CHAPTER I.

_INTRODUCTORY._ “For a quart of ale is a dish for a King.” _Winter’s Tale_, Act iv. Scene 2. No doubt it is a very tedious thing To undertake a folio work on law, Or metaphysics, or again to ring The changes on the Flood or Trojan War: Old subjects these, which Poets only sing Who think a new idea quite a flaw; But thirst for novelty can’t fail in liking The theme of Ale, the aptitude’s so striking. _Brasenose College Shrovetide Verses._ _SUPPRESSION OF BEER SHOPS IN EGYPT 2,000 B.C. — BREWING IN A TEAPOT. — ALE SONGS. — DISTINCTIONS BETWEEN ALE AND BEER. — ALE-KNIGHTS’ OBJECTION TO SACK. — HOGARTH AND TEMPERANCE. — IMPORTANCE OF ALE TO THE AGRICULTURAL LABOURER. — SIR JOHN BARLEYCORNE INTRODUCED TO THE READER._ Four thousand years ago, if old inscriptions and papyri lie not, Egypt was convulsed by the high-handed proceedings of certain persons in authority who inclined to the opinion that the beer shops were too many. Think of it, ye modern Suppressionists! ’Tis now forty centuries since first your theories saw the light, and yet there is not a town in our happy country without its alehouse. While those disturbing members of the Egyptian community were waxing wrath over the beer shops, our savage ancestors probably contented themselves with such drinks as mead made from wild honey, {2} or cyder from the crab tree. But when Ceres sent certain of her votaries into our then benighted land to initiate our woad-dressed forefathers into the mysteries of grain-growing, the venerable Druids quickly discovered the art of brewing that beverage which in all succeeding years has been the drink of Britons. Of true British growth is the Nectar we boast, The homely companion of plain boiled and roast, most truly wrote an Oxford poet, whose name has not been handed down to posterity. Almost every inhabitant of this country has tasted beer of some kind or another, but on the subject of brewing the great majority have ideas both vague and curious. About one person out of ten imagines that pale ale consists solely of hops and water; indeed, more credit is given by most persons to the hop than to the malt. In order to give a proper understanding of our subject, and at the risk of ruining the brewing trade, let us then, in ten lines or so, inform the world at large how, with no other utensils than a tea-kettle and a saucepan, a quart or two of ale may be brewed, and the revenue defrauded. Into your tea-kettle, amateur brewer, cast a quart of malt, and on it pour water, hot, but not boiling; let it stand awhile and stir it. Then pour off the sweet tea into the saucepan, and add to the tea-leaves boiling water again, and even a third time, until possibly a husband would rebel at the weak liquid which issues from the spout. The saucepan is now nearly full, thanks to the frequent additions from the tea-kettle, so on to the fire with it, and boil up its contents for an hour or two, not forgetting to add of hops half-an-ounce, or a little more. This process over, let the seething liquor cool, and, when at a little below blood-heat, throw into it a small particle of brewer’s yeast. The liquor now ferments; at the end of an hour skim it, and lo! beneath the scum is bitter beer—in quantity, a quart or more. After awhile bottle the results of your brew, place it in a remote corner of your cellar, and order in a barrel of XXX. from the nearest brewer. If the generality of people have ideas of the vaguest on the subject of brewing, still less do we English know of the history of that excellent compound yclept ale. O ale! aurum potabile! That gildest life’s dull hours, When its colour weareth shabbily, When fade its summer flowers. {3} Old ballad makers have certainly sung in its praise, but it is a subject which few prose writers have touched upon, except in the most superficial manner. Modern song writers rarely take ale as their theme. The reason is not far to seek. The ale of other days—not the single beer rightly stigmatised as “whip-belly vengeance,” nor even the doble beer, but the doble-doble beer brewed against law, and beloved by the ale-knights of old—was of such mightiness that whoso drank of it, more often than not dashed off a verse or two in its praise. Now most people drink small beer which exciteth not the brain to poesy. Could one of the ancient topers be restored to life, in tasting a glass of our most excellent bitter, he would, in all likelihood, make a wry face, for hops were not always held in the estimation they obtain at present. There is no doubt, however, that we could restore his equanimity and make him tolerably happy with a gallon or two of old Scotch or Burton ale, double stout or, better still, a mixture of the three with a little _aqua vitæ_ added. In these pages it will be our task, aided or unaided by strong ale as the case may be, to remove the reproach under which this country rests; for surely a reproach