“Dear boy, I am the trade of Sculpture which you began to learn yesterday, of kin to you and related by descent; for your grandfather”—and she gave the name of my mother’s father—“was a sculptor, and so are both your uncles, who are very famous through me. If you are willing to keep clear of this woman’s silly nonsense” —with a gesture toward the other—“and to come and live with me, you will be generously kept and will have powerful shoulders, and you will be a stranger to jealousy of any sort; besides you will never go abroad, leaving your native country and your kinsfolk, and it will not be for mere words, either, that everyone will praise you.

“Do not be disgusted at my humble figure and my soiled clothing, for this is the way in which Phidias began, who revealed Zeus, and Polycleitus, who made Hera, Myron, whom men praise, and Praxiteles, at whom they marvel. Indeed, these men receive homage second only to the gods. If you become one of them, will you not yourself be famous in the sight of all mankind, make your father envied, and cause your native land to be admired?”

Sculpture said all this, and even more than this, with a great deal of stumbling and bad grammar, talking very hurriedly and trying to convince me: I do not remember it all, however, for most of it has escaped my memory by this time.

When she stopped, the other began after this fashion:

“My child, I am Education, with whom you are already acquainted and familiar, even if you have not yet completed your experience of me. What it shall profit you to become a sculptor, this woman has told you; you will be nothing but a labourer, toiling with your body and putting in it your entire hope of a livelihood, personally inconspicuous, getting meagre and_ illiberal returns, humble-witted, an insignificant figure in public, neither sought by your friends nor feared by your enemies nor envied by your fellow-citizens—nothing but just a labourer, one of the swarming rabble, ever cringing to the man above you and courting the man who can use his tongue, leading a hare’s life, and counting as a godsend to anyone stronger. Even if you should become a Phidias or a Polycleitus and should create many marvellous works, everyone would praise your craftsmanship, to be sure, but none of those who saw you, if he were sensible, would pray to be like you; for no matter what you might be, you would be considered a mechanic, a man who has naught but his hands, a man who lives by his hands.