In a speech made some years ago Sir Michael Hicks-Beach observed that nearly one million sterling’s worth of tobacco was wasted annually by throwing away cigarette-ends and the stumps of cigars. But what would you, Sir Michael? Are the lieges to cremate their lips and singe their moustaches by smoking on to the (literally) bitter end? Whether or no, it is tolerably certain that there is an enormous daily waste in the matter of in­tox­i­ca­ting drinks—without counting the wanton, although con­sci­en­tious, des­truc­tion made by teetotal magnates. According to statistics—I shall not madden my readers with many of these—more than £138,000,000 {62} are spent annually in Great Britain on spirituous liquors. Half of this sum, it may be fairly stated, is spent in the provinces. It may also be taken as read that 5 per cent of beer and stout is wasted, in the way of froth, spillings, and leavings, and 3 per cent of spirits. This brings us face to face with the calculation that the value of our daily waste in drinks is nearly £6500. Carbonic acid gas is undoubtedly answerable for a lot of this waste. In The Old Guard, a musical piece produced at the Avenue Theatre some years ago, Mr. Arthur Roberts in his instructions to Miss Phyllis Broughton—who made a very comely stage barmaid—particularly enjoined her, when drawing ale, to use her left hand to bring the handle down.

“The right hand,” he observed—of course it was all “gag”—“is for the froth.” And then he shewed her how to make half a pint of liquor fill a pint measure. Of course there be some professional imbibers who would object strongly and refuse to accept the froth programme; but on the other hand it pays the retailer, in the long-run. I am not going to re-tell the old story of the Quaker; but will only mention that in the early seventies the landlord of a favourite tavern in the Strand—a house of call for histrions, which has since then been transmogrified and adorned with much bevelled glass and carved walnut—once confided to me that he made every bit of £300 per annum out of his froth. His barmaids were all of angelic appearance, with most beautiful heads of hair (the girls wore plenty of it in those days) and a wealth of pretty prattle. And the {63} customers being susceptible, and liberal-minded, the rest was easy.

Egyptian manuscripts written at least 3000 years before the Christian era shew conclusively that even at that primitive period the man­u­fac­ture of an intoxicating liquor from barley or other grain was extensively carried out in Egypt. Probably the wretched Israelites got far more birch and bastinado than beer given them whilst engaged in brickmaking; but it is quite on the cards that Cleopatra, when fatigued with practising the spot stroke on her billiard-table, often commanded one of her slaves to draw her a pint of bitter with a head on it; and who knows but that her beloved Antony cooled his coppers with small ale?

Pliny—who would be a useful sort of man to have in a daily newspaper office nowadays—records that in his time a fermented drink made from “corn and water” was in regular use in all the districts of Europe with which he was acquainted. But in Britain little was known about beer before the Roman conquest, as the favourite beverages of our ancestors were mead and cider. But the Romans, although they never quite succeeded in subduing the stubborn dispositions of the “barbarians,” managed to teach them a bit of husbandry, and to shew them something about brewing. There were no means of making wine in those days, and—save in Wales—there were no grapes to make it with; but the Latins were not long in teaching the Britons—who were never slow to learn anything which might lead to revelry—that a very good {64} substitute for wine might be expressed from grain and water. Hops were undoubtedly known in England before the conquest, but do not appear to have been regularly used in brewing before the be­gin­ning of the sixteenth century. It is probable, therefore, that they were employed as medicine—and there is no better tonic than your hop. The Germans would seem to have brewed with the “wicked weed” before the Englanders did, according to the omniscient Pliny.

The horny-handed son of toil, who can put away his four or five gallons daily during harvest-time, without falling off the waggon, may not know it, but it is only the female hop which is used by the brewer of to-day. The char­ac­ter­is­tics of the he-hop are not known to the writer, or whether he plays any part in aiding to relieve the thirst of the lieges; but the female is said to exercise “a purifying, a preservative, and an aromatic influence over the wort.”

It used to be a popular fallacy that the beer made at Burton-on-Trent was brewed from Trent water, instead of, as was and is the case, from spring-water, which is eminently suited to the purpose. The chief industry at Burton was, originally, cotton-spinning, but fifty years ago this industry was discontinued owing to the triumphal march of John Barleycorn. Why spin cotton when the man­u­fac­ture of beer is not only a much healthier occupation but is far more lucrative? So Burton stuck to its beer-making, a trade which was originally established {65} there—in a very small way—in the sixteenth century. There appears to have been a demand for Burton ale in London, during the reign of Charles I.; although details are missing as to whether the demand extended to the royal palaces. It is certain, however, that more than one hundred years ago Burton-on-Trent did a considerable export trade with the Baltic. In 1791 there were nine breweries here, and in 1851 sixteen. But at the be­gin­ning of the present century, until the last-named year, when the great Exhibition attracted all the world and his wife to England, the breweries at Burton were not all in a flourishing condition; and I have more than once heard my grandfather—who spoke from personal knowledge—tell the story of how the late Mr. Michael Thomas Bass most magnanimously offered to “prop up” another large firm, with the remark, “There’s room enough for us both here!”

