A Christmas Pudding by Charles Knight. Mister Oldnow 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. Missus oldnow 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.
Mister Oldnow, 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 missus Oldnow 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 mantle 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 repassing 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. Mister old Nose sighed as he
recollected that in his father's time he had often taken his frugal meals in that
kitchen, and 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 armchair, the fine,
old high backed chair, which, to his boyish imagination, was a
king's throne. Missus Oldna 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 antces citron peel, two antces lemon peel,
one nutmeg, one teaspoonful powdered ginger, one teaspoonful powdered cinnamon, one
wineglassful 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 mister Oldno, I want the porters
to have a pudding, And old Nurse Franklin and the corderies fruit is cheap,
And why not, my dear old No, they always do have a
pudding, every one of them. Look here, missus oldnow 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 learned 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 corderies. My love, said
the contented mister Oldknow, As I am in the old kitchen for the first
time these dozen years, I think our 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 pulking and blind man's buff we have had.
And so missus Oldknow went to bed. Now. Mister Oldknow was a
great reader of travels, ancient and modern, a kind of social antiquarian.
Also, he read the travelers, 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 roots 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 old nose sent forth feebler and feebler puffs from the weed,
its dying fragrance mingled with thoughts of nutmeg and cinnamon, and became severe
odors from the spicy shore of Araby. The blessed The walls of the kitchen
then gradually expanded. The bright pewter plates became mirrors in which landscapes of every
climb were reflected at length. All the other mirrors were absorbed by one central
mirror of vast proportions, upon whose vivid pictures the contemplative mister oldno 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 shriveled in the noontide heat. Ruins
of Moorish towers and mosques were studied amidst whitewashed houses, and the brilliant columns
of the Alhambra glittered as in mockery amidst its fallen roofs. By the side
of the tributaries of the guadal Quivere, the Carmenes, the vineyard gardens of
the Arabs formed in chanting walks, and as are traveler 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 wreaths of a Greek pecante on the head, and
the cashmere shawl of an Arabian sultana round the waste sun of a vine less
land, said the form, Behold, how I labor for THEE. I
gather the sunbeams 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 Malagar and
Valencia, ranging onward to the eastern Chisme, 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 woolens, 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 wineless 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 favored and lucia.
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 comfort that will become the
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 labors when he labors for exchange. With other labor.
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 seamen of
London and Liverpool, whose festive board will be made joyous tomorrow with that national
dish, has contributed by his labor to make the raisins of Malagar and the
currents of Zante, the oranges of our garve, the cinnamon of Ceylon,
and the nutmegs of the Maloccas of commercial value. And he has thus called
them into existence as effectually as the labor of the native cultivator, child of
the Arab civilizer. Be great. Mister Oldno looked for an approving answer,
But the genius of the raisin had fled. The hillsides of Andalusia rapidly change
into the great plain of Zante. No longer is it the woodies a synthus
of Homer, but a land of olives and vines. There lies the flower
of the Levant before our home traveler, with its gardens of pomegranates and peaches,
and oranges and melons, and its fields of vines and currants. The
genius of the current arose a diminutive figure, winged like the Pegasus of Corinth,
and having the rows of England en twined with the olive leaf amongst his
hair. The Genius smiled upon the listener. Welcome is your Christmas, said
he to Zanti 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, I
ye with your sugar and your coffee, your rice and your cheese. Welcome,
I ye with your gold. Our corn crops are gone, and without
ye the maria 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 plow 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 are happy Christmas to you,
and good night the same to you, and bravo my little free trader,
cried mister Oldnow to the genius of the current. An English scene,
It is harvest time all over the wide chalkfields of Kent, wherever the eye
can stretch. In land, the golden corn is bending under the sea breeze,
or the sheaves are patiently waiting for the coming wagon. On every side,
a visible plenty smiles upon the traveler. 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 mister Oldna, who taught you that song? Do you want
protection against cheap bread, my friend? Against warm and clean clothing, against
a sound roof with windows, against a coal fire, Against your tea,
your sugar, your butter, your cheese, your bacon, and your Christmas
pudding? What are you thinking of anything? Call up the ghost of your
grandfather, show him your wheat and 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 stye, send
your children to school, and believe me, you will be better off than
any other laborer of Europe. Mister Oldno 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. Mister old No 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 sat 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 Bandonese mingled with their Dutch masters, applucking the peachlike fruit from
their shelter of green and gray 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 woodpigeon'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 Zayderzey built up our commerce upon restrictions and anapolis. 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. Rather 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 woodpigeon who defied all the rigors 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 ruin us to myself and injury
us to my colonists in Ceylon. I saw your English diffusing comfort and equal
laws, opening roads, encouraging industry, destroying forced labor, and selling cinnamon
to all the world. I have made an alliance with the woodpigeon. 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, yelly,
we will deal like merchant princes and good men and true ergreed, said mister
Oldner. 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 deer 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. Mister oldno
thought this, but was silent when he saw the negroes sitting under his own
figtory. 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. Mister 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 kit on her
back. Her step was brisker than in the famine years, and her light
gray eye was once more laughing under her long black eyelashes. 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 of erin soliloquized mister Oldner, 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 ne reared. Mister Oldno 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 odor of its breath. I am the universal friend. And yet
kings have impiously dared to deny me to their subjects. And though they should
perish, their crimes have been punished. Even now. The Hindu, 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 mister Oldknow. To salt succeeded a singular figure as the Milky Genius.
It seemed one half dairy woman, with her pale and stool, decently clad
in woolen petticoat and black stockings. But above was a Naiad of the Thames,
with dripping locks held loosely together with a wreath of rushes. Mister 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 mister Oldner 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. Mister Oldknow peered out. The mirror
had lost its brilliancy. But suddenly the great pudding bowl expanded into a mighty
flat dish. The puddings 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 dough. On the edge of the dish were grouped the Andalucian with the
cashmere shawl, the Ionian islander with the wings of Corinth, the Kentish plowman
in the smock frock, the flying Dutchman, the Negro without the chains,
the Irish market woman, the Gnome Nereered, 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
mustached 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 mister 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 lead mankind and join the sea divided shores. Mister
Oldno opened his eyes. The kitchen was in darkness, and his cigar smoked
out. Bless my heart, said he. The weights are playing the wooden
walls, and the clock strikes two end of a Christmas Pudding by Charles Knight