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. 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
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