Bass

aforementioned that Burton-on-Trent in general, and the great firm of Bass are in their present flourishing condition. In the words of Shakespeare, “He was a man; take him for all in all we shall not look upon his like again.” Beginning as traveller to the firm, he was not long ere {66} he became its chief director. He was untiring in business, a man possessing the broadest views of men and things, a bit crotchety on occasion, but possessed of “that most excellent gift of charity,” in boundless supplies. Amongst his other benefactions was the building and endowment of St. Paul’s, Burton, and the gift of recreation grounds, a free library, and swimming-baths to the adjacent town of Derby. He also built and endowed another church on his own estate, at Rangemore; and his hand was never out of his cash-pocket when he could aid in a good work. He represented Derby, in the Liberal interest, from 1848 to 1883, and was a tower of strength to that party, albeit possessed of nothing like bigoted opinions. On the contrary, it was his custom through life, like Hal o’ the Wynd in The Fair Maid of Perth, to “fight for his own hand.” And as an instance of his energy and grit, it may be mentioned that after voting in the House of Commons for Mr. Gladstone’s Irish Church Disestablishment Bill—the division on which did not take place till 2 A.M.—he travelled by the “newspaper train” at 5 A.M. from Euston to Rugeley in order to hunt with Mr. Hugo Meynell Ingram’s hounds, later in the morning, changing his clothes on the way down. The meet was at Brereton Hayes, close to Cunnock Chase, and I well remember greeting him that morning, and receiving for a reply: “Thank you, I’m pretty well for an old ’un.” He was over seventy (I think) at the time. That was three decades ago; and since then the trade of Bass has increased enormously. {67} For the annual holiday of the staff I should be afraid to state from memory how many special trains are required to convey the great hive of workers to Brighton, and other far-distant watering-places, and back to Burton again. In short, it would be hard to find a spot in the inhabited world in which the name of Bass is not known and respected.

I mentioned further back Scotch and English barleys as being employed for malting purposes; but as a matter of fact the produce of many countries is used, in a blend, the whole being divided into two classes, heavy and light. And in making choice of barleys it is necessary that they should be thoroughly and equally ripened, well “got” or harvested, and as far as possible presented to the brewer in the perfect husk or envelope with which nature has furnished the kernel. Ancient and modern modes of thrashing and dressing to a greater or less extent damage both the husk and the kernel, and thus at the very threshold introduce one of the causes of disease. Whenever the grain is broken or bruised it is liable to be attacked when moist by a variety of moulds which lead to more or less serious disaster.

Of the different varieties of beer, “pale ale” or “bitter” is a highly-hopped beer made from the very finest selected malt and hops; whilst “mild ale,” or as it is called in Scotland “sweet ale,” is of greater gravity or strength, and is comparatively lightly hopped. “Old ale” is, naturally, the best stuff that can be brewed, in a state of maturity; and it is a peculiarity of ale {68} that, securely bottled, it will keep its strength far longer than any other fermented drink. In December 1889 some bottles of beer were found walled up in a cellar at Burton-on-Trent; and the records of the firm, as well as the shape of the bottles, shewed that the beer had been brewed nearly a hundred years before. It was as bright as a sunbeam, and quite drinkable, but had lost its bitterness, and assumed the character of sherry. But old ale, like old brandy, is of little value to the toper, in that it takes a very minute quantity to accomplish in him the desired effect—oblivion. “Audit” ales and “college” ditto require very delicate handling of the jug; and I have tasted ancient beer in Allsopp’s cellars in Burton, a wine-glassful of which would probably have put a coal-whipper on his back. It was the colour of mahogany and oh! so seductive.

Porter, as most people know, is a black beer, brewed in much the same manner as the other stuff, with roasted malt to give it colour; whilst stout is simply a superior kind of porter. As for the lager beer of the Fatherland it is fermented at a very low temperature, the fermentation being longer delayed. Some years ago great stress was laid on the German system of mashing called the “thick mash,” which consisted of boiling or cooking a portion of the mash, and running it back and remixing it with the portion left in the tun; but it is now found possible to brew the finest lager beer with a slight modification of our own mashing method.

The sons of Britannia for a considerable period held aloof from this lager, which was {69} pronounced by some to be mere “hogwash,” and by others to consist principally of the juice of fir-cones and onions mixed with snow-water. The fir-cone flavour is, I believe, accounted for by the “pitching” of the barrels in which the beer is stored; but I don’t know where the oniony flavour comes from. The prejudice against this beer has long since departed from our midst; in fact it has become quite a favourite summer drink. It is generally considered less intoxicating than its English cousin. In fact the German students are in the habit of putting huge quantities thereof out of sight, on the occasion of passing examinations, and public rejoicings; and these “beer-drinkings” are, apparently, fully sanctioned by the authorities.

It has been written that it is to Dean Nowell, “classed by Fuller among the worthies of England,” that we are indebted for the discovery of bottled beer. According to Fuller, “this worthy, who was an en­thus­ias­tic fish­er­man, was one day angling in the Thames; but at the very time when he was trying to catch perch to carry to the frying-pan, that benighted bigot Bishop Bonner was trying to catch him to tie him to the stake for pur­poses of cremation, to the glory of the old religion. The reverend gen­tle­man heard that he was ‘wanted,’ left his fishing, and fled as far from the Thames as he could, leaving untasted in a safe place a bottle of beer which he had filled in the morning. Bonner’s day did not last long, and Dean Nowell was soon able to return to his old haunts. Fishing as usual, he went to look after his bottle of beer, and {70} found that it had turned into a species of gun—it exploded its contents, when touched.” Thus Nature, which is ever kind, turned the martyrdom and misery of Bloody Mary’s reign to good—it brought about bottled beer. The Dean un­bos­omed himself of his great dis­covery to his clerical friends, and the clergy let it out gradually to the laity.