PROLOGUE.

As Gammer Gurton, with manye a wyde styche, Sat pesynge and patching of Hodge her man’s briche, By chance or misfortune, as shee her geare tost, In Hodge lether bryches her needle shee lost. When Diccon the bedlam had hard by report, That good Gammer Gurton was robde in thys sorte, He quyetlye perswaded with her in that stound, Dame Chat, her deare gossyp, this needle had found. Yet knew shee no more of this matter, alas, {11} Then knoweth Tom our clarke what the Priest saith at masse, Hereof there ensued so fearfull a fraye, Mas. Doctor was sent for, these gossyps to staye; Because he was curate, and esteemed full wyse, Who found that he sought not, by Diccon’s device. When all things were tumbled and cleane out of fashion, Whether it were by fortune, or some other constellation, Suddenlye the neele Hodge found by the prychynge, And drew out of his buttocke, where he found it stickynge, Theyr hartes then at rest with perfect securytie, With a pot of Good ale they stroake up theyr plauditie. The song, _Jolly Good Ale and Old_, four stanzas of which occur in the second act, is a good record of the spirit of those hard-drinking days, now passed away, in which a man who could not, or did not, consume vast quantities of liquor was looked upon as a milksop. It is given as follows in the Comedy:— Back and syde go bare, go bare, Booth foote and hande go colde; But belly, God send thee good ale ynoughe, Whether it bee newe or olde. I can not eate but lytle meate, My stomache is not goode, But, sure, I thinke, that I can drynk With him that wears a hood.[2] Thoughe I go bare, take ye no care, I am nothynge a colde; I stuffe my skyn so full within Of jolly good ale, and olde. Back and syde go bare, go bare, &c., &c. [3]I love no rost, but a nut-brown toste, And a crab layde in the fyre; A lytle bread shall do me stead, Much bread I not desyre. {12} No froste nor snow, no winde, I trow, Can hurte mee if I wolde, I am so wrapt, and throwly lapt, Of joly good ale and olde. Back and syde go bare, go bare, &c., &c. And Tyb, my wife, that as her lyfe Loveth well good ale to seeke, Full ofte drinkes shee, tyll ye may see, The teares run down her cheekes; Then doth she trowle to mee the bowle[4] Even as a _mault worme_ shuld And sayth, sweet hart, I tooke my part Of this joly good ale, and olde. Back and syde go bare, go bare, &c., &c. Now let them drynke, tyll they nod and winke, Even as good fellowes shoulde doe, They shall not misse to have the blisse Good ale doth bringe men to: And all poor soules, that have scoured boules, Or have them lustely trolde, God save the lyves of them and their wyves, Whether they be yonge or olde. Back and syde go bare, go bare, &c., &c. [2] Alluding to the drunkenness of the clergy. [3] _Cf_: “And sometimes lurk I in a gossip’s bowl, In very likeness of a roasted crab.” _Midsummer Night’s Dream_, Act ii. Scene 1. [4] The word “trowle” was used of passing the vessel about, as appears by the beginning of an old catch: _Trole_, _trole_ the _bowl_ to me, And I will _trole_ the same again to thee. Charles Dibdin the younger has, in a couple of verses, told a very amusing little story of an old fellow who, in addition to finding that ale was meat, drink and cloth, discovered that it included friends as well—or, at any rate, when he was without ale he was without friends, which comes to much the same thing. THE BARREL OF HUMMING ALE. Old Owen lived on the brow of an hill, And he had more patience than pelf; A small plot of ground was his labour to till, {13} And he toiled through the day by himself. But at night crowds of visitors called at his cot, For he told a right marvellous tale; Yet a stronger attraction by chance he had got, A barrel of old humming ale. Old Owen by all was an oracle thought, While they drank not a joke failed to hit; But Owen at last by experience was taught, That wisdom is better than wit. One night his cot could scarce hold the gay rout, The next not a soul heard his tale, The moral is simply they’d fairly drank out His barrel of old humming ale. For the sake of contrast with the foregoing songs, if for nothing else, the following poem (save the mark!) by George Arnold, a Boston rhymster, is worthy of perusal. The “gurgle-gurgle” of the athletic salmon-fisher, described by Mr. Francis, is replaced by the “idle sipping” (fancy sipping beer!) of the beer-garden frequenter. BEER. Here With my beer I sit, While golden moments flit: Alas! They pass Unheeded by: And, as they fly, I, Being dry, Sit, idly sipping here My beer. The new generation of American poets do not mean, it would appear, to be confined in the old metrical grooves. Very different in style are the verses written on ale by Thomas Wharton, in 1748. _A Panegyric on Oxford Ale_ is the title of the poem, which is prefaced by the lines from Horace:— Mea nec Falernæ Temperant vites, neque Formiani Pocula colles. {14} The poem opens thus:— Balm