composed, assured face he listens to the decalogue--how firm his voice in
the responses--and though the effrontery of scandal avows that he shifts
somewhat from Mrs. CHOKEPEAR'S eye at the mention of "the
maid-servant"--we do not believe it.

It is thus CHOKEPEAR begins his Christmas-day. He comes to celebrate the
event of the Incarnation of all goodness; to return "his most humble and
hearty thanks" for the glory that Providence has vouchsafed to him in
making him a Christian. He--Tobias CHOKEPEAR--might have been born a
Gentoo! Gracious powers! he might have been doomed to trim the lamps in
the Temple of Juggernaut--he might have come into this world to sweep the
marble of the Mosque at Mecca--he might have been a faquir, with iron and
wooden pins "stuck in his mortified bare flesh"--he might, we shudder to
think upon the probability, have brandished his club as a New Zealander;
and his stomach, in a state of heathen darkness to the humanising beauties
of goose and apple-sauce, might, with unblessed appetite, have fed upon
the flesh of his enemies. He might, as a Laplander, have driven a sledge,
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