“With pleasure, sir,” replied Mr. Cooke, again; “and I do assure you, Father Mulrenin, that I think the parson's consecration has improved the water.” “Sorra doubt of it,” replied the friar; “and I am sure the doctor there will support me in the article of the parson's consecration.” “The great Samian,” proceeded Cooke, “the great Samian--” “My dear philosopher,” said the facetious friar, “never mind your great Samian, but follow up your principles and drink your water.” The mischievous doctor had thrown another glass into his cup: “Drink your water, and set us all a philosophical example of sobriety.” “That I always do,” said the philosopher, staggering a little; “that I always do: the water is delicious, and I think my rheumatism has departed from me. Mr. Manifold, hob or nob!” “No,” replied Manifold, “confound me if I will. You are the fellow that eats nothing but vegetables, and drinks nothing but water. Do you think I will hob or nob with a water-drinking rascal like you? Do you think I will put my wine against your paltry water?” “Don't call it paltry,” replied the Pythagorean; “it is delicious. You know not how it elevates the spirits and, so to speak, philosophizes the whole system of man. I am beginning to feel extremely happy.” “I think so,” replied the friar; “but wasn't it a fact, as a proof of your metempsychosis, that the great author of your doctrine was at the siege of Troy some centuries before he came into the world as the philosopher Pythagoras?” “Yes, sir,” replied his follower, “he fought for the Greeks in the character of Euphorbus, in the Trojan war, was Hermatynus, and afterwards a fisherman; his next transformation having been into the body of Pythagoras.” “What an extraordinary memory he must have had,” said the friar. “Now, can you yourself remember all the bodies your soul has passed through?--but before I expect you to answer me,--hob or nob again,--this is famous water, my dear philosopher.” “It is famous water, Father Mulrenin; and the parson's consecration has given it a power of exhilaration which is astonishing.” The doctor had thrown another glass of usquebaugh into his cup, of course unobserved. “Why,” said the friar, “if I'm not much mistaken, you will feel the benefit of it. It is purely philosophical water, and fit for a philosopher like you to drink.” The company now were divided into little knots, and the worthy philosopher found it necessary to take his seat. He felt himself in a state of mind which he could not understand; but the delicious flavor of the water still clung to him, and, owing to his shortness of sight, and the doctor's wicked wit,--if wit it could be called,--he continued drinking spirits and water until he became perfectly--or, in the ordinary phrase--blind drunk, and was obliged to be carried to bed.