it is that the history of the bonny nut-brown ale, to which we English owe not a little, should have been so long left unwritten. Now ale has a curious history which, as we have indicated, will be related anon, together with other matters pertaining to the subject. At present let us only chat awhile concerning the great Sir John Barleycorn, malt liquors of the past and present, their virtues, and importance to the labouring classes. Also may we consider the foolish ideas of certain worthy but misguided folk, halting now and again, should we find ourselves growing too serious, to chant a jolly old drinking song, that the way may be more enlivened. If on reaching the first stage of our journey you, dear reader, and ourselves remain friends, let us in each other’s company pass lightly and cheerfully over the path which Sir John Barleycorn has traversed, and fight again his battles, rejoicing at his victories; grieving over his defeats—if any there be. If, on the other hand, it so happens that by the time we arrive at our first halting place you should grow weary of us—which the Spirit of Malt forbid!—let us at once part company, friends none the less, and consign us to a place high up on your bookshelf, or with kindly words present us to the President of the United Kingdom Alliance. In accusing modern poets of neglecting to sing the praises of our {4} national drink, we must not forget that in one place is kept up the good old custom of brewing strong beer and glorifying it in verse. At Brasenose College, Oxford, beer of the strongest, made of the best malt and hops, is brewed once a year, distributed _ad. lib._, and verses are written in its praise. Mr. Prior, the college butler, to whom is due the honour of having kept alive the custom for very many years, writes us[1] that it is proposed to pull down the old college brewery. Should this happen, Brasenose ale will become a thing of the past. A fig for Horace and his juice, Falernian and Massic, Far better drink can we produce, Though ’tis not quite so classic— wrote a Brasenose poet. Alas, that both poets and ale should soon become extinct! Among the few prose writers past or present who have taken ale for their subject, John Taylor, of whom a good deal will be heard in these pages, stands pre-eminent. His little work, _Drinke and Welcome_, written some two hundred years ago, and which glorifies ale in a manner most marvellous, is one of the most curious literary productions it has ever been our good fortune to read. “Ale is rightly called nappy,” says the old Thames waterman and innkeeper, “for it will set a nap upon a man’s threed-bare eyes when he is sleepy. It is called _Merry-goe-downe_, for it slides downe merrily; It is fragrant to the _Sent_, it is most pleasing to the _taste_. The flowring and mantling of it (like chequer worke) with the verdant smiling of it, is delightefull to the _Sight_, it is _Touching_ or _Feeling_ to the Braine and Heart; and (to please the senses all) it provokes men to singeing and mirth, which is contenting to the Hearing. The speedy taking of it doth comfort a heavy and troubled minde; it will make a weeping widowe laugh and forget sorrow for her deceas’d husband. . . . . It will set a Bashfull Suiter a wooing; It heates the chill blood of the Aged; It will cause a man to speake past his owne or any other man’s capacity, or understanding; It sets an Edge upon Logick and Rhetorick; It is a friend to the Muses; It inspires the poore Poet, that cannot compasse the price of _Canarie_ or _Gascoign_; It mounts the Musician ’bove Eccla; It makes the Balladmaker Rime beyond Reason; It is a Repairer of a {5} decaied Colour in the face; It puts Eloquence into the Oratour; It will make the Philosopher talke profoundly, the Scholler learnedly, and the Lawyer acute and feelingly. _Ale_ at Whitsontide, or a _Whitson Church_ Ale, is a repairer of decayed Countrey Churches; It is a great friend to Truth; so they that drinke of it (to the purpose) will reveale all they know, be it never so secret to be kept; It is an Embleme of Justice, for it allowes, and yeelds measure; It will put Courage into a Coward, and make him swagger and fight; It is a Seale to many a good Bargaine. The Physittian will commend it; the Lawyer will defend it; It neither hurts or kils any but those that abuse it unmeasurably and beyond bearing; It doth good to as many as take it rightly; It is as good as a Paire of Spectacles to cleare the Eyesight of an old Parish Clarke; and in Conclusion, it is such a nourisher of Mankinde, that if my Mouth were as bigge as Bishopsgate, my Pen as long as a Maypole, and my Inke a flowing spring, or a standing fishpond, yet I could not with Mouth, Pen or Inke, speake or write the true worth and worthiness of _Ale_.” Bravo, John Taylor! He would be a bold man who could lift up his voice against our honest English nappy, after reading your vigorous lines. [1] May, 1886. See also pp. 165; 389. It is not uninteresting to compare this sixteenth century work with a passage taken from _By Lake and River_, the author of which rarely loses an opportunity of eulogising beer. Anglers and many more will cordially agree with Mr. Francis Francis in his remarks. “Ah! my beloved brother of the rod,” he writes, “do you know the taste of beer—of bitter beer—cooled in the flowing river? Not you; I warrant, like the ‘Marchioness,’ hitherto you have only had ‘a sip’ occasionally—and, as Mr. Swiveller judiciously remarks, ‘it can’t be tasted in a sip.’ Take your bottle of beer, sink it deep, deep in the shady water, where the cooling springs and fishes are. Then, the day being very hot and bright, and the sun blazing on your devoted head, consider it a matter of duty to have to fish that long, wide stream (call it the Blackstone stream, if you will); and so, having endued yourself with high wading breeks, walk up to your middle, and begin hammering away with your twenty-foot flail. Fish are rising, but not at you. No, they merely come up to see how the weather looks, and what o’clock it is. So fish away; there is not above a couple of hundred yards of it, and you don’t want to throw more than about two or three-and-thirty yards at every cast. It is a mere trifle. An hour or so of good hard hammering will bring you to the end of it, and then—let me ask you _avec impressement_—how about that beer? Is it cool? Is it refreshing? Does it {6} gurgle, gurgle, and ‘go down glug,’ as they say in Devonshire? Is it heavenly? Is it Paradise and all the Peris to boot? Ah! if you have never tasted beer under these or similar circumstances, you have, believe me, never tasted it at all.” A word or two now as to the distinctions between the beverages known as ale and beer. Going back to the time of the Conquest, or earlier, we find that both words were applied to the same liquor, a fermented drink made usually from malt and water, without hops. The Danes called it ale, the Anglo-Saxons beer. Later on the word beer dropped almost out of use. Meanwhile, in Germany and the Netherlands, the use of hops in brewing had been discovered; and in the fifteenth and sixteenth centuries, the Flemings having introduced their _bier_ into England, the word “beer” came to have in this country a distinct meaning—viz., hopped ale. The difference was quaintly explained by Andrew Boorde in his _Dyetary_, written about the year 1542. “Ale,” said Andrew, “is made of malte and water; and they which do put any other thynge to ale than is rehersed, except yest, barme, or godesgood, doth sofystical theyr ale. Ale for an Englysshe man is a naturall drinke. Ale must have these propertyes: it must be fresshe and cleare, it muste not be ropy nor smoky, nor it must have no weft nor tayle. Ale shuld not be dronke vnder v. dayes olde. Newe ale is vnholsome for all men. And sowre ale, and deade ale the which doth stande a tylt, is good for no man. Barly malte maketh better ale then oten malte or any other corne doth: it doth ingendre grose humoures; but yette it maketh a man stronge.” OF BERE. “Bere is made of malte, of hoppes, and water; it is the naturall drynke for a Dutche man, and nowe of late dayes it is moche vsed in Englande to the detryment of many Englysshe people; specyally it kylleth them the which be troubled with the colycke, and the stone, and the strangulion; for the drynke is a colde drynke; yet it doth make a man fat, and doth inflate the bely, as it doth appere by the Dutche men’s faces and belyes. If the bere be well serued, and be fyned, and not new, it doth qualyfy heat of the liquer.” The distinction between ale and beer as described by Boorde lasted for a hundred years or more. As hops came into general use, though malt liquors generally were now beer, the word ale was still retained, and was used whether the liquor it was intended to designate was {7} hopped or not. At the present day beer is the generic word, which includes all malt liquors; while the word ale includes all but the black or brown beers—porter and stout. The meanings of the words are, however, subject to local variations. This subject is further treated of in Chapter VII. The union of hops and malt is amusingly described in one of the Brasenose College ale poems:— A Grand Cross of “Malta,” one night at a ball, Fell in love with and married “Hoppetta the Tall.” Hoppetta, the bitterest, best of her sex, By whom he had issue—the first, “Double X.” Three others were born by this marriage—“a girl,” Transparent as _Amber_ and precious as _Pearl_. Then a son, twice as strong as a Porter or Scout, And another as “Spruce” as his brother was “Stout.” _Double_ X, like his Sister, is brilliant and clear, Like his Mother, tho’ bitter, by no means severe: Like his Father, _not small_, and resembling each brother, Joins the spirit of one to the