University of Virginia Library

LEARNING:

A DIALOGUE BETWEEN DICK AND NED.

THE day was sullen, bleak, and wet,
When Dick and Ned together met
To waste it in a friendly chat,
And much they talk'd of this and that;
Till many a question wisely stated,
And many a knotty point debated,
From topic still to topic turning,
They fall at length on Books and Learning:
Then each with eagerness displays
His eloquence, to give them praise.
Far in their eulogy they launch,
And scan them o'er in ev'ry branch;
Thus, th' excellencies making known
Of Learning, slyly show their own.
Here Dick (who often takes a pride
To argue on the weaker side)
Cries, Softly, Ned, this talk of learning
May hold with men in books discerning;
Who boast of what they call a taste,
But for all else we run too fast;
For lay but prejudice aside,
And let the cause be fairly try'd,
What is the worth of any thing,
But for the happiness 'twill bring?
And that, none ever would dispute,
Is only found in the pursuit;
For if you once run down your game,
You frustrate and destroy your aim:
He, without doubt, pray mark me, Ned,
Has most to read, who least has read;
And him we needs must happiest find,
Whose greatest pleasure is behind.—
Ned, who was now 'twixt sleep and wake,
Stirr'd by this argument to speak,
Full aptly cry'd, With half an eye
Your far-fetcht sophistry I spy;
Which, ne'er so subtlely disputed,
By two plain words shall be confuted:
To give your reasoning due digestion,
I first affirm you beg the question.
Learning's a game, which, who attains,
A great and worthy pleasure gains;
Not light and transient like the chace,
But stable with unfading grace.
There are, indeed, who are so idle,
They leave all emprize in the middle;
Nor for reflection read or comment,
But just to kill the present moment:
These hunt romances, tales, and hist'ries,
As men pursue a common mistress,
Who when once caught but moves their loathing,
And well if she 's not worse than nothing;
But those of steady, serious life,
Know there 's no pleasure like a wife;
And such the wise true learning find
A lasting help-mate to their mind.—
Good sir, quoth Dick, and made a leg,
I say 'tis you the question beg.
Your similies of wife and mistress
Will serve your argument to distress.
If knowledge never was attain'd,
Which sages always have maintain'd,
Then knowledge cannot be a wife;
And you yourself conclude the strife.
You no less fallacy advance
'Gainst tales, and fables, and romance;
For I shall prove t'ye in the sequel,
That reading of all kinds is equal;
And none can serve a better end,
Than cheerfully our time to spend.
Nor is't of moment, gay, or serious,
But, as the readers minds are various,
Each please himself. You contradict
Philosophers of every sect,
Unless with them you will maintain
All human learning to be vain.
This, Socrates affirm'd of old,
And this our wisest moderns hold.
Therefore, if you have prov'd romances,
And such like, vain and idle fancies,
They've said the same of all the knowledge
I'th' sage and philosophic college.—
Ned was by this a little nettled:
Quoth he, This thing shall soon be settled;
With your own arguments disputed,
And you with your own weapons routed.
You hold the pleasure to consist
In the pursuit; this must exist
For ever you have eke maintain'd,
Asserting knowledge can't be gain'd;
By this you fairly overthrow
Your first position; for, if so,
How can it ever be agreed
Who least has read has most to read?
If ten miles upwards you could run,
Would you be nearer to the sun?
Or daily from the sea should drink,
Say would you ever find it shrink?
Men most delighted are, the fact is,
As they more skilful grow by practice;
This true in all we have concern in,
Much more is found to hold in learning.
Who various sciences has read,
Has made a store-house of his head;
And with him ever bears within
A large and plenteous magazine,
Whence he's secure to draw at leisure
All sorts of precious hoarded treasure:
Rich in ideas, ne'er shall he
A prey become to poverty;
And roaming free, his active mind
Can ne'er be fetter'd or confin'd;
Nor of dull solitude complain,
His thoughts, a cheerful social train:
For books of the superior kind
With just ideas fill the mind,
Nourish its growing youth, confirm
Its manhood: prop its age infirm:
Learning, our ev'ry step attends,
The best of pilots and of friends;
Assists our various ills to bear,
In fortunes adverse waves to steer;
How best in calmer hours to sail,
And how improve the prosp'rous gale.—
Alas! quoth Dick, mere puff and froth this is,
Which you advance for your hypothesis:
At best a well-laid theory;
No substance or reality;
Nor found with practice to agree.
Your scheme would be more true and ample,
If well supported by example.
But these all make against your system,
And therefore wisely you supprest 'em;
Not all your books can raise the mind
Above the weakness of mankind.
Zeno, of stoic reading vain,
Affirm'd there was no harm in pain.
Pyrrho would vaunt (but then he'd lie)
Indifference or to live or die.
Carneades oft spent his breath
T'inspire the bold contempt of death;
And once his wisdom did affect
So far to ape the stoic sect,
He thought he felt an inclination
To die, because it was the fashion.
Hearing Antipater (a wise one!)
