CANTO V. (Cuz', I've related all these visions)

Cuz', I've related all these visions, To help our logical decisions; From which I can't but draw conclusion, That all is chaos and confusion: That I'm as well convinc'd each night As the next day, that I am right: In walking can no more confide Than when on "wings of winds I ride." The consequence of which I take, is, That, whether man asleep or 'wake is, His happiness, whate'er it seem, Is full as false as any dream. How often, pray, are we mistaken, When we conclude we're really waking? How often does each simple bustard Firmly believe rice-pudding custard? And is not ev'ry term that's us'd, Still, liable to be abus'd? A relative that has no standard, That may mean rear, when it says van-guard? What you intend by sweet and sour, By short and long, by day and hour, Are but significant, and true, When felt by me as felt by you. You may affirm the ven'son sweet, I swear it is not fit to eat. Some liquorice love, and others lacker Their grinders with quid of tobacco. Your birds of passage fly, with ease, From land to land, across the seas; From Dover Cliff to th' church at Dieppe, Your swallows say is but a step; But ask a snail, or slow-worm, either, How long they'd be in crawling thither. In Lapland, if I'm told aright, Summer is day, and Winter night: Then how can you in terms be clear, If half a day be half a year? Whatever may be said at college, SENSATION is the source of knowledge; Our tongue, eyes, nose, and ears perceptive, Taste, colour, smell, and sound make captive: These bring the various wares they deal in, And stock their great emporium FEELING; But then they're all so curst conceited, They everlastingly are cheated: Are so deceiving, and deceiv'd, They ne'er deserve to be believ'd; So simple are, and void of art, They'll take the veriest juggler's part; Wou'd Breslaw help, them to trepan, Sir, Then hang him for a necromancer.

William, whose tongue began to itch, Thought he, who such attention paid To ev'ry thing Sir Thomas said, Might be allow'd to make a speech; Then, with a look a little sly, Return'd the Knight this answer dry.

Men, Sir, may play you very odd tricks, Who have but small skill in dioptrics; Ev'n I, here, simple as I stand, Can make the shadow of my hand Spread over many a rood of land; For, place a candle out, at night, Your trav'ler, oft, its twinkling light Will fix his distant, longing eyes on, While it illumes the whole horizon. But let me curve my hand around it, The light's all lost, and who hath found it? Why, Sir, my hollow palm, 'tis plain, Doth miles and miles of light contain; And, most ungenerous too, doth hide The weary wand'rer's hope and guide.

By which you mean to hint, no doubt, I've put your farthing candle out; Or at the best, my cousin comrade, What light you have I would obumbrate. But I can prove, by reading Clerkly, From Leibnitz, Malbranche, Bayle, and Berkley, Things far more strange, friend Will, than these; Can prove, whenever you shall please, The mite is larger than the cheese. That, howsoever you suppose, You do not walk behind your nose; That there's not water, in the sea, Enough to make a dish of tea; That, when he drinks, your guzzling sot Don't touch the handle, or the pot; Nay, more, can prove, without your candle, There's neither drink, sot, pot, or handle.

Your Philomath, with philology, Quoth Will, I grant, doth often dodge ye At hide and seek, Sir, intellectual, To make your errors more effectual; 'Mong A's and B's so snug will hide him, Tho' you look near him, and beside him, Tho' fifty times you've round him gallop'd, So close, in mystery, he's invellop'd, That, tho' by hearing him, you wind him, The devil a bit, Sir, can you find him. My understanding so obtuse is, I own, I cannot find the uses Of all these arguments, to shew We nothing are, and nothing know. Were oracles by Wisdom utter'd, Still we must think our bread is butter'd, Whatever Sceptics may imagine us, When tongue and fingers are ol'aginous; And, for this part o'th' argument, I quote from you, Sir, precedent; "These things, to us, are not ideal, With Fancy every thing is real." For, what to me, Sir, would it matter, Altho' my wine were really water, If, as it trickled down my gullet, It gave me mirth, and pleas'd my palate? Nay, sure, Sir, 'twould be very rude, Or worse, 'twould be ingratitude, If, while I drink it, at your table, I should affirm 'twere nought but fable. Your learned folks are, oft, such fools, And know so little of their tools, When they chop logic, silly elves, They're apt to hack and hew themselves. Whence some deduce, from proofs like these, That ign'rance is a blest disease; That he who after knowledge lingers But grasps a flame, and burns his fingers; And his ambitious folly shews, Like whelps that yelp, and run at crows.

Hark you, friend Will, you're last suggestion Is quite on my side of the question. Since ignorance is despicable, And makes, who has it, one o'th' rabble: And learning is, still, something worse; You've form'd one comprehensive curse, More vast, and certain to engulph us, Than that erst utter'd by Ernulphus.

The more we search, the more we find, We're feeble, foolish, vain, and blind; This only certain seems to be, We're all absurd uncertainty. Our joys are false, and false our tears, False are our hopes, and false our fears. Our pleasure, like the rainbow, shews Then only beauteous when not close; Tho', glorious in its shining birth, It seems to reach from heav'n to earth, Approach to touch it, and you'll see 'Twill vanish in nonentity!

I own, said Will, I'm at a loss, You press the point so very close; You scarely can be contradicted, Yet I don't wish to be convicted; For, tho' with you I cannot cope, So much my int'rest 'tis to hope The joys my young imagination Foretold should follow, in rotation, Each after each, as life advances, Were truths,—I'm loth to think them trances.

But, granting all as false and vain As meteors, caus'd by sun and rain, Tho' active pleasures should beguile 'em, Men may in passive find asylum. YOU, Sir, whose well-provided boat, Blest Independence keeps afloat, While she thus condescends to steer, What tempests have YOU, Sir, to fear? She, with expert and jocund crew, Weathers all winds that ever blew. Should tow'ring Pride contemptuous think her, And make her strike, It could not sink her; Malice may shoot, but cannot shake her; Lame Poverty can ne'er o'ertake her; While Labour, Learning, Genius, all Are ever ready at her call; Happy, by her, to be employ'd, Thrice happy if, by her, enjoy'd.

From whence you argue, Cousin Will, At least, we're easy, when we're still. That, when kind heav'n has sent us meat, We've only to sit down and eat. But, when the passions are in chace, It, then, may prove a silly race. Like as the hind-legs of a hound May run o'er many a league of ground To catch the fore—but they're mistaken— When they lie down they're overtaken. Whence, I conjecture, you profess That apathy is happiness; That he, whose wishes breed no riot, Is comfortable, good, and quiet.

To such a one I'd grant, at most, He's just as happy as a post. His goodness, likewise, be it said, Is like a wife's without her head; Who, tho' her humours never teize you, Her kisses are not like to please you: For she, 'tis held, who has no mouth, Will neither kiss, nor quench her drowth.

For this, friend William, I contend, Better had man his being end, And die at once, since die he must, Than, with inanity, to rust. Better, than thus to mope and doze, Feel pangs from fingers down to toes. Better, than thus to sit hum drum, Like country schoolmaster become, Who hammers at each stupid cub, To teach him ab, eb, ib, ob, ub— And, midst a squawling, wrangling crew, Doth everlastingly pursue His d—d dull ba, be, bi, bo, bu.