There lived in the great city of Gotham, over against the north gate,
a man who possessed a very wise aspect, but very little else. He was
tall and lean, and had a fine large head, bald and smooth upon the
top, with a circle of white hair behind the ears. His beard was pure
white, and reached to his waist; his eyes were small, dark, and so
piercing that they seemed to read your every thought. His eyebrows
were very heavy, and as white as his beard. He dressed in a long black
mantle with a girdle corded about the middle, and he walked slowly and
majestically, and talked no more than he was obliged to.
When this man passed down the street with his stately tread the people
all removed their hats and bowed to him with great reverence, saying
within themselves,
"He is very wise, this great man; he is a second Socrates."
And soon this was the only name he was called by, and everyone in
Gotham knew him as "Socrates."
To be sure this man was not really wise. Had they realized the truth,
not one he met but knew more than Socrates; but his venerable
appearance certainly betokened great wisdom, and no one appeared to
remember that things are seldom what they seem.
Socrates would strut about with bowed head and arms clasped behind
him, and think:
"My! how wise these people take me to be. Everyone admires my
beautiful beard.
Pages:
144
145
146
147
148
149
150
151
152
153
154
155
156
157
158
159
160
161
162
163
164
165
166
167
168