There was a man in our town, and he was wondrous wise,
He jumped into a bramble bush and scratched out both his eyes;
And when he saw what he had done, with all his might and main,
He jumped into another bush, and scratched them in again.
Some people have a very curious way of doing things. Nowadays when the
world has advanced by prodigious strides almost to the limit of
civilization, and having no further to go, is debating within itself
whether it shall lie down and take a rest, a man don't go to so much
trouble to have his eyes out. The age is a fast one, you know; so, when
the man feels like having his glims doused, he just jumps into the midst
of a crowd of real b'hoys, runs his head, good-naturedly, you know,
against a pair of knuckles, and the business is settled with "neatness
and despatch," as the job-printers say.
How different our poet's description. He must have been a man of
wonderful experience; and foresight, let us add, since from his simple
yet wonderfully powerful sketches there is gained an insight into all
the mysterious workings of humanity, from the lulling of the babe in the
cradle, the ruthless disruption of the apron-string that he is led with,
because some naughty little boys laughed at him, to the tolling of the
bell by the old sexton over another dead.
Well, there is no use in moralizing. The tale is before us, graphically
drawn; and to the reader is left naught but the pleasure of
contemplating its beauties. In his pithy way the poet describes a man
who, though possessed of some good qualities, evidently did not know how
to use them. Though the poet has never yet touched upon politics, yet
the careful reader will find that the hero of the sketch must have been
a young Democrat, since 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 said! No circumlocution of words will add to the
ending of a tale, but perhaps serve only to conceal the point. The
author is careful of his reputation. He restores the hero to his
original position, in full possession of his senses.
There let him be;
But O Be good, say we.
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