of my cares, sweet solace of my toils, Hail, Juice benignant! O’er the costly cups Of riot-stirring wine, unwholesome draught, Let Pride’s loose sons prolong the wasteful night; My sober evening let the tankard bless, With toast embrown’d, and fragrant nutmeg fraught, While the rich draught with oft repeated whiffs Tobacco mild improves. Divine repast! Where no crude surfeit, or intemperate joys Of lawless Bacchus reigns; but o’er my soul A calm Lethean creeps; in drowsy trance Each thought subsides, and sweet oblivion wraps My peaceful brain, as if the leaden rod Of magic Morpheus o’er mine eyes had shed Its opiate influence. What though sore ills Oppress, dire want of chill-dispelling coals, Or cheerful candle (save the makeweight’s gleam Haply remaining), heart-rejoicing Ale Cheers the sad scene, and every want supplies. There exist, sad to relate, persons who, with the notion of promoting temperance, would rob us of our beer. Many of these individuals may act with good motives, but they are weak, misguided bodies who, if they but devoted their energies to promoting ale-drinking as opposed to spirit-drinking, would be doing useful service to the State, for malt liquors are the true temperance drinks of the working classes. The Bill (for the encouragement of private tippling) so long sought to be introduced by the teetotal party, was cleverly hit off in _Songs of the Session_, published in _The World_ some years back:— * * * * * If with truth they assure us that liquors allure us, I don’t think ’twill cure us the taverns to close; When in putting drink down, sirs, you’ve shut up the Crown, sirs, You’ll find Smith and Brown, sirs, drunk under the rose. “Men are slaves to this custom,” you cry; “we can’t trust ’em!” Very good; then why thrust ’em from scenes where they’re known If the daylight can’t shame ’em, or neighbours reclaim ’em, Do you think you can tame ’em in haunts of their own? {15} And if in Stoke Pogis no publican lodges, It don’t follow Hodge is cut off from good cheer; In the very next parish the tap may be fairish, And the vestry less bearish and stern about beer. * * * * * Men in time will refrain when that goes with their grain; Till it does ’tis in vain that their wills you coerce; For the man whom by force you turn out of his course, Without fear or remorse will soon take to a worse. Of course, in asserting malt liquors to be the temperance drink, or drink of the temperate, it must be understood that we refer to the ordinary ales and beers of to-day, in which the amount of alcohol is small, and which are very different from the potent liquor drank by the topers of the past, who were rightly designated malt worms. It has been said that even pigs drank strong ale in those days, but the only evidence of the truth of that statement is the tradition that Herrick, a most charming but little read poet, succeeded in teaching a favourite pig to drink ale out of a jug. Old ale is now out of fashion, its chief strongholds being the venerable centres of education. We all know the tale of the don who, about once a week, reminded the butler of a certain understanding between them, in these words: “Mind, when I say ‘beer’—_the old ale_.” Ancient writers are full of allusions to the potent character of the strong ales of their day. Nor are more modern authors wanting in that respect. Peter Pindar, who wrote during the reign of George III., when ale was still of a “mightie” character, thus sings:— Toper, drink, and help the house— Drink to every honest fellow; Life was never worth a louse To the man who ne’er was mellow. How it sparkles! here it goes! Ale can make a blockhead shine; Toper, torchlike may thy nose Light thy face up, just like mine. See old Sol, I like his notion, With his whiskers all so red; Sipping, drinking from the ocean, Boozing till he goes to bed. {16} Yet poor beverage to regale! _Simple stuff_ to help his race— Could he turn the sea to Ale, How ’twould make him mend his pace! [Illustration: BEER STREET.] Hogarth, who was perhaps the most accurate and certainly the most powerful delineator of mankind’s virtues and vices that the world has ever seen, has left us in his pictures of “Beer Street” and “Gin Lane” striking illustrations of the advantages attending the use of our national beverage, and the misery and want brought about by dram drinking. In _Beer Street_ everybody thrives, and everything has an air of prosperity. There is one exception—the pawnbroker, gainer by the poverty of others. He, poor man, with barricaded doors and {17} propped-up walls, awaits in terror the arrival of the Sheriff’s officer, fearing only that his house may collapse meanwhile. Through a hole in the door which he is afraid to open, a potboy hands him a mug of ale, at once the cause and consolation of his woes. The bracket which supports the pawnbroker’s sign is awry, and threatens every minute to fall. Apart from this unfortunate