“Did the Dichotomy-Principle succeed in _any_ direction?” I enquired. “In _none_,” Mein Herr candidly confessed. “It had a _very_ short trial in _Commerce_. The shop-keepers _wouldn’t_ take it up, after once trying the plan of having half the attendants busy in folding up and carrying away the goods which the other half were trying to spread out upon the counters. They said the Public didn’t like it!” “I don’t wonder at it,” I remarked. “Well, we tried ‘the British Principle’ for some years. And the end of it all was—” His voice suddenly dropped, almost to a whisper; and large tears began to roll down his cheeks. “—the end was that we got involved in a war; and there was a great battle, in which we far out-numbered the enemy. But what could one expect, when only _half_ of our soldiers were fighting, and the other half pulling them back? It ended in a crushing defeat—an utter rout. This caused a Revolution; and most of the Government were banished. I myself was accused of Treason, for having so strongly advocated ‘the British Principle.’ My property was all forfeited, and—and—I was driven into exile! ‘Now the mischief’s done,’ they said, ‘perhaps you’ll kindly leave the country?’ It nearly broke my heart, but I had to go!” The melancholy tone became a wail: the wail became a chant: the chant became a song—though whether it was _Mein Herr_ that was singing, this time, or somebody else, I could not feel certain. “And, now the mischief’s done, perhaps You’ll kindly go and pack your traps? Since _two_ (your daughter and your son) Are Company, but _three_ are none. A course of saving we’ll begin: When change is needed, _I’ll_ invent it: Don’t think to put _your_ finger in _This_ pie!” cried Tottles (and he meant it). The music seemed to die away. Mein Herr was again speaking in his ordinary voice. “Now tell me one thing more,” he said. “Am I right in thinking that in _your_ Universities, though a man may reside some thirty or forty years, you examine him, once for all, at the end of the first three or four?” “That is so, undoubtedly,” I admitted. “Practically, then, you examine a man at the _beginning_ of his career!” the old man said to himself rather than to me. “And what guarantee have you that he _retains_ the knowledge for which you have rewarded him—beforehand, as _we_ should say?” “None,” I admitted, feeling a little puzzled at the drift of his remarks. “How do _you_ secure that object?” “By examining him at the _end_ of his thirty or forty years—not at the beginning,” he gently replied. “On an average, the knowledge then found is about one-fifth of what it was at first—the process of forgetting going on at a very steady uniform rate—and he, who forgets _least_, gets _most_ honour, and most rewards.” “Then you give him the money when he needs it no longer? And you make him live most of his life on _nothing_!”