Mr. CHOKEPEAR is, to the finger-nails, a respectable man. Thetax-gatherer was never known to call at his door a second time forthe same rate; he takes the sacrament two or three times a year,and has in his cellar the oldest port in the parish. He has morethan once subscribed to the fund for the conversion of the Jews;and, as a proof of his devotion to the interests of the establishedchurch, it was he who started the subscription to present theexcellent Doctor MANNAMOUTH with a superb silver tea-pot,cream-jug, and spoons. He did this, as he has often proudlydeclared, to show to the infidel world that there were some men inthe parish who were true Christians. He has acquired a profoundrespect for Sir PETER LAURIE, since the alderman’s judgmentsupon “the starving villains who would fly in the face oftheir Maker;” and, having a very comfortable balance at hisbanker’s, considers all despair very weak, very foolish, andvery sinful. He, however, blesses himself that for such miscreantsthere is Newgate; and more—there is Sir PETER LAURIE.
Mr. CHOKEPEAR loves Christmas! Yes, he is an Englishman, and hewill tell you that he loves to keep Christmas-day in the true oldEnglish fashion. How does he keep it?
It is eight o’clock, and Mr. CHOKEPEAR rises from hisgoose-down. He dresses himself, says his short morningthanksgiving, and being an economist of time, unconsciouslypolishes his gold watch-chain the while. He descends to thebreakfast parlour, and receives from lips of ice, the wishes of ahappy Christmas, pronounced by sons and daughters, to whom, as hehimself declares, he is “the best of fathers”—themost indulgent of men.
The church-bell tolls, and the CHOKEPEARS, prepare for worship.What meekness, what self-abasement sits on the Christian face ofTOBIAS CHOKEPEAR as he walks up the aisle to his cosey pew; wherethe woman, with turned key and hopes of Christmas half-crownlighting her withered face, sinks a curtsey as she lets “themiserable sinner” in; having carefully pre-arranged the softcushions and hassocks for the said sinner, his wife, his sons, anddaughters. The female CHOKEPEARS with half the produce of aCanadian winter’s hunting in their tippets, muffs, anddresses, and with their noses, like pens stained with redink,—prepare themselves to receive the religious blessings ofthe day. They then venture to look around the church, andrecognising CHOKEPEARS of kindred nature, though not of name, inpews—(none of course among the most “miserablesinners” on the bare benches)—they smile a blandsalutation, and—but hush! the service is about to begin.
And now will TOBIAS CHOKEPEAR perform the religious duties of aChristian! Look at him, how he feeds upon every syllable of theminister. He turns the Prayer-book familiarly, as if it were hisbank account, and, in a moment, lights upon the prayers set apartfor the day. With what a composed, assured face he listens to thedecalogue—how firm his voice in the responses—andthough the effrontery of scandal avows that he shifts somewhat fromMrs. CHOKEPEAR’S eye at the mention of “themaid-servant”—we do not believe it.
It is thus CHOKEPEAR begins his Christmas-day. He comes tocelebrate the event of the Incarnation of all goodness; to return“his most humble and hearty thanks” for the glory thatProvidence 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 theTemple of Juggernaut—he might have come into this world tosweep the marble of the Mosque at Mecca—he might have been afaqu