d, and find out how it was made. Synthesis was to put
the pieces together again, and make something fresh out of them. In a
word, Analysis was to teach men Science; and Synthesis to teach them Art.

But because Analysis was the elder, Madam How commanded Synthesis never
to put the pieces together till Analysis had taken them completely apart.
And, my child, if Synthesis had obeyed that rule of his good old
grandmother's, the world would have been far happier, wealthier, wiser,
and better than it is now.

But Synthesis would not. He grew up a very noble boy. He could carve,
he could paint, he could build, he could make music, and write poems: but
he was full of conceit and haste. Whenever his elder brother tried to do
a little patient work in taking things to pieces, Synthesis snatched the
work out of his hands before it was a quarter done, and began putting it
together again to suit his own fancy, and, of course, put it together
wrong. Then he went on to bully his elder brother, and locked him up in
prison, and starved him, till for many hundred years poor Analysis never
grew at all, but remained dwarfed, and stupid, and all but blind for want
of light; while Synthesis, and all the hasty conceited people who
followed him, grew stout and strong and tyrannous, and overspread the
whole world, and ruled it at their will. But the fault of all the work
of Synthesis was just this: that it would not work. His watches would
not keep time, his soldiers would not fight, his ships would not sail,
his houses would not keep the rain out. So every time he failed in his
work he had to go to poor Analysis in his dungeon, and bully him into
taking a thing or two to pieces, and giving him a few sound facts out of
them, just to go on with till he came to grief again, boasting in the
meantime that he and not Analysis had found out the facts. And at last
he grew so conceited that he fancied he knew all that Madam How could
teach him, or Lady Why either, and that he understood all things in
heaven and earth; while it was not the real heaven and earth that he was
thinking of, but a sham heaven and a sham earth, which he had built up
out of his guesses and his own fancies.

And the more Synthesis waxed in pride, and the more he trampled upon his
poor brother, the more reckless he grew, and the more willing to deceive
himself. If his real flowers would not grow, he cut out paper flowers,
and painted them and said that they would do j