all else flourishes. The burly butcher, seated outside the inn with no fear of the Sheriff in his heart, quaffs his pewter mug of foaming ale, and casts now and again an eye on the artist who is repainting the signboard. The sturdy smith, the drayman, the porter and the fishwife—all are well clad and prosperous. Houses are being built, others are being repaired, and health and wealth are visible on every side. Beer! happy produce of our isle, Can sinewy strength impart, And wearied with fatigue and toil, Can cheer each manly heart. Labour and art upheld by thee, Successfully advance, We quaff thy balmy juice with glee; And water leave to France. Genius of Health! thy grateful taste Rivals the cup of Jove, And warms each English generous breast With liberty and love. Look now at the noisome slum where the demon Gin reigns triumphant. Squalor, poverty, hunger, wretchedness and sin are depicted on all sides. _Here_ flourish the pawnbroker and the keeper of the gin-palace—but the picture is too speaking a one to need comment. GIN. Gin! cursed fiend with fury fraught, Makes human race a prey, It enters by a deadly draught, And steals our life away. Virtue and truth, driven to despair, Its rage compels to fly, But cherishes with hellish care, Theft, murder, perjury. {18} Damn’d cup that on the vitals preys, That liquid fire contains, Which madness to the heart conveys, And rolls it through the veins. [Illustration: GIN LANE.] A medical writer of some thirty years ago says:— “There are well-meaning persons who wish now-a-days to rob, not only the poor, but the rich man of his beer. I am content to remember that Mary, Queen of Scots, was solaced in her dreary captivity at Fotheringay by the brown beer of Burton-on-Trent; that holy Hugh {19} Latimer drank a goblet of spiced ale with his supper the night before he was burned alive; that Sir Walter Raleigh took a cool tankard with his pipe, the last pipe of tobacco, on the very morning of his execution; and that one of the prettiest ladies with whom I have the honour to be acquainted, when escorting her on an opera Saturday to the Crystal Palace I falteringly suggested chocolate, lemonade and vanilla ices for her refreshment, sternly replied, ‘Nonsense, sir! Get me a pint of stout immediately.’ If the ladies only knew how much better they would be for their beer, there would be fewer cases of consumption for quacks to demonstrate the curability of.” The question of beer drinking as opposed to total abstinence, is one intimately connected with the welfare of the agricultural labourer. The lives of the majority of these persons are, it is to be feared, somewhat dull and cheerless. From early morn to dewy eve—work; the only prospect in old age—the workhouse. Weary in mind and body, the labourer returns to his cottage at nightfall. At supper he takes his glass of mild ale. It nourishes him, and the alcohol it contains, of so small a quantity as to be absolutely harmless, invigorates him and causes the too often miserable surroundings to appear bright and cheerful. Contentedly he smokes his pipe, chats sociably with his wife, and forgets for awhile the many long days of hard work in store for him. Soon the soporific influence of the hop begins to take effect, and the toiler retires to rest, to sleep soundly, forgetful of the cares of life. Then there is Saturday night, when the villagers meet at the alehouse, not perhaps so much to drink as to converse, and, with church-wardens in mouth and tankard at elbow, to settle the affairs of the State. The newspaper, a week old, is produced, and one, probably the village tailor or maybe the barber, reads passages from it. “A party of fuddled rustics in a beer-shop,” exclaims the teetotaler, with a sneer. Not so; one or two may have had their pewter tankards filled more often than is prudent, but the majority will be moderate, drinking no more than is good for them. Drunkenness and crime are not the outcome of the village alehouse; for them, go to the gin-palaces of the towns. Nothing, we feel certain, more tends to keep our agricultural labourers from intemperance than the easy means of obtaining cheap but pure beer. What we may term temperance legislation (unless it be of a criminal character, punishing excess by fines) will always defeat its own object. Shut up the alehouses, Sundays or week-days, and the poorer classes at once take to dram drinking. This subject will be found fully considered in the last chapter. {20} One does not hear much now-a-days of that gallant Knight, Sir John Barleycorn. The song writers of the past were, however, loud in his praises, and Sir John used to be as favourite a myth with the people of England as was our patron saint, St. George. Elton’s play of _Paul the Poacher_ commences with the following charming verses:— ODE TO SIR JOHN BARLEYCORN. Though the Hawthorn the pride of our hedges may be, And the rose our gardens adorn, Yet the