" 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

"Sabaean 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 Zante—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