and daughters, to whom, as
he himself declares, he is "the best of fathers"--the most indulgent of
men.

The church-bell tolls, and the CHOKEPEARS, prepare for worship. What
meekness, what self-abasement sits on the Christian face of TOBIAS
CHOKEPEAR as he walks up the aisle to his cosey pew; where the woman, with
turned key and hopes of Christmas half-crown lighting her withered face,
sinks a curtsey as she lets "the miserable sinner" in; having carefully
pre-arranged the soft cushions and hassocks for the said sinner, his wife,
his sons, and daughters. The female CHOKEPEARS with half the produce of a
Canadian winter's hunting in their tippets, muffs, and dresses, and with
their noses, like pens stained with red ink,--prepare themselves to
receive the religious blessings of the day. They then venture to look
around the church, and recognising CHOKEPEARS of kindred nature, though
not of name, in pews--(none of course among the _most_ "miserable sinners"
on the bare benches)--they smile a bland salutation, and--but hush! the
service is about to begin.

And now will TOBIAS CHOKEPEAR perform the religious duties of a Christian!
Look at him, how he feeds upon every syllable of the minister. He turns
the Prayer-book familiarly, as if it were his bank account, and, in a
moment, lights upon the prayers set apart for the day. With what a
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 s