"Have you glasses?" said he, surveying the apartment, where none were to be seen, and Farragio having already commenced pouring the precious liquid into a cup, he added "I do not like to drink wine from a tea cup."
"Glasses—glasses, I—we—no—yes—yes, plenty of them," and off he started to another apartment for glasses.
"Now we'll have it," said the little gentleman; "wine is good for soul and body. I've seen two hundred and sixteen shepherdesses intoxicated at one time upon a mountain in Arcadia."
"They enjoyed the luxury of drinking wine to the full, I suppose."
"O, it's no uncommon thing—women love wine, and they're the best amateurs of taste,—but here's a health to Pythagoras, (turning off a glass,) a man of more affected modesty than sound judgment, but withal a tolerably clever sort of a fellow: I used to like him, and helped him to invent the word philosopher—it was a species of hypocrisy in us both. I never repented it, however, and have found it of much service to me, in my adventures upon this ugly world."
"You invented the word philosopher. I thought it was in existence from the beginning of time; inventor of words, good gracious! what an employment; now if I may be so bold, what business do you follow?"
"O, it's no matter. Pythagoras was a pretty good kind of a man, and"—
"I never heard of him; who was he any how?"
"Ha! ha! ha! you've much to learn—Pythagoras was a hypocrite, but he gained an immortality by it."
"How?"