it may be fair to presume that a pretty full, although extinct, nomenclature was applied from Rhinocorura to the Theon Ocheema by the Phoenician and Carthagenian navigators. But notwithstanding the barbarism which in this quarter of the globe seems almost insurmountable, many of the modern African names, whatever may be their origin, have something striking to the ear; and the grandeur of the torrid zone steals insensibly on our minds as we dwell on the words Madagascar, Gambia, Congo, and Senegal, with other places on that brilliant coast which the genius of Milton has darkened "With thunderous clouds from Serra Leona." The valuable information respecting ancient Persia which we derive from Herodotus, Xenophon, and geographers attached to the brilliant expedition of Alexander, prove that science was sedulously cultivated amongst the more ancient Persians. The modern nomenclature of Persia has something agreeable and poetic to the ear. The broad pronunciation of a, common to the oriental nations, adds a noble expression to their language; and perhaps something more than the charm of the poetry of Hafiz makes us dwell with pleasure on the words Ispahaun, Teheraun, Schirauz, and Rocknabaud. The Turkish geographical names, being often but corruptions of the Greek, are amongst the least striking of those of the oriental nations. The Armenian are nobler and more indigenous. The nomenclature of Hindostan is sonorous and expressive; and the useful researches of Rennel have left little to be desired so far as regards the divisions of the modern provinces. It would be absurd to hazard conjectures on the pronunciation of the names or boundaries of the provinces before the expedition of Alexander. The scientific men who accompanied that conqureror were indeed lavish enough of names to flatter his vanity. Thus we have numerous Alexandrias scattered from Samarcand to the Mediterranean. His dog and horse, too, gave titles to new cities. But whatever may have been the dialects and geography of ancient India, the nomenclature of the modern is admirable. The English settlers have not disfigured it by transplanting St Neots, St Giles, and St Botolph to the banks of the sacred Ganges and "fabulous" Hydaspes; and a thousand brilliant and agreeable ideas of the magnificence of the East sport before our imagination as we dwell on the words Benares, Delhi, Agra, Gunga, Jumna, Lahore, and Golconda. The same observation will pretty generally apply to the nomenclature of the Indian Archipelago. But of all languages, the Chinese, to European ears at least, is the worst adapted to shed dignity over geography, history, and poetry. The divisions, however, of the country are far from being bad, and the provinces, though vast, are often well defined by those best of boundaries, mountains, seas, and rivers. But the nasal bagpipe dialect of the Chinese effectually excludes all dignity from their geographical dictionary, and the lover of euphony must regret to find that such names as Whang-ho and Yangtse-Kiang have been bestowed on two of the noblest streams of our globe-streams fitly named for Voltaire's King Quincum and King Quancum to navigate in their junks. The Grecian nomenclature bears that stamp of superiority which characterises the Greeks, to whatsoever department of science and art they directed their minds. The principal defect of the Grecian nomenclature is that heedless repetition of the same names which we have called the poison of geography; and the multitude of Apollonias, Heracleas, and Alexandrias perplex to this hour students and commentators. The geographical titles of the Roman Republic betray the manly and severe character of the people which they designate. The Senate does not appear to have troubled itself with prescribing exact limits to the territories of the tribes which it successively conquered; and Augustus appears only to have divided Italy into eleven regions to make that division speedily disregarded. Such, however, was the influence of Rome, so impressive is her literature, so much did she effect for geography, if not by survey, at least by her activity in founding and naming colonies, that her geographical nomenclature ought certainly to be reckoned among the main bulwarks of her posthumous grandeur. The names of modern Italy partake of that harmony which forms the leading feature of the most musical dialect of modern Europe. But that country having been the scene of more political contentions than any other, its provinces have been necessarily subjected to greater change and uncertainty. The frequent repetitions of ecclesiastical names are the great defect of the Italian nomenclature, for that desire of deifying not only mortals, but cities, mountains, and rivers, is so inherent in the Vatican that we often see the same saint extending his too zealous patronage to a dozen different places, for the edification indeed of those who are not of this world, but for the sad perplexity of those who attend to geography in this. The Russian nomenclature is the best amongst the northern nations. The European governments are well defined, and the chief towns of each are pretty generally central. The chief defect is the immoderate length of the names, a full half of which indicate but little more than a log post-house and shed for horses. Whoever has traversed the southern steppes must often have smiled on finding a high-sounding Velocherkovka or Alexandrovskaia turn out nothing better. But the rivers of the country are majestic, and generally have names expressive of their grandeur. It is pleasant to pursue in imagination the Kama pouring its noisy stream among woods of weeping birch, the Lena, the Irtish, and the Yenissei losing their mighty floods in arctic darkness, and the Selenga, destined to flow in a happier clime, blending its crystal waters with those of the Baikal Sea. The Swedish nomenclature partakes of the uncouthness of the German, but there are some names that have a classical eloquence, such as Upsala and Dalecarlia. Yet we know not if a certain harshness of dialect does not correspond with