An anecdote about authenticity

Told variously by various tellers, as is the custom with anecdotes; here is (whose else but?) GC Lichtenberg's formulation:

Diogenes, filthily attired, paced across the splendid carpets in Plato's dwelling.  Thus, said he, do I trample on the pride of Plato. Yes, Plato replied, but only with another kind of pride.

Here's an earlier, totally unrelated, entry from the same notebook (C):

Lady Hill, the abbess of the English convent in Lisbon, traveled in her twenty-third year to Ireland, took possession of an inheritance, and then returned to her convent. Baretti believes that such virtue in the heart of a woman deserves to be rescued from oblivion. I believe that such acts ought to be branded as hotly as imagination guided by contempt, mockery and revulsion can possibly brand them.

Presumably his contempt, &c, derives from his high opinion not just of intellectual but of bodily life: That is as natural to man as thinking or throwing snowballs, for instance.