"I saw one, whose shoulders were half covered with pieces so well fitted together, that the seams were not to be seen. He walk'd forward and backward in the crowd, with very little concern for what they were doing. He had an affable air, a smiling mouth, a noble gait, a mild look; and I went directly to him, and asked him without ceremony: 'Who are you? Where am I? And who are all these folks?'--He answered, 'I am Plato. You are in the region of hypotheses, and these folks are systematics.' 'But by what chance,' replied I, 'is the divine Plato here, and what does he do among these madmen?'--'Raising recruits,' said he. 'At a distance from this Portico I have a sanctuary, whither I conduct those who abandon systems.' 'And how do you employ them?' 'In knowing man, practising virtue, and sacrificing to the graces'--'These are noble employments: but what mean these shreds of fluff, whereby you look more like beggers 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.' 'I understand,' said I, 'these pieces served as tickets both to them and their long posterity.'--'Who will collect these scraps,' continued Plato, 'and restore us Socrates's robe?