As much poetry has been written in praise of John Bar­ley­corn as in praise of wine, woman, battles, heroes, Cupid’s darts, and patent med­i­cines. And one dear old song, which seems to ring in my ears as I write, proclaimed that in the opinion of the author the nectar which the gods imbibed from golden goblets on the top of Mount Olympus was in reality cool, re­fresh­ing pale ale, quaffed out of pewter tankards. Whether this was so matters not, but as to the antiquity of beer as a beverage there can be no question; and however much the demand for other liquors may have slackened during the rolling on of time, John Barleycorn is still growing in public estimation. Breweries keep on {49} springing up all over the country, and those who purchase shares in them receive, for the most part, sub­stan­tial div­i­dends. “Beer and the Bible” have won more elections than any other combination; the organ­i­za­tion of the brewers has hitherto proved powerful enough to withstand all the slings and arrows of the Prohibition party, whilst there has been an enormous increase in the value of houses licensed to sell fermented refreshment; and the name of Bass will “live on,” like Claudian, “through the centuries.”

There be more than one description of beer put before the public. I forget at this moment who was responsible for the “swipes” of my school days, which tasted like red ink—and I have sampled both—but I have always believed that the man­u­fac­turer—I do not believe him to have been a brewer at all—had a special spite against the rising generation, which he wished to die a lingering death. The “ninepenny” quaffed beneath the holy shade of Henry was good, sound, wholesome tipple; but I fancy an inferior brand was poured forth to us at “half time” in the football field. Since those days I have tasted pretty nearly all sorts and conditions of beer, from the “Number One” Bass drawn from the wood in pewter pots, in a little hostelry just off the Waterloo Road—the very best according to my taste—to the awful stuff tasted, and only tasted, one Sunday in a charmingly rural-looking little inn, with a thatched roof—a licensed house which apparently laid itself out to entrap the daring and enterprising “bona fide traveller,” and whose malt liquor was apparently composed for {50} the most part of vinegar and dirty water, in which had been soaked quassia chips, salt, bloater-heads, and some of the thatch from the roof.

Beer was the current name in England for every description of malt liquor before the introduction of “the wicked weed called hops” from the Netherlands in 1524. According to the Alvismal, a didactic Scandinavian poem of the tenth century, this malt liquor was called ale amongst men, and beer by the gods; and it was probably from this Scandinavian poem that the author of the anything-but-didactic poem quoted above got his ideas as to the real nature of the beverage partaken of on Olympus. In the Eastern counties of England, and over the greater part of the kingdom, ale signifies strong, and beer small, malt liquor, but in the West these names mean exactly the reverse—which must be confusing in the extreme to the intelligent foreigner on his travels in search of facts and—refreshment. As now used, ale is distinguished from beer—I am alluding to the more civilized parts of our country—chiefly by its strength, and by the quantity of sugar remaining in it undecomposed. Strong ale is made from the best pale malt, and the fermentation is allowed to proceed slowly, and the ferment to be exhausted and separated. This, together with the large quantity of sugar still left undecomposed, enables the liquor to keep long, without requiring a large amount of hops.

The last few lines may give the reader the impression that the writer served his time in Burton-on-Trent; but this is not the case. I {51} have conveyed the bulk of my technical knowledge of brewing from standard works on the subject.

It will be gathered from some previous remarks that all is not beer that’s bitter; and although it would seem impossible to find a cleaner, healthier, or more strengthening drink than the “pure beer” of commerce, brewed from good English or Scotch barley, Kentish hops, and fair spring-water, how about the wash sold in some licensed houses which is “fetched up” with foot-sugar, bittered with quassia, and mixed with salt and any nasty flavourer which is handy?

The old stories about the carcass of a horse placed in the London stout, to give it “body,” and the mysterious disappearance of an Italian organ-grinder, together with his monkey and infernal machine, just outside a high-class brewery, are probably apocryphal. And although the ancients undoubtedly put a red cock—the older the better—into ale, on occasion, the nineteenth century Briton, for the most part, if the rooster be too tough to serve as a boiled bonne bouche with parsley-and-butter, usually makes Cock-a-Leekie of him. And thereby hangs a tale.

When my firm was running a small chicken-ranche we once reared an unfortunate fowl, who had curvature of the spine, almost from the fracture of his shell. He was a weakling, and his brethren and sistren, after the manner of birds, beasts, and fishes, who “go for” the anÆmic and infirm, persecuted him exceedingly, and peeked most of his feathers off. Being a {52} merciful, and withal a thrifty, poultry-farmer, I looked out an old parrot’s cage from the tool-shed, and in this cage installed the weakly cockerel. He was forthwith christened “Poor Richard,” and given little Benjamin’s share of the corn and wine, and cayenne pepper and—other things. And although his head was still slewed round to starboard, he thrived under his liberal nourishment and freedom from the assaults of his relatives.

Time flew on. I had been the “Northern Circuit,” in the pursuit of my then profession of reporter of the sport of kings. I returned home late on a Saturday night, and next day we had friends to dinner. So much North Country language, and so much travelling about had quite put our feathered and afflicted pensioner out of my head; and even the fact of our having the favourite broth of His Majesty King James the First for dinner did not suggest anything to my busy brain. But afterwards, when we were alone—she ought not to have done it—my life-partner confided to me that I had helped to eat “Poor Richard”! And I felt like a very cannibal; and mourned the bird as a brother.

