by Charles Knight (uncredited).
Originally published in Household Words (Bradbury & Evans) vol.2 #39 (21 Dec 1850).
Mr. Oldknow had been romping with his children on Christmas Eve. At last they had gone to bed, with flushed faces and disordered curls, and the drawing-room was deserted. Mrs. Oldknow, a careful matron, looked thoughtful as she saw that the pride of the sponge-cake was utterly fallen, and that unquestionably another must be procured for the next day's festival. Mr. Oldknow, "on hospitable thoughts intent," half soliloquising, said—
"My dear, we must have a second pudding to-morrow."
"Indeed! How is it to be made?" replied the lady.
"How made? Why, of course, with plums and flour, and plenty of brandy."
"Oh, you are a precious cook!" said Mrs. Oldknow. "You think a Christmas pudding can be made as easily as a pancake—do you? Why, our pudding is made already. Come into the kitchen. The cook is gone to bed, and I will show it you."
The kitchen mantel was radiant with the brightness of brass candlesticks that were never used, but were duly cleaned; pewter water-plates, also for ornament, gleamed over the dresser; an ancient clock, something too big for the corner in which he stood, stretched up from, the floor to the ceiling, with the crown of his respectable old head pressed against its whitewashed surface, and his vigorous pendulum passing and re-passing behind its own peculiar little window, like a sentry always on guard. A walnut-tree bureau was still smart, in another and larger recess, under the polishing of half a century. Mr. Oldknow sighed as he recollected that, in his father's time, he had often taken his frugal meals in that kitchen; and now, when the family home had acknowledged him as master for twenty years, the refinement of our days had banished him from a room where his father used to sit in patriarchal dignity. There was the identical arm-chair, the fine old high-backed chair, which, to his boyish imagination, was a King's throne!
Mrs. Oldknow took out her Family Receipt Book from the polished bureau, and then read aloud, for her husband's edification:
"A POUND CHRISTMAS PUDDING."
"One pound raisins; one pound currants; one pound suet; one pound bread-crumbs; quarter pound orange-peel; two ounces citron-peel; two ounces lemon-peel; one nutmeg; one teaspoonful powdered ginger; one teaspoonful powdered cinnamon; one wine-glassful brandy; seven eggs; one teaspoonful salt; quarter pound raw sugar; milk enough to liquefy the mass, if the eggs and brandy be not sufficient for this purpose." "And why, my love, can't we have two Pound Christmas Puddings, or four Half-Pound Puddings?" said Mr. Oldknow. "I want the Porters to have a pudding, and old nurse Franklin, and the Corderys. Fruit is cheap. And why not?"
"My dear Oldknow, they always do have a pudding, every one of them. Look here!"
Mrs. Oldknow then lifted a cloth off a vast earthen pan, and behold! a rich, semi-liquefied mass, speckled throughout with plums and currants, presented itself to her husband's view. He was content. He learnt that at the peep of dawn the copper-fire would be lighted, and the fruity treasure would be divided into several portions; the mightiest of which would be for the home table, and the others for the Porters, and the Franklins, and the Corderys.
"My love," said the contented Mr. Oldknow, "as I am in the old kitchen for the first time these dozen years, I think I'll light a cigar—for there is a fire, I see, in this new-fashioned cooking range—and rest for a quarter of an hour, after all the polking and blind-man's buff we have had."
And so Mrs. Oldknow went to bed.
Now, Mr. Oldknow was a great reader of travels, ancient and modern—a kind of social antiquarian, also. He read the travellers, partly for commercial information and general views of life, and partly with an imaginative taste for unfamiliar scenes. The Moving
Panoramas—the Niles, and Mississippis, and Overland Routes—had given a new intensity to these studies. The vast pudding dish was before him; and he mused and mused over the mercantile history of the various substances of which that pudding was composed. The light wreath of the cigar crept round the old kitchen, forming fantastic shapes before it melted in the dim distance. More and more obscure became the well-remembered room; as Oldknow sent forth feebler and feebler puffs from the weed. Its dying fragrance mingled with thoughts of nutmeg and cinnamon, and became
"Sabæan odours from the spicy shore
Of Araby the blest."
The walls of the kitchen then gradually expanded. The bright pewter plates became mirrors, in which landscapes of every clime were reflected. At length all the other mirrors were absorbed by one central mirror of vast proportions, upon whose vivid pictures the contemplative Mr. Oldknow long gazed with a blissful serenity.
