That is what this man will say, the impostor, the
absolute old fogey, the antediluvian, who displays
dead men of a bygone age to serve as patterns, and
expects you to dig up long-buried speeches as if they
were something tremendously helpful, wanting you to
emulate the son of a sword-maker, and some other



 

fellow, the son of a school-master named Atrometus, The sword-maker’s son is Demosthenes, the schoolmaster’s Aeschines. 
and that too in times of peace, when no Philip is
making raids and no Alexander issuing orders—situations in which their speeches were perhaps considered
useful. He does not know what a short, easy road,
direct to Rhetoric, has recently been opened. But do
not you believe or heed him for fear he may give you
a neck-breaking tumble somewhere after he gets
you in charge, or may in the end make you prematurely old with your labours. No, if you are
unquestionably in love, and wish to marry Rhetoric
forthwith, while you are still in your prime, so that
she may be fond of you, do bid a long good-bye to
that hairy, unduly masculine fellow, leaving him to
climb up himself, all blown and dripping with sweat,
and lead up what others he can delude.