Now for the brewing of strong Ale, because it is drinke of no such long lasting as Beere is, therefore you shall brew lesse quantity at a time thereof, as two bushels of Northerne measure (which is foure bushels or halfe a quarter in the South) at a brewing, and not above, which will make foureteene gallons of the best Ale. Now for the mashing and ordering of it in the mash-fat, it will not differ any thing from that of Beere; as for hops, although some use not to put in any, yet the best Brewers thereof will allow to foureteene gallons of Ale a good espen full of hops, and no more, yet before you put in your hops, as soone as you take it from the graines, you shall put it into a vessell, and change it, or blinke it in this manner: Put into the Wort a handfull of Oke-bowes and a pewter dish, and let them lye therein till the Wort looke a little paler than it did at the first, and then presently take out the dish and the leafe, and then boile it a full houre with the hops, as aforesayd, and then clense it, and set it in vessels to cook; when it is milk-warme, having set your Barme to rise with some sweete Wort; then put all into the guilfat, and as soone as it riseth, with a dishe or bowle beate it in, and so keepe it with continuall beating a day and a night, and after run it. From this Ale you may also draw halfe so much very good middle Ale, and a third part very good small Ale.

To a barrel of beer take two bushels of malt and half a bushel of wheat just crackt in the mill, and some of the flour lifted out of it; when your {54} water is scalding hot, put it in your mashing-fat; there let it stand till you can see your face in it; then put your malt upon it, then put your wheat upon that, and do not stir it; let it stand two hours and a half; then let it run into a tub that has two pounds of hops in it, and a handful of rosemary flowers, and when ’tis all run put it in your copper and boil it two hours; then strain it off, setting it a-cooling very thin, and set it a-working very cool; clear it very well before you put it a-working, put a little yeast to it; when the yeast begins to fall, put it into your vessel, and when it has done working in the vessel, put in a pint of whole wheat and six eggs; then stop it up, let it stand a year, and then bottle it. Then mash again, stir the malt very well in, and let it stand two hours, and let that run, and mash again, and stir it as before; be sure you cover your mashing-fat well up, mix the first and second running together; it will make good household beer.

I rather fancy the blend­ing of a lot of eggs (pre­sum­ably new-laid) with the mash, would “break” some of the smal­ler brewers. It could hardly be done at the price.

I will now give a few modern recipes for tasty beer-compounds. {55}

“Sir quod he,” is part of a conversation culled from an old MS., “Watsayll, for never days of your lyf ne dronk ye of such a cuppe,” which sounds as if the Watsayll was of a seductive and harmful nature. Nev­er­the­less here is the recipe, taken from “Oxford Nightcaps.”

Put into a bowl half a pound of Lisbon sugar (if you do not possess that brand, I have no doubt “best lump,” pulverized, will do as well), and pour on it one pint of warm beer; grate a nutmeg and some ginger into it; add four glasses of sherry and five additional pints of beer; stir it well and sweeten to taste; let it stand covered up two or three hours, then put three or four slices of bread cut thin and toasted brown into it, and it is fit for use. Sometimes two or three slices of lemon are introduced, together with a few lumps of sugar rubbed on the peel of a lemon. Bottle this mixture, and in a few days it may be drunk in a state of effervescence.

On the festival of St. David, an immense silver-gilt bowl, the gift of Sir Watkin W. Wynne to {57} the college in 1732 is filled with this “swig,” and passed round, at Jesus College. And I should prefer to call the beverage “swig” instead of “wassail,” which should properly be a hot drink, if we are to believe the illustrated papers at Christmas-time. And there is no toast in the orthodox Wassail, but, instead, roasted apples. What does Puck say in A Midsummer Night’s Dream?

Dissolve a quarter of a pound of brown sugar in one pint of water, slice a lemon into it, let it stand a quarter of an hour, then add a small quantity of pulverised cloves and cinnamon, half a pint of brandy, and one quart of good strong ale; stir it well together, put a couple of slices of toasted bread in it, grate some nutmeg and ginger over the toast, and it is fit for use. Ice it well, and it will prove a good summer, warm it and it will become a pleasant winter, beverage. It is drunk chiefly at dinner.

Rather heavily loaded for a dinner drink, I should say.

Beat well together in a jug, four eggs with a quarter of a pound of sifted sugar; then add by degrees, stirring all the time, two quarts of old Burton ale, and half a pint of gin; pour backwards and forwards from one jug to another, and when well frothed serve in tumblers. Grate a little nutmeg atop of each portion. This is one of the best “nightcaps” I know—especially after you may have been badger-hunting, or burgling, or serenading anybody on Christmas Eve.

Such compound drinks, into which ale enters, as Shandy-gaff require no mention here. Suffice it to mention that this gaff has for many years been the favourite beverage of those who go up the river—there is but one river in England—in boats, whether schoolboys, or of riper years. In Stock Exchange circles champagne is occasionally substituted for ginger-beer, but this is a combination in which I have no implicit belief; although champagne and Guinness’s stout make an excellent mixture. Stout and bitter, otherwise known as

The following stanzas are taken from one of these contributions:— {60}

After all, the potion is simplicity itself:—

Three quarts of ale, sweetened with sifted sugar, and served up in a bowl with six roasted apples floating in it.