he is made to appear very nimble, and has a
fondness, partial to himself, of getting into rather thorny places. What
led him into those dangerous places we have very little chance of
knowing. "He was wondrous wise," saith the poet, and forsooth he jumps
into a bramble-bush, the last place in the world where a _wise_ man is
to be found. But then, perhaps, a tincture of irony flew from our poet's
pen; the hero was wise in his own esteem, perhaps; or was wise in the
opinion of his friends, whose wisdom seemed to be consummated in doing
something ridiculous.

It is very fortunate for the social welfare of community that all its
actions should not be sublime. Mankind would become too serious and
morose and cynical, and life would be a burden. The ridiculous makes it
enjoyable, but at the expense of those who cause the ridicule. Man
_must_ laugh, no matter what the cost to the object laughed at.

Ordinary intelligence would have decided the fate of the wise individual
who found no other use for his eyes but to scratch them out in a
bramble-bush. But our poet dealeth otherwise with his portraits. He
shows us the fate of an overwrought, badly instilled wisdom; yet when
that wisdom has been deserted by its cause, the promptings of a heart,
pure at the core, hold up to contempt the mad teachings of the sophist.

"When he saw what he had done,"

continues the poet, in a sense not entirely literal, for reasons which
are not necessary to be explained, this man of wondrous wisdom saw that
he had been made a dupe. Cunning as a fox were his would-be friends; but
having got him to the bush, there they let him gambol as he would,
ensnaring him to his own almost utter ruin.

A new light flashes upon his brain; his folly appears plainly to his
mind; he had ruthlessly deserted his fond parents; sought evil counsel;
was deserted by his false friends; and was now in a deplorable condition
indeed. Remorse sometimes brings repentance; at least it did in this
case. Our hero remembered the good teachings of his early youth; and,
like the prodigal son, was willing to return to the home of his fathers.
True, he was in a bramble-bush; but, _similia similibus curantur_
(which, interpreted, signifies, "You tickle me and I'll tickle you").

"He jumped into another bush,"

found his eyes as they were before his sad catastrophe, and without
ceremony returned them to their places, by another operation of
scratching.

What more need be sa