And first, the shores of Malaga floated before his vision. Groves of orange-trees clustered around secluded convents; the sugar-cane and the cotton-plant covered the plains; vineyards, creeping up the bright mountain slopes, basked in the autumnal sun, and their ponderous fruitage grew browner and browner as the white or red skin of the delicious muscat shrivelled in the noontide heat. Ruins of Moorish towers and mosques were studded amidst white-washed houses; and the brilliant columns of the Alhambra glittered as in mockery amidst its fallen roofs. By the side of the tributaries of the Guadalquiver, the Carmenes—(the vineyard gardens of the Arabs)—formed enchanting walks; and, as our book-traveller heard the night-breeze, laden with a thousand perfumes, whispering amidst the orange groves, an articulate sound gradually dropped upon his ear, and he saw the GENIUS OF THE RAISIN, with the fresh vine-wreath of a Greek Bacchante on the head, and the Cashmere shawl of an Arabian Sultana round the waist.
"Son of a vineless land," said the form, "behold how I labour for thee! I gather the sun-beams in my hand, and range over the salt wave of the Mediterranean, to scatter ripeness wherever the vineyards bow beneath the pulpy clusters which are too rich for the wine-press. Your ships throng my Andalusian ports of Malaga and Valencia, ranging onward to the Eastern Chesmé; and they bear to your cold and cloudy land the richest gifts of our sunny South. Why come ye, every year more and more, with your linens and your woollens, your glass and your pottery, to exchange with our native fruit? Why strip ye the gardens which the Faithful planted, of the grapes which ought to be reserved for the unfermented wine which the Prophet delighted to drink?"
"Immortal child of the Arab," replied the son of the vineless land, "your nation gave us the best element of commerce when you gave us your numerals. Your learning and your poetry, your science and your industry, no longer fructify in heaven-favoured Andalusia. The sun which ripens your grapes and your oranges makes the people lazy and the priests rapacious. We come to your ports with the products of our looms and our furnaces, and we induce a taste for comforts that will become a habit. When our glass and our porcelain shall find its way into your peasant's hut, then will your olives be better tended and your grapes more carefully dried. Man only worthily labours when he labours for exchange with other labour. Behold that pudding!—It is our England's annual luxury. It is the emblem of our commercial eminence. The artisan of Birmingham and Manchester—the seaman of London and Liverpool—whose festive board will be made joyous, tomorrow, with that national dish, has contributed, by his labour, to make the raisins of Malaga and the currants of Zaute—the oranges of Algarve, the cinnamon of Ceylon, and the nutmegs of the Moluccas—of commercial value; and he has thus called them into existence as effectually as the labour of the native cultivator. Child of the Arab civiliser, be grateful."
Mr. Oldknow looked for an approving answer; but the Genius of the Raisin had fled. The hill sides of Andalusia rapidly change into the great plain of Zante. No longer is it the woody Zacynthus of Homer, but a land of olives and vines. There lies the Flower of the Levant before our home traveller, with its gardens of pomegranates, and peaches, and oranges, and melons; and its fields of vines and currants. The GENIUS OF THE CURRANT arose—a diminutive figure, winged like the Pegasus of Corinth, and having the Rose of England entwined with the olive leaf amongst his hair. The Genius smiled upon the listener. "Welcome is your Christmas," said he, "to Zante and Cephalonia. We have twelve thousand acres of our little grapes under culture for your festivities; and your ships have this year carried off our fifty million pounds of currants for your puddings and your cakes. Welcome are ye with your sugar and your coffee, your rice and your cheese. Welcome are ye with' your gold. Our corn crops are gone; and without ye the Morea would not yield us the wheat and the maize which we shall need till the next harvest. It is better to grow currants in the soil which they delight in, and buy our wheat, than plough up our little vines for a bread-producing crop. We are sure of our bread for our currants, whilst England demands plum-puddings; as England is sure of her puddings whilst she weaves calico and forges steel. So a happy Christmas to you, and good night."
"The same to you, and bravo, my little free-trader," cried Mr. Oldknow, to the Genius of the Currant.
An English scene! It is harvest time all over the wide chalk fields of Kent. Wherever the eye can stretch inland, the golden corn is bending under the sea-breeze, or the sheaves are patiently waiting for the coming waggon. On every side a visible plenty smiles upon the traveller. The GENIUS OF BREAD arises. He is a stalwart figure in a white smock-frock. From his straw hat to his laced boots all is tight and trim about him. He is slow of speech; but he ever and anon mutters the word "Protection."
