“ ‘These are noble employments: but what mean these shreds of fluff, whereby you look more like beggars than philosophers?’

“ ‘Oh! what a question do you propose to me,’ said he with a sigh, ‘and what thoughts do you bring back to my mind? This temple was formerly that of philosophy. Alas! how much this place is changed! The chair of Socrates was here.’

“ ‘How,’ said I, interrupting him, ‘had Socrates a straw, and did he blow bubbles?’

“ ‘No, no,’ replied Plato, ‘it was not by such means that he merited of the Gods the name of the wisest of men. His constant occupation, during life, was forming heads and hearts. The secret was lost at his death. Socrates died, and the bright days of philosophy were no more. These pieces of stuff, which those very systematics think it an honour to wear, are scraps of his garment. Scarcely had his eyes been closed, when those, who aspired to the title of philosophers, seized his robe, and tore it in pieces.’