Crime is madness.  Madness is disease.  Whenever the cause of disease shall be discovered, the root, from which all vice and misery have so long overshadowed the globe, will lie bare to the axe.  All the exertions of man, from that moment, may be considered as tending to the clear profit of his species.  No sane mind in a sane body resolves upon a real crime.  It is a man of violent passions, bloodshot eyes, and swollen veins, that alone can grasp the knife of murder.  The system of a simple diet promises no Utopian advantages.  It is no mere reform of legislation, whilst the furious passions and evil propensities of the human heart, in which it had its origin, are still unassuaged.  It strikes at the root of all evil, and is an experiment which may be tried with success, not alone by nations, but by small societies, families, and even individuals.  In no cases has a return to vegetable diet produced the slightest injury; in most it has been attended with changes undeniably beneficial.  Should ever a physician be born with the genius of Locke, I am persuaded that he might trace all bodily and mental derangements to our unnatural habits, as clearly as that philosopher has traced all knowledge to sensation.  What prolific sources of disease are not those mineral and vegetable poisons that have been introduced for its extirpation!  How many thousands have become murderers and robbers, bigots and domestic tyrants, dissolute and abandoned adventurers, from the use of fermented liquors; who, had they slaked their thirst only with pure water, would have lived but to diffuse the happiness of their own unperverted feelings!  How many groundless opinions and absurd institutions have not received a general sanction from the sottishness and intemperance of individuals!  Who will assert that, had the populace of Paris satisfied their hunger at the ever-furnished table of vegetable nature, they would have lent their brutal suffrage to the proscription-list of Robespierre?  Could a set of men, whose passions were not perverted by unnatural stimuli, look with coolness on an auto da fe?  Is it to be believed that a being of gentle feelings, rising from his meal of roots, would take delight in sports of blood?  Was Nero a man of temperate life? could you read calm health in his cheek, flushed with ungovernable propensities of hatred for the human race?  Did Muley Ismael’s pulse beat evenly, was his skin transparent, did his eyes beam with healthfulness, and its invariable concomitants, cheerfulness and benignity?  Though history has decided none of these questions, a child could not hesitate to answer in the negative.  Surely the bile-suffused cheek of Buonaparte, his wrinkled brow, and yellow eye, the ceaseless inquietude of his nervous system, speak no less plainly the character of his unresting ambition than his murders and his victories.  It is impossible, had Buonaparte descended from a race of vegetable feeders, that he could have had either the inclination or the power to ascend the