When I had just left school, and was
beginning to grow up, my father consulted with his friends as to what further training he should give me. The
majority decided against a liberal education; it would demand, they said, great labor,
much time, considerable expense, and brilliant
good-luck; whereas our means were small and
called for some speedy succor. Now, if I should
learn one of the industrial arts, I would, in the
first place, be immediately able to support myself
by my trade, and live no longer at my father's expense, great boy that I was. And in a short time
I could gladden his heart by bringing home my
earnings every day.

 
Accordingly, this question was made the theme
of a second deliberation: What trade is the best
and the easiest to learn, is becoming to a free citizen, and calls for least expense in tools while it
furnishes a sufficient income? Each member of
the council recommended a different trade, according to his theory or experience. But my father looked towards my uncle-for my mother's
brother was there, reputed to be a master of the


 



statuary's art—and said, “It would be unseemly
if
any
other craft should carry the day when you
are present. So take him" (pointing to me), “receive him in charge, and teach him to be a good
stone-worker and mason and sculptor. He has
ability to become even this last, and a natural
skill in that direction, as you know."
The ground of his opinion was my childish play
at modelling in wax. Whenever the school-masters let me go, I would fall to scraping the wax
from my writing-tablets and fashioning cows and
horses, and, upon my word, even men, too, and
with some truth to nature--at least my father
thought so. The school-masters used to flog me
for them; but now this very thing won me praise
for my talents, and great hopes that I would
speedily master my trade were based on my prowess in modelling.

 

As soon as a propitious day was
settled on for beginning my trade, I was handed
over to my uncle, with no very strong objection
on my part, for it seemed to me to offer a delightful form of play and a chance to cut a figure
before my mates, if I should be seen carving
gods and making little statues for myself and my
chosen favorites. The first thing I did was what
might have been expected of a beginner. My
uncle gave me a chisel of some sort and bade me
work gently at a flat block that lay in the middle
of the room, addressing me in the words of the


 


proverb: "Well begun is half done." But in my
ignorance I bore down too hard and broke the
block. My uncle, in a fury, caught up a stick
that lay to his hand and struck at my devoted
head in no gentle or persuasive fashion, so that
tears were my introduction to art.
 

I ran away from him and came home, bawling
all the way with streaming eyes, and I related the
story of the stick and denounced what I called
my uncle's brutality, adding that he treated me
thus from jealousy lest I should surpass him in
his art. My mother was greatly incensed, and
called her brother all manner of hard names, and
when night came I fell asleep, still in tears, and
my mind was busy all night long.

 

Now, up to this point all that I have told is
the laughable history of a hobbledehoy; but listen, my friends, to a sequel no longer contemptible, but calling for close attention. For, to quote
Homer,

 The gods sent me a vision in my sleep
through the ambrosial night, 

so vivid that it fell
in nowise short of reality. To this day, after so
great a lapse of time, the forms I saw remain in
my eyes and the sounds I heard ring in my ears,
and this shows how distinct it all was.