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.