"Protection!" exclaimed Mr. Oldknow, "who taught you that song? Do you want protection against cheap bread, my friend; against warm and clean clothing; against a sound roof with glazed windows; against a coal fire; against your tea, your sugar, your butter, your cheese, your bacon, and your Christmas pudding? Eh? what are you thinking of? Anything? Call up the ghost of your grandfather. Show him your wheaten bread, and ask him to compare it with his black loaf of rye. You have small wages, it is true; but your wages do not depend upon the cheapness of your produce. Your real wages are as great as you ever got in the protection-days; and they go twice as far. You stand up now as a man, instead of breaking stones upon the road at the bidding of the parish. Leave the beer-shop; cultivate your garden; have a pig in the sty; send your children to school; and believe me you will be better off than any other labourer of Europe."
Mr. Oldknow was excited; but he was fairly angry when the GENIUS OF SUET presented himself in the guise of a Smithfield drover, with an over-driven ox falling upon his knees in a crowded street, as if imploring for rest. Mr. Oldknow groaned, and was wicked enough to wish that the drover's dog was scattering the Court of Aldermen.
The Banda Islands now filled the scene. Grouped in the Indian Archipelago, they reared their volcanic peaks abruptly from the ocean, their mountain -sides clothed with timber trees; and the sago-palms yielding sustenance to the people of the plains. In the covert of the forest-trees sate the brilliant Birds of Paradise, occasional visitants. But the great feature of the landscape was contributed by the nutmeg trees. It is the gathering time. The Bandanese, mingled with their Dutch masters, are plucking the peach-like fruit from their shelter of green and grey leaves. The ripe fruit has split in half as it hangs on the tree, and there is the kernel surrounded by the mace. But the precious nutmeg has a second protection—its shell. The mace is removed—the kernel is dried in the sun—the shell splits—and there is the nutmeg of commerce!
The GENIUS OF THE NUTMEG appeared. He was a fantastic figure—half man, half bird—a Dutchman's head on a wood-pigeon's body. "Englishman," said he, "you have wrestled with me for the Spice Islands; but they are mine. You have taken from me the cinnamon groves of Ceylon—they are yours. In the sea traditions of your country you have the Flying Dutchman. I am he. We of the Zuyder Zee built up our commerce upon restrictions and monopolies. When we drove the Portuguese from the Archipelago, we rooted up all the clove-trees but those of Amboyna, and all the nutmeg trees but those of Banda. We limited the world to a fixed quantity of cloves and nutmegs, as we limited also the commerce of cinnamon. Bather than fill the market and lower the price, we have thrown our nutmegs into the deep, and made a bonfire of our cinnamon in the streets of Amsterdam. When in the Indian Seas, in the dim twilight, or under the hazy moon, a figure has been seen flying along the still waters in which the keel left no furrow—I was that navigator. I was pursuing the wood-pigeon, who defied all the rigours of my unsocial laws, and carried the nutmeg seed to lands which owed Holland no tribute. I have given up the contest against nature. My spice monopoly was ruinous to myself and injurious to my colonists. In Ceylon I saw your English diffusing comfort and equal laws, opening roads, encouraging industry, destroying forced labour, and selling cinnamon to all the world. I have made an alliance with the wood-pigeon; I have planted the nutmeg in Java, and there will I contest with you the commerce of cinnamon. I have learnt that a small demand at high prices, for any useful commodity, is neither so safe nor so profitable as a large demand at moderate prices. I have learnt, further, that the end of commerce is not to make individuals rich, and support public expenditure by heavy duties, but to diffuse all the productions of nature and art, amongst all the inhabitants of the globe. You have taught me a lesson. The old trade of the United Provinces has died under monopolies and restrictions. We may once more be your honest rivals under a wiser code. You want two hundred thousand pounds weight of nutmegs yearly; we will deal like merchant princes and good men and true."
"Agreed!" said Mr. Oldknow.
A West Indian Sugar Plantation is now mirrored—with its canes ripening under a tropical sun, and its mills with their machinery of cylinders and boilers. The GENIUS OF SUGAR is a freed Negro. It was said that in freedom he would not work; he has vindicated his privileges in his industry and his obedience. The grand experiment has succeeded in all moral effects. But the nation that demanded cheap corn would not be content with dear sugar. We must buy our sugar wherever the cane ripens. We use seven hundred millions of pounds of sugar annually, which yield a duty of four millions sterling. Mr. Oldknow thought this, but was silent, when he saw the negro sitting under his own fig-tree; for the political questions which his freedom involved were somewhat complicated. He would trust to the ultimate power of a noble example, and in the meantime rejoice that the great body of the British people could buy their sugar at half the price that their fathers paid.
