CHAINMAIL HALL.
289
THE REV. DR. FOLLIOTT.
Punch, sir, punch: there is no antidote like punch.
MR. CHAINMAIL.
Well, Doctor, you shall be indulged. But I shall have my wassail-bowl, nevertheless.
An immense bowl of spiced wine, with roasted apples hissing on its surface, was borne into the hall by four men, followed by an empty bowl of the same dimensions, with all the materials of arrack punch, for the divine's especial brewage. He accinged himself to the task, with his usual heroism, and having finished it to his entire satisfaction, reminded his host to order in the devil.
THE REV. DR. FOLLIOTT.
I think, Mr. Chainmail, we can amuse