Had kill'd himself by drinking poison,
He crys, resolv'd to do the same,
Give me—but what, forbears to name;
Then, baulking his expecting friends,
In mere mull'd wine this poison ends.
Not all his learning and wise reading,
Could Zeno's pupil keep from heeding
The rig'rous twinges of the stone,
Or but suppress one single groan;
Forc'd to own pain at length an evil,
And give his doctrine to the devil.
Thus these philosophers and leaders
Of various sects (profoundest readers)
From all their books could ne'er attain,
Death to contemn, or smile at pain;
And much less reap'd they joy or pleasure,
Their volumes yielding no such treasure.—
Ned, who now heartily was vext,
Began to stickle for his text;
Fairly, quoth he, examples cite,
We soon shall set this matter right;
But those you bring, tho' slyly pickt out,
And with all art and cunning trickt out,
'Tis plain to see you falsely vent 'em,
And speciously misrepresent 'em.
Tho' Dionysius did wince,
His master ne'er was known to flinch;
His other pupil, Posidonius,
Alone would prove your scheme erroneous.
When Pompey, who on purpose came
So far to hear this sage declaim,
Finding him on his sick bed laid,
And with severest pains assay'd,
Would fain have gone without his errant;
The steady stoic would not hear on't;
Began, and bravely held it out,
Amidst the torments of the gout;
Nor could avail th' acutest pang,
To stop or discompose th' harangue.
Could Epictetus, with such bravery,
Or Æsop, bear their painful slavery;
Unless by Learning's hand supported,
And that relief which Books afforded;
Whilst all their votaries have taught
That freedom dwells but in the thought.
Hence did Philoxenus desire
From the rich banquet to retire;
Chose rather back to gaol be hurried,
Than there with royal dulness worried:
His thoughts expatiating free
And undisturb'd with poetry;
Made bread and water more delicious
Than choicest feasts of Dionysius;
Proving no pain or thraldom worse is
Than slavishly to hear bad verses.—
Quoth Dick, 'Tis difficult to know
The truth of facts so long ago.
Writers enhance their hero's glory,
The better to set off their story;
And throw a varnish and a gloss over
Th' acts of their favourite philosopher.
You, of Philoxenus, advance
Mere folly, pride, and arrogance;
His reading made him no great winner,
That lost so foolishly his dinner.
Which is the wiser part d'ye think,
T'approve, and smile, and eat, and drink;
Or sourly criticisms mutter,
And quarrel with your bread and butter?
But if we find from books arise
This squeamish taste, more nice than wise,
'Tis happier sure, and wiser yet,
Ne'er to have learnt the alphabet:
Yet tho' I scruple not to grant
'Twas Learning made him arrogant,
I still must strenuously maintain
Indifference to death or pain
Proceeds from natural disposition,
More than from bookish acquisition.
Examples of your suff'ring sages
We find not five in fifteen ages.
Such volunteers in pain abound,
In parts where Books were never found.
To prove my words, if 'tis your hap
T'have pictures in't, consult your map;
There, Ned, a Brahmin may you see
Ty'd by the heels to post or tree;
From whence he reaches downward to make
A fire to roast his breast and stomach;
And this he ne'er abates or puts out,
Tho' it should burn his very guts out!
Yet this from Learning can't proceed,
For none of these can write or read.
Nor is the next a man of Letters,
Who's gall'd by those enormous fetters;
Nor yet is he a better Scholar,
Who groans beneath that iron collar.
Dan Prior's muse a case records,
And sweetly too, so take his words:
At Tonquin, if a prince should dye,
(As Jesuits write, who never lye,)
The wife, and counsellor, and priest,
Who serv'd him most and lov'd him best,
Prepare and light his funeral fire,
And cheerful on the pile expire.
In Europe 'twould be hard to find,
In each degree, one half so kind.
But why on European ground
Is no such instance to be found?
Say, does our learning or our reading
Fall so far short of Tonquin breeding?
But, as I said before, a case,
So far remov'd by time and place,
Is seldom faithfully related,
Or, in most points, exaggerated.
Let us by modern facts be try'd,
And not our ears, but eyes decide.
Consider but your nearest neighbour,
Mark well his ceaseless toil and labour;
Or fellow students at the College,
Who drudge both night and day for knowledge;
Are they for ten years poring better
Than if they 'd never known a letter?
This thumbs philosophers that teach
To be content is to be rich;
And finds, he thinks, with greatest rapture,
These riches grow with ev'ry chapter;
But sound his heart, you'll find it heaving
To college rents and future living:
This reads the Stoics, and from them
Learns all misfortunes to contemn.
But a bare nose, or finger's bleeding,
Shall countervail his ten years reading.
Do not most men more selfish grow,
And more reserv'd, the more they know?
And when they come to study less,
To promote others happiness,
They must, 'tis by experience shown,
Of consequence impair their own.
When Umbrio, fixt upon the skies
In absence, turns his musing eyes,
And never condescends t' afford,
But in a learn'd dispute, a word;
Can I persuade myself, that he
Is happier than his company?
Were it not better for a while
To lay his wisdom by, and smile,
And join with them to laugh and chat,
Altho' he cannot tell at what?