strength of the other. In John Taylor’s time there seems to have existed among ale drinkers a wholesome prejudice against wine in general, and more especially sack. The water poet writes very bitterly on the subject:— Thus Bacchus is ador’d and deified, And we _Hispanialized_ and _Frenchifide_; Whilst _Noble Native Ale_ and _Beere’s_ hard fate Are like old Almanacks, quite out of date. Thus men consume their credits and their wealths, And swallow Sicknesses in drinking healths, Untill the Fury of the spritefull Grape Mountes to the braine, and makes a man an Ape. Another poet wrote in much the same strain:— Thy wanton grapes we do detest: Here’s richer juice from Barley press’d. * * * * * {8} Oh let them come and taste this beer And water henceforth they’ll forswear. Our ancestors seem, indeed, almost to have revered good malt liquor. Richard Atkinson gave the following excellent advice to Leonard Lord Dacre in the year 1570: “See that ye keep a noble house for beef and beer, that thereof may be praise given to God and to your honour.” The same subject—comparison of sack with ale to the disadvantage of the former—is still better treated in an old ale song by Beaumont; it is such a good one of its kind that we give it in full:— ANSWER OF ALE TO THE CHALLENGE OF SACK. Come all you brave wights, That are dubbed ale-knights, Now set out yourselves in sight; And let them that crack In the presence of Sack Know Malt is of mickle might. Though Sack they define Is holy divine, Yet it is but naturall liquor, Ale hath for its part An addition of art To make it drinke thinner or thicker. Sack; fiery fume, Doth waste and consume Men’s humidum radicale; It scaldeth their livers, It breeds burning feavers, Proves vinum venenum reale. But history gathers, From aged forefathers, That Ale’s the true liquor of life, Men lived long in health, And preserved their wealth, Whilst Barley broth only was rife. {9} Sack, quickly ascends, And suddenly ends, What company came for at first, And that which yet worse is, It empties men’s purses Before it half quenches their thirst. Ale, is not so costly Although that the most lye Too long by the oyle of Barley; Yet may they part late, At a reasonable rate, Though they came in the morning early. Sack, makes men from words Fall to drawing of swords, And quarrelling endeth their quaffing; Whilst dagger ale Barrels Beare off many quarrels And often turn chiding to laughing. Sack’s drink for our masters, All may be Ale-tasters, Good things the more common the better, Sack’s but single broth, Ale’s meat, drinke, and cloathe, Say they that know never a letter. But not to entangle Old friends till they wrangle And quarrell for other men’s pleasure; Let Ale keep his place, And let Sack have his grace, So that neither exceed the due measure. “Wine is but single broth, ale is meat, drink and cloth,” was a proverbial saying in the sixteenth and seventeenth centuries, and occurs in many writings, both prose and poetical. John Taylor, for instance, writes that ale is the “warmest lining of a naked man’s coat.” “Barley broth” and “oyle of barley” were very common expressions for ale. “Dagger ale” was very strong malt liquor. The word “ale-tasters” will be fully explained later on. {10} The nearest approach in modern times to a denunciation of wine by an ale-favouring poet occurs in a few lines—by whom written we know not—cleverly satirising the introduction of cheap French wines into this country. Cheap clarets command, thanks to an eminent statesman, a considerable share of popular favour. If unadulterated, they are no doubt wholesome enough, and suitable for some specially constituted persons. Let those who like them drink them, by all means. MALT LIQUOR, OR CHEAP FRENCH WINES. No ale or beer, says Gladstone, we should drink, Because they stupefy and dull our brains. But sour French wine, as other people think, Our English stomachs often sorely pains. The question then is which we most should dread, An _aching belly_ or an _aching head_? Among famous ale songs of the past, _Jolly Good Ale and Old_, which has been wrongly attributed to Bishop Still, stands pre-eminent. Of the eight double stanzas composing the song, four were incorporated in “a ryght pithy, plesaunt, and merie comedie, intytuled, _Gammer Gurton’s Nedle_, played on stage not longe ago, in Christe’s Colledge, in Cambridge. Made by Mr. S——, Master of Art” (1575). According to Dyer, who possessed a MS., giving the song in its complete form, “it is certainly of an earlier date,” and could not have been by Mr. Still (afterwards Bishop of Bath and Wells), the Master of Trinity College, who was probably the writer of the play. The “merrie comedie” well illustrates the difference of tone and thought which divides those days from the present, and it is a little difficult to understand how it could have been produced by the pen of a High Church dignitary. The