“Gentlemen:  considering the state of morals in our unfortunate country, arising as it does from the use of intoxicating liquors and the flesh of animals, I feel myself called upon to impress upon the consciences of this respectable auditory the necessity of studying the admirable principles of the great philosopher whose simplicity of life in food and drink I humbly endeavor to imitate.  Modern society, my friends, is all wrong, and, of course, is proceeding upon an erroneous and pernicious system—­that of eating the flesh of animals and indulging in the use, or rather the abuse, of liquors, that heat the blood and intoxicate the brain into the indulgence of passion and the commission of crime.”

Here the little doctor threw a glass of usquebaugh—­now called whiskey—­into the half-emptied cup which stood before Cooke.

“A vegetable diet, gentlemen, is that which was appointed for us by Providence, and water like this our drink.  And, indeed, water like this is delicious drink.  The Spa of Ballyspellan stands unrivalled for strength and flavor, and its capacity of exhilarating the animal spirits is extraordinary.  You see, gentlemen, how copiously I drink it; servant, fill my glass again—­thank you.”

In the meantime, and before he touched it, the doctor whipped another glass of whiskey into it—­an act which the Pythagorean, who was, as we have said, unusually tall, and kept his eye upon the company, could neither suspect nor see.

“It has been ignorantly said that the structure of the human mouth is an argument against me as to the quality of our food, and that the growth of grapes is a proof that wine was ordained to be drank by men.  It is perfectly well known that a man may eat a bushel of grapes without getting drunk; because the pure vegetable possesses no intoxicating power any more than the water which I am now drinking—­and delicious water it is!”

Here the doctor dug his elbow into the fat ribs of Topertoe, whose face, in the meantime, seemed in a blaze of indignation.

“I tell you what, philosopher, curse me, but you are an infidel.”

“I have the honor, sir,” he replied, “to be an infidel—­as every philosopher is.  The truth of what I am stating to you has been tested by philosophers, and it has been ascertained, that no quantity of grapes eaten by an individual could make him drunk.”

The doctor gave the parson another dig, and winked at him to keep quiet.

“Sir,” said the parson, unable, however, to restrain himself, “confound me if ever I heard such infidel opinions expressed in my life.  Damn your philosophy; it is cursed nonsense, and nothing else.”

“A vegetable diet,” proceeded Cooke, “is a guarantee for health and long life—­O Lord!” he exclaimed, “this accursed rheumatism will be the death of me.”

“What is he saying?” asked Manifold.

“He is talking philosophy,” replied the doctor, with a comic grin, “and recommending a vegetable diet and pure water.”