Yet he'll indulge these sullen fits,
And keep his mirth for brother wits:
Then let us follow him to these,
And see if he be more at ease.
No; soon again his pleasure fails,
He frowns, he yawns, he bites his nails;
And shews by discontented looks,
He wants to leave 'em for his books.
Pursue him to his country seat;
Is there his happiness complete?
With endless volumes fill'd the room,
Must needs dispel that sullen gloom:
In vain. Ere he an hour has sat,
Disliking this, and tir'd with that,
Some modern book augments his spleen,
Which th' Ancients can't take off again.
Impatient from himself to fly,
Shall he the field amusements try?
No; those a philosophic mind
Too barren pleasures needs must find.
Then shall he try his hours to spend
In chat with neighbouring country friend?
Lo! there his joys as vainly plac'd;
One knowledge wants, and one a taste,
This too reserv'd, that too affected,
Envy'd by this, by that suspected:
Poor Umbrio meets, at ev'ry turning,
Some sad reverse intail'd on learning;
And, tir'd o' th' country, back amain
Drives to be tir'd of town again.
Observe again, th' unletter'd brow
No frowns contract, no wrinkles plow;
See Bubo's front serenely sleek;
Chagrin ne'er wastes Aphronius' cheek;
Simplicius with eternal smile;
And Dullman ever found tranquil;
Prig with self-approbation blest;
While nought disturbs Asello's rest.—
Quoth Ned, I can no longer bear
Such overt falsities to hear;
Of arguments there is no end,
When with a sophist you contend;
Thy proofs all falsely are asserted,
Or else most wilfully perverted:
In this, as well as other countries,
Men drown and hang themselves upon trees;
Or, too displeas'd with this to bear it,
Leap into t'other world from garret.
Yet none in grave discourse, e'er thought
Such fit examples to be brought;
'Cause these from madness must proceed,
And those from poverty and need.
The sages I produced, ne'er sought
Their end or pain: their volumes taught
Neither to hasten death nor shun it,
But with indifference look upon it;
Nor ills to court nor yet to fear,
Whate'er Fate gave resign'd to bear:
From whence I proved beyond dispute,
That Learning bears the choicest fruit;
And plenteous harvests ever yields
To those who duly till her fields.
But you deny the truth, averring
Her soil not only cold but barren;
And the spontaneous idle weed
The cultivated crop t'exceed.
Now turn we to your happy Clan,
And their delights and pleasures scan;
See them returning from the field,
Their joys are o'er; the fox is kill'd;
How shall they pass the tedious night,
Till sport return with morning light?
From whence procure them recreation,
Nor sought from books or conversation?
The bottle, lo! their sole resort,
Oppressive thought they drown in port;
Or, with dear dice or cards beguile,
And shield them from themselves awhile.
Our gallants now to town repair;
What endless pleasures wait 'em there!
One half the day in sleep is past,
They study how the rest to waste;
Till drum or playhouse shall invite
To crown with happiness the night.
The dress, the valet, and the glass,
Help two long irksome hours to pass:
The dinner serves them to complain
Of taverns, waiters, cooks, champaign.
With joy they hear the house is full:
The play begins; 'tis grave, 'tis dull.
And two more hours their cruel fate
Ordains their happiness must wait.
Their patience now the drum rewards
With whispers, wax-lights, bows, and cards
Now, while at whist they take their seat,
Go ask them, are their joys complete!
Or wait they for some favourite vice;
Their girl, their bottle, or their dice?
Say, would you for a pattern chuse
Dullman, whose passion is the news?
Ne'er could the freedom of his mind
In prison'd volumes be confin'd;
In looser sheets is all his lore,
Free as the Sybil's leaves of yore.
He ne'er could on one science fix,
So fell perforce on politics;
In these he can descant as well
As any modern Machiavel:
Here little progress will enable
T' attack the deepest at the table.
Great is, I grant you, his delight,
When reading a retreat or fight,
Or sally or surprise, by the French meant
To storm the enemies entrenchment:
Or ships engaging with the Spaniard;
Or loss of mast by storm, or mainyard;
Or cargo sunk, or crew all drownded ;
Or spurious babe in Wapping found dead.
Or how the stubborn Dutch go on slow;
Or robb'ry on Blackheath or Hounslow.
But should they e'er restrain the press,
How great were Dullman's dire distress?
And should all Europe be at peace,
His pleasure totally must cease.
Let us from these now turn our eyes
Upon the man that's learn'd and wise:
You see him, from his early youth,
Taught the pursuits of heav'nly Truth:
In ev'ry season, ev'ry place,
He follows still the pleasing chace;
The nearer to the glorious prize,
It shines the brighter in his eyes:
And not alone in Books is found,
But ev'ry object all around.
He not the least of these disdains,
Or finds ungrateful to his pains.
But like the bee, from ev'ry flower
And ev'ry weed, with artful power
Collects alone the choicest juice,
And lays in store for future use.
Thus all things to improvement turning,
Still grows his pleasure with his Learning.