When do the reasoning Powers decline?
The Ancients said at Forty-Nine.
At Forty-Nine behoves it then
To quit the Inkhorn and the Pen,
Since A RISTOTLE so decreed.
Premising thus, we now proceed.
In that thrice-favoured Northern Land,
Where most the Flowers of Thought expand,
And all things nebulous grow clear,
Through Spectacles and Lager-Beer,
There lived, at Dumpelsheim the Lesser,
A certain High-Dutch Herr Professor.
Than G ROTIUS more alert and quick,
More logical than B URGERSDYCK ,
His Lectures both so much transcended,
That far and wide his Fame extended,
Proclaiming him to every clime
Within a Mile of Dumpelsheim .
But chief he taught, by Day and Night,
The Doctrine of the Stagirite,
Proving it fixed beyond Dispute,
In Ways that none could well refute;
For if by Chance 'twas urged that Men
O'er-stepped the Limit now and then,
He'd show unanswerably still
Either that all they did was " Nil, "
Or else 'twas marked by Indication
Of grievous mental Degradation:
Nay — he could even trace, they say,
That Degradation to a Day.
The Years rolled on, and as they flew,
More famed the Herr Professor grew,
His " Locus of the Pineal Gland "
(A Masterpiece he long had planned)
Had reached the End of Book Eleven,
And he was nearing Forty-Seven.
Admirers had not long to wait;
The last Book came at Forty-Eight,
And should have been the Heart and Soul —
The Crown and Summit — of the whole.
But now the oddest Thing ensued;
'Twas so insufferably crude,
So feeble and so poor, 'twas plain
The Writer's Mind was on the wane.
Nothing could possibly be said;
E'en Friendship's self must hang the head,
While jealous Rivals, scarce so civil,
Denounced it openly as " Drivel. "
Never was such Collapse. In brief,
The poor Professor died of Grief.
With fitting mortuary Rhyme
They buried him at Dumpelsheim ,
And as they sorrowing set about
A " Short Memoir, " the Truth came out.
He had been older than he knew.
The Parish Clerk had put a " 2 "
In place of " Nought, " and made his Date
Of Birth a Brace of Years too late.
When he had written Book the Last,
His true Climacteric had past!
Moral . — To estimate your Worth,
Be certain as to date of Birth.
The Ancients said at Forty-Nine.
At Forty-Nine behoves it then
To quit the Inkhorn and the Pen,
Since A RISTOTLE so decreed.
Premising thus, we now proceed.
In that thrice-favoured Northern Land,
Where most the Flowers of Thought expand,
And all things nebulous grow clear,
Through Spectacles and Lager-Beer,
There lived, at Dumpelsheim the Lesser,
A certain High-Dutch Herr Professor.
Than G ROTIUS more alert and quick,
More logical than B URGERSDYCK ,
His Lectures both so much transcended,
That far and wide his Fame extended,
Proclaiming him to every clime
Within a Mile of Dumpelsheim .
But chief he taught, by Day and Night,
The Doctrine of the Stagirite,
Proving it fixed beyond Dispute,
In Ways that none could well refute;
For if by Chance 'twas urged that Men
O'er-stepped the Limit now and then,
He'd show unanswerably still
Either that all they did was " Nil, "
Or else 'twas marked by Indication
Of grievous mental Degradation:
Nay — he could even trace, they say,
That Degradation to a Day.
The Years rolled on, and as they flew,
More famed the Herr Professor grew,
His " Locus of the Pineal Gland "
(A Masterpiece he long had planned)
Had reached the End of Book Eleven,
And he was nearing Forty-Seven.
Admirers had not long to wait;
The last Book came at Forty-Eight,
And should have been the Heart and Soul —
The Crown and Summit — of the whole.
But now the oddest Thing ensued;
'Twas so insufferably crude,
So feeble and so poor, 'twas plain
The Writer's Mind was on the wane.
Nothing could possibly be said;
E'en Friendship's self must hang the head,
While jealous Rivals, scarce so civil,
Denounced it openly as " Drivel. "
Never was such Collapse. In brief,
The poor Professor died of Grief.
With fitting mortuary Rhyme
They buried him at Dumpelsheim ,
And as they sorrowing set about
A " Short Memoir, " the Truth came out.
He had been older than he knew.
The Parish Clerk had put a " 2 "
In place of " Nought, " and made his Date
Of Birth a Brace of Years too late.
When he had written Book the Last,
His true Climacteric had past!
Moral . — To estimate your Worth,
Be certain as to date of Birth.