flower that’s sweetest and fairest to me, Is the bearded Barleycorn. Then hey for the Barleycorn, The Bonny Barleycorn, No grain or flower Has half the power Of the Bearded Barleycorn. Tho’ the purple juice of the grape ne’er find Its way to the cup of horn, ’Tis little I care—for the draught to my mind, Is the blood of the Barleycorn. Then hey, &c. Tho’ the Justice, the Parson and eke the Squire, May flout us and hold us in scorn, Our staunch boon friend, the best Knight in the shire, Is stout Sir John Barleycorn. Then hey for John Barleycorn, The merry John Barleycorn, Search round and about, What Knight’s so stout As bold Sir John Barleycorn? A whimsical old pamphlet, the writer of which must have possessed keen powers of observation, is “_The Arraigning and Indicting of Sir John Barleycorn, Knight_, printed for Timothy Tosspot.” Sir John is described as of noble blood, well-beloved in England, a great support to the Crown, and a maintainer of both rich and poor. The trial takes place at the sign of the “Three Loggerheads,” before Oliver {21} and Old Nick his holy father. Sir John, of course, pleads not guilty to the charges made against him, which are, in effect, that he has compassed the death of several of his Majesty’s loving subjects, and brought others to ruin. Vulcan the blacksmith, Will the weaver, and Stitch the tailor, are called by the prosecution, and depose that after being first friendly with Sir John, they quarrel with him, and in the end get knocked down, bruised, their bones broken, and their pockets picked. Mr. Wheatley, the baker, complains that, whereas he was the most esteemed by Lords, Knights and Squires, he is now supplanted by the prisoner. Sir John, being called on for his defence, asks that his brother Malt may be summoned, and indicates that the fault, if any, lies mostly at Malt’s door. Malt is thereupon summoned, and thus addresses the Court:— “My Lords, I thank you for the liberty you now indulge me with, and think it a great happiness, since I am so strongly accused, that I have such learned judges to determine these complaints. As for my part, I will put the matter to the Bench—First, I pray you consider with yourselves, all tradesmen would live; and although Master Malt does make sometimes a cup of good liquor, and many men come to taste it, yet the fault is neither in me nor my brother John, but in such as those who make this complaint against us, as I shall make it appear to you all. “In the first place, which of you all can say but Master Malt can make a cup of good liquor, with the help of a good brewer; and when it is made, it will be sold. I pray you which of you all can live without it? But when such as these, who complain of us, find it to be good, then they have such a greedy mind, that they think they never have enough, and this overcharge brings on the inconveniences complained of, makes them quarrelsome one with another, and abusive to their very friends, so that we are forced to lay them down to sleep. From hence it appears it is from their own greedy desires all these troubles arise, and not from wicked designs of our own.” _Court._—“Truly we cannot see that you are in the fault. Sir John Barleycorn, we will show you as much favour that, if you can bring any person of reputation to speak to your character, the court is disposed to acquit you. Bring in your evidence, and let us hear what they can say in your behalf.” _Thomas the Ploughman._—“May I be allowed to speak my thoughts freely, since I shall offer nothing but the truth?” _Court._—“Yes, thou mayest be bold to speak the truth, and no {22} more, for that is the cause we sit here for; therefore speak boldly, that we may understand thee.” _Ploughman._—“Gentlemen, Sir John is of an ancient house, and is come of a noble race; there is neither lord, knight, nor squire, but they love his company and he theirs: as long as they don’t abuse him he will abuse no man, but doth a great deal of good. In the first place, few ploughmen can live without him; for if it were not for him we should not pay our landlords their rent; and then what could such men as you do for money and clothes? Nay, your gay ladies would care but little for you if you had not your rents coming in to maintain them; and we could never pay but that Sir John Barleycorn feeds us with money; and you would not seek to take away his life? For shame! let your malice cease and pardon his life, or else we are all undone.” _Bunch the Brewer._—“Gentlemen, I beseech you, hear me. My name is Bunch, a brewer; and I believe few of you can live without a cup of good liquor, nor more than I can without the help of Sir John Barleycorn. As for my own part, I maintain a great charge and keep a great many men at work; I pay taxes forty pounds a-year to his Majesty, God bless him, and all this is maintained by the help of Sir John; then how can any man for shame seek to take away his life?” _Mistress