Near and Far (Blunden)/The Geographer's Glory

by Edmund Blunden

THE GEOGRAPHER'S GLORY,

or, The Globe in 1730.

The Geographer's Glory,
or, The Globe in 1730

When through the windows buzzed the way-lost beeInto a drowsy room that held no honey,Whose solemn clock surveyed the merry swarmOf boys intent on chapbook and fools' tricks,At length the old Geographer resumedHis desk; when several close observers notedSigns that his late reappearance might be dueTo a well-met friend, and the cheerful bottle to give him.Meanwhile the master, laying down his hat,His gold-laced hat, and tossing his wig's three tails,Poising a quill, and letting it fall to the floor,Replacing his hat, caressing a small Globe,Saddling his nose, descanted thus:Saddling his nose, descanted thus:"Boys, boys,I must desire you'll ever pay respectTo our most ripe, most profitable theme,The Globe, and grammar of Geography.It is a mine, exceeding rich Peru,And, though some owlish critics dub it dry,Exceeds for banquet-like varietyThe City feast. Observe this Globe. My lads,The vast terraqueous ball whereon we dwell, And here with newest nicety represented,Is full of wonders, which our countrymenAnd others of congenial qualityHave with much circumstance of truth reported.—Away, ye flies; back to Beelzebub.—I, yes, as I was saying, this grand GlobeIs full of wonders. While the pallid herdOf Græcians limit their pedantic gazeTo some prodigious nominativus pendens,Or harry some Athenian cobblet's ghost,Let us imbibe—I say, let us imbibeFull draughts from our true Arethusan fountains.

As I, this very moment, sit in London(And do not know where I could sit more gladly)I scan the extended masterpiece of Earth:By this Globe's use we readily determineThe hour when the Great Mogul sits to dineIn India, or the Czar in Muscovy.This Globe assures me, there's a place on EarthWhere, though the air blows pure, the genius lociIs such that no two friends can there continueIn mutual love and friendship for two minutes.O sad amazement, should two noble youths(Collins for instance and—you, you rascal Hargrave)Of virtue and of studious parts, who longShared the same attic, pored on the same map, Be shipwrecked there!        Now in the South of China,A certain city's numerous populationBoth male and female, though they use the gaitThat commonly is used in Paul's Church-Yard,Appear to strangers walking on their heads,Inverted. O, but one of many marvels.Blest be the Globe! O that the Lord would grant meBefore I die a journey into Denmark,There to survey the famous Globes in Gottorp,And honour Tycho Brahe. But less cheerlyWould I in New Castile draw near that LakeWhich in presentiment of hurricanoesRaves at the sky, and howls man on to doom.These truths surpass all fiction; yet truth bidsI should not daub where she herself is plain.You have heard high legends of the Elysian Fields,The poets' vaunted theme; but, in the fa&,They ate an ordinary plot of ground,Where higglers tie the goat or panniered ass,Near Naples.        I must, in parenthesis,Observe, that the opening mind's credulityStands in much danger from these plaguy poets.Avoid their siren song, boys; learn betimesTo shun the glittering counterfeit of rhymes. Thus freed the maze of error, forth we roveOn our grand tour of reason and delight;Whether to pause among the holy relicsOf Palestine, and view the cave and fountainWhence great St. John emerged with burning eyeTo make the greater Prophet's pathway plain,Or find each several scene of that high SufferingBy which we hope at length to inhabit heaven.Truth §till shall guide us; even at Scanderoon,Though Jonah's Pillar be alleged the placeWhere the vast Fish disgorged the man of grief,We must reserve some doubt. Yet, did we yieldEntire persuasion there, our fault were lessThan what some dreaming ancients make, who'd holdThe Whale swam round one quarter of the WorldWithin three sunsets.           O most crude Excess,Base Non-Geography, ye weeds of life,And obstinate as Jews, who would not hearThe Joyful Gospel first announced to themBy Christ with musical appeal, heard not,Saw not, and keep their stiff necks to this day.

Still as we go, the teeming mind of HeavenSupplies each query, and wonder walks with use:Our trees, in temperate Britain, that embowerNoble estates, and cool the alehouse bench,Become those wooden walls that Spain respects, And leafy rustling grows the Lion's roaring.To several regions, several trees; there's oneIn Mexico, where shops are few, that givesHoney and vinegar, water, oil and wine—Its limpid liquor passes as all theseBy shrewd contrivance. Mark as well, my lads,That on Molucca coast, where the burnt airProposes to sea-captains strong desireFor stronger liquor, there the moral CloveAbounds, rich cargo; virtuous to absorbWhatever wine it neighbours. Whence it chancesThat often some bold boatswain, fondly drawnTowards the insidious hogshead, bawling hymns,Stops, Stares, Starts, rages at the emptied $tore,And sees too late the bags of Cloves beside.Him I may liken to the Java treeThat, at the rising of the sun, lets fallIts midnight buds, and in the heat all dayStands melancholy in a funeral robe.

But time contracts my amphitheatre,Time, that consumed even Nineveh, the mawTo which even this our City is a morsel.I know no monster in the world like himFor hunger, wildness and sad speech; not one.And yet there dwells in Ethiopian poolsA creature with a sighing dolorous toneOf which report is full; the sweetest sorrowFills the air there, beyond Amara's mountain, And Nubia with her poisons; those, alas,May be the sources of that custom whenThe Emperor of MonomotapaWill drink. He takes his glass; the complete CourtAt once set up prayers for him with a VoiceSo loud, that all the neighbourhood arousedRepeat the same, and on and on it soundsTill the whole empire like a tempest swellsIts supplication for the monarch's tankard.

Such truths we owe to blest Geography,That's certain as the magnet and the pole,And by this learning we may scare aloofAll horned Chimeras and vile Fallacies,May know the world, and be the richest in it,And keep the flag of Britain on the mastsOf thundering navies."Of thundering navies."This great accent reached,He paused, and nodded. The clock ticked, the flyWalked round the Globe; till he, with sudden shock,Struck with a silence, rubbed his eyes to findThe audience gone, plainly to view at onceUnder his universal inspirationThose fruitful wonders of the natural world