the sublimity of arctic regions; and we love to imagine the sun several digits above the horizon at midnight from the rocks of Avasaxa, the Glom winding its course among gloomy forests of fir, and the waters of Tolhaëtta tortured into foam by irregular granitic strata. We cannot collect from the researches of Florez and others that any geographical divisions of Spain existed previous to its conquest by the Romans. No nomenclatures are better than the modern Spanish, and though the divisions of the provinces are often unsatisfactory, few strangers can have visited that country without feasting their minds with numerous recollections of its antique grandeur, as they dwell on the title of Zamora, Zaragoza, Medina Sidonia, Granada, Cordoba, and Miranda del Ebro. The Portuguese dialect being a corruption of the Spanish, its geographical names cannot be put into competition with those of Spain; but the provinces appear to be better laid down, though we could well spare another Estremadura. With regard to the new world, the indigenous nomenclature is generally grand and expressive. Confusion, however, must occur, detrimental to the simplicity of Geography, by the insertion of the Spanish names, which, if they were only once repeated, might not occasion much perplexity, but when we see a full dozen of Santiagos, and a host of other saints from the Catholic Calendar repeated even to nausea from California to Cape Horn, the future historiographers of those countries will have occasion for much circumspection to make themselves understood. No river is more nobly titled than the Orinoco. Several of its palm-crowned islets, glowing with ananas in the midst of the cataracts, are also well named by the Ottomacos, as the Suripamana and Javariveni. The career of this giant flood through those deserts of supreme repose derives additional celebrity from the eloquent pen of Humboldt. But the titles of the river of the Amazons are various and confused. Some style it the Orellana, others the Maranhaon. It would be well if future chart engravers would abide by the name given by its first discoverers, Rio de las Amazones, or the River of the Amazons. Imagination, moreover, loves to picture bands of female warriors (whose existence, though probably exaggerated, seems to have been believed by Condamine) starting from its magnificent forests, and brandishing their lances and targets on its banks. Several of the Peruvian names are also good, and the sonorous titles of Tequendama, Illinissa, and Chimborazo have been conferred on three of the most striking objects of our globe. The Brazilian and Mexican dialects appear to us almost unpronounceable, yet the dignity of geography would prefer the Tocantines, Tehuantepec, and Acapulco to that multitude, of Senoras de les Dolores, Natividades, and Concepciones, which have been conceived and brought forth for those regions. The indigenous nomenclatures of the Iroquois, Hurons, and Algonquins, as applied to the Canadas and contiguous regions, have something wild and expressive. Who does not prefer the noisy Cadaraqui to the tortured St Lawrence, and the Saskashawan to Cat or Stinking lakes? The same observation will apply to the geographical titles of the United States. The Mississippi, the Missouri, the Arkansas, the Susquehannah, the Raritan, the Monongahela, the Altama, celebrated by Goldsmith, and the Alleghanies, are national names fitted to dignify the pages of the future Macaulays, Scotts, and Byrons of the country. Several of the provinces are also elegantly named, as Pennsylvania, Carolina, and the Floridas. But the migration of settlers from so many countries of the Old World, and their heedless repetitions of European names, often, too, of an absurd and vulgar cast, render the nomenclature of the United States, upon the whole, one of the worst in the world. Never was such an olla podrida dished up for geographers; for a stranger travelling here may breakfast at Rochester, dine at the national village of Canandaguaia, and think of Hannibal at Carthage, by the great falls of the Genessee. He will presently encounter new Huntingdons, Versailles, and Greenwiches; he may discuss the merits of the Iliad with Melesigenes himself at Homer; he may sip tea, or enter a steam-boat, with the Mantuan bard at Virgil; quaff grog with Cincinnatus at his great farm on the Ohio; and finally give Calvin and Wesley a fraternal embrace, and bid adieu to Pyrrho, at a pseudo-Bethlehem and a pseudo-Nazareth. The chief drawback from the merit of that fine expedition to the sources of the Missouri is the contemptible nomenclature which the travellers carried out with them; and the future Popes of those regions will, it is to be feared, be but ill inspired by the Naiads of the Big and Little Dry Rivers. But it is vain to quibble about the genius of languages: we must take them as we find them. Navigators, however, ought carefully to refrain from crowding our charts with those numerous King George's, King William's, Queen Charlotte's, Prince Edward's, etc., which are so profusely scattered over the promontories, rivers, gulfs, and sounds of the Pacific Ocean, and which are frequently so multiplied as not only to embarrass geographers but also the masters of merchant-men resorting to those seas. Neither let the discoverers imagine that their merits will be diminished by the adoption of a different system of nomenclature from that which they have hitherto generally followed; for a system that shuns repetitions, will redound more to their credit, than the gratification of their personal vanity, by ascribing their own names to what land or water they may discover. FRAGMENT OF A HEROIC POEM ON "THE BATTLE OF BANNOCKBURN." FROM THE MS. OF THE LATE JOHN STEPHEN, ESQ., ARCHITECT, GLASGOW. [Scene before King Edward's Tent on the Morning of the Battle.] FROM his pavilion, freshly shrived with priestly rites and charms, Ah, passing fell the leopard's whelp must wantonly have been, Unmanly in his loves, and vain, and frivolous as a girl; Yet pants his soul for patriot blood!--for this God's vengeance saith, |