Hostess._—“To give evidence on behalf of Sir John Barleycorn gives me pleasure, since I have an opportunity of doing justice to so honourable a person. Through him the administration receives large supplies; he likewise greatly supports the labourer, and enlivens his conversation. What pleasure could there be at a sheep-clipping without his company, or what joy at a feast without his assistance? I know him to be an honest man, and he never abused any man if they abused not him. If you put him to death all England is undone, for there is not another in the land can do as he can do, and hath done; for he can make a cripple go, the coward fight, and a soldier feel neither hunger nor cold. I beseech you, gentlemen, let him live, or else we are all undone; the nation likewise will be distressed, the labourer impoverished, and the husbandman ruined.” _Court._—“Gentlemen of the jury, you have now heard what has been offered against Sir John Barleycorn, and the evidence that has been produced in his defence. It you are of opinion that he is guilty of those wicked crimes laid to his charge, and has with malice prepense conspired and brought about the death of several of his Majesty’s loving subjects, you are then to find him guilty; but, if, on the contrary, you are of {23} opinion that he had no real intention of wickedness, and was not the immediate, but only the accidental cause of these evils laid to his charge, then, according to the statute law of this kingdom you ought to acquit him.” Verdict—Not Guilty. A somewhat lengthy extract has been given from the report of the trial, because the facetious little narrative contains a moral as applicable at the present time as on the day on which the worthy Knight was acquitted. And now, dear reader, your introduction to Sir John Barleycorn being complete, it is for you, should the inclination be present, to become acquainted with all that pertains to him, from the barley-wine of the Egyptians and other nations of the far past to those excellent beverages in which the people of this country do now delight. On the way you will meet with strange things and strange people, queer customs and quaint sayings and songs; you will watch malting and brewing as it was carried on five hundred years ago; you will stand by while the Flemings, who have just come to London, brew beer with the assistance of a “wicked weed called hoppes;” meanwhile Parliament will re-enact strange sumptuary laws and order that you brew only two kinds of ale or beer; you will be at times in the bad company of dissolute alewives who will whisper sad scandals in your ear; fleeing from them, you will find yourself in a solemn place where lines on stone tell how, when he lived, he brewed good ale; then being perhaps sad at heart, you shall pass into the village ale-house and join the ploughboys in their merry chorus, or sit awhile with the roystering blades in some London tavern; later you shall see the sign and learn its signification and history, and delay a moment to read the verses over the door and admire the quaint architecture and curious carving. In the ale-house you will have tasted and drank wisely, let it be hoped, of London or Dublin black beer, of Plymouth white ale, of old Nappy and Yorkshire Stingo, and as many more as your head can stand. Then you shall take part in ancient ceremonies—wassailing, Church ales, bride ales, and the like; the merry sheep-shearers will sing for you, and for you the villagers shall dance round the ale-stake; then the old ballad-writers will lay before you their ballads praising ale, and headed with wood-cuts, humorous, but sometimes fearful to look upon. Having rested awhile in perusing these relics of the past, the doors of John Barleycorn’s greatest palaces will fly open before you, and while exploring these wonders of the present, you will chat pleasantly with {24} their founders, Dr. Johnson joining in with ponderous remarks on the brewery of his friend Thrale. The history of porter shall then be unfolded to you, after which you shall be introduced to the college butler, who is in the very act of compounding a noble wassail-bowl, and who, good man, whispers in your willing ear instructions for the making of a score or more of ale-cups; then the old Saxon leeches and their successors shall be summoned, and, in a language strange to modern ears, they shall relate how ale and certain herbs will cure all diseases; then shall you see a curious but not a wondrous sight—water passing through holes in teetotal arguments; and lastly the great French savant shall take you into his laboratory, and shall make you see in a grain of yeast a world of wonders. Last of all we beg you to treasure up in your memory these old lines:— He that buys land buys many stones, He that buys flesh buys many bones, He that buys eggs buys many shells, _But he that buys good ale buys nothing else_. [Illustration] {25} [Illustration]