ledge,
and fed upon walrus-blubber; and now is he an Englishman--a Christian--a
carriage holder, and an eater of venison!

It is plain that all these thoughts--called up by the eloquence of Doctor
MANNAMOUTH, who preaches on the occasion--are busy in the bosom of
CHOKEPEAR; and he sits on his soft cushion, with his eyelids declined,
swelling and melting with gratitude for his blissful condition. Yes; he
feels the glorious prerogative of his birth--the exquisite beauty of his
religion. He ought to feel himself a happy man; and, glancing round his
handsomely-appointed pew--he _does_.

"A sweet discourse--a very sweet discourse," says CHOKEPEAR to several
respectable acquaintance, as the organ plays the congregation out; and
CHOKEPEAR looks round about him airily, contentedly; as though his
conscience was as unseared as the green holly that decorates the pews; as
though his heart was fresh, and red, and spotless as its berries.

Well, the religious ceremonies of the day being duly observed, CHOKEPEAR
resolves to enjoy Christmas in the true old English fashion. Oh! ye gods,
that bless the larders of the respectable,--what a dinner! The board is
enough to give Plenty a plethora, and the whole house is odoriferous as
the airs of Araby. And then, what delightful evidences of old observing
friendship on the table! There is a turkey--"only a little lower" than an
ostrich--despatched all the way from an acquaintance in Norfolk, to smoke
a Christmas salutation to good Mr. CHOKEPEAR. Another county sends a
goose--another pheasants--another brawn; and CHOKEPEAR, with his eye half
slumbering in delight upon the gifts, inwardly avows that the friendship
of friends really well to do is a fine, a noble thing.

The dinner passes off most admirably. Not one single culinary accident has
marred a single dish. The pudding is delicious; the custards are something
better than manna--the mince pies a conglomeration of ambrosial sweets.
And then the Port! Mr. CHOKEPEAR smacks his lips like a whip, and gazes on
the bee's wing, as HERSCHELL would gaze upon a new-found star, "swimming
in the blue profound." Mr. CHOKEPEAR wishes all a merry Christmas, and
tosses off the wine, its flavour by no means injured by the declared
conviction of the drinker, that "there isn't such another glass in the
parish!"

The evening comes on. Cards, snap-dragons, quadrilles, country-dances,
with a hundred devices to make people eat and drink, send night into
morn