Mr. Oldknow, being somewhat at fault upon the sugar question, grew confused as new forms flitted before him. The solitary EGG-COLLECTOR, of Cork, was there, in her blue cloak and her kish on her back. Her step was brisker than in the famine years, and her light grey eye was once more laughing under her long black eye-lashes. She had walked from cottage to cottage some twenty miles; and her kish was to form part of the many hundred egg-crates that England required for her Christmas puddings. "May the daughters and sons or Erin," soliloquised Mr. Oldknow, "never again suffer as they have suffered! May plenty smile upon their fields, and comfort in their cottages! May they have just masters and wise rulers! May they rely upon industry, and not upon agitation! May they"—the Blue Cloak was gone.
A figure started up, half Gnome, half Nereid. Mr. Oldknow was thinking of his evening gambols of "Yes and No;" so with half-consciousness he asked—
"Animal kingdom?" "No." "Vegetable?" "No." "Mineral?" "Yes." "In England?" "Yes."
"Here," continued the figure, "I am free. I fly through the land, scattering blessings as widely as the dews of heaven. I bring my treasures out of the bowels of the earth and from the depths of the sea. I make the fields fruitful; I forbid your food to perish. Without me the sustenance of man and beast is imperfect. The herds of unfathomable forests wander to the plains in search of me; the child that loves me not, loses the bloom of its cheek and the odour of its breath. I am the universal friend. And yet kings have impiously dared to deny me to their subjects, even though they should perish—their crimes have been punished. Even now, the Hindoo, whom you have benefited in so many things, is deprived of me by your fiscal injustice. Learn to be wiser. You have freed me from the burdens of your home taxation, and your industrial wealth is quadrupled. I am,—"
"SALT!" guessed Mr. Oldham.
To Salt succeeded a singular figure as the MILKY GENIUS. It seemed one-half dairy-woman, with her pail and stool, decently clad in woollen petticoat and black stockings; but above was a Naiad of the Thames, with dripping locks held loosely together with a wreath of rushes. Mr. Oldknow was about to harangue, when a brisk power-loom weaver stepped forth, with pudding-cloth in hand. "The water boils," said he; "the ingredients are mixed. Be it mine to bind them together!"
"Right," cried Mr. Oldknow. "Again our country's emblem. The bundle of sticks and the pudding-cloth have each the same moral. Our ancestors in their 'civil dudgeon' made 'plum-porridge.' We, in our united interests, well bound together, produce Christmas pudding."
There was a silence and a pause. Mr. Oldknow peered out. The mirror had lost its brilliancy. But suddenly the great pudding-bowl expanded into a mighty flat dish. The pudding swelled into an enormous globe, black with plums, and odorous with streaming sauce. A holly-tree, with its prickly leaves at bottom, its smooth leaves on high, and its bright red berries, grew up under a crystal dome. On the edge of the dish were grouped the Andalusian with the Cashmere shawl, the Ionian islander with the wings of Corinth, the Kentish ploughman in the smock-frock, the Flying Dutchman, the Negro without the chains, the Irish market-woman, the Gnome-Nereid, the, London Naiad, and the Weaver with the cloth; and they all took hands, and thrice danced round the edge of the dish. And, lo! out of the holly-tree dropped a moustached denizen of the Palais Royal. He had a flask of brandy in one hand, and a huge silver bowl in the other.
"Oh, nation of anti-chemical cooks," he cried, "you put the cognac into the pudding, and nine hours' boiling drives off all the spirit into unprofitable gas. Look at me. It is the genius of our nation to flare up!"
With that he emptied the flask into the bowl, and set it on fire, and poured it over the pudding. And the makers of the pudding again danced round it in the blue flame; and the pudding was nothing hurt by the flare-up, but remained as sound and unscathed as the land itself after a month's polemical fire. And then Mr. Oldknow volunteered a song, of which four lines remained in his memory; for he had learnt it as a child, when England was threatened with invasion:—
"Britain, to peaceful arts inclined,
Where commerce opens all her stores,
In social bands shall league mankind,
And join the sea-divided shores."
Mr. Oldknow opened his eyes. The kitchen was in darkness, and his cigar smoked out. "Bless my heart!" said he, "the Waits are playing 'The Wooden Walls,' and the clock strikes two!"