GLORIOUS BEER
Nectar on Olympus — Beer and the Bible — “Ninepenny” at Eton — “Number
One” Bass — “The wicked weed called hops” — All is not beer that’s
bitter — Pathetic story of “Poor Richard” — Secrets of brewing —
Gervase Markham — An “espen” full of hops — Eggs in ale — Beer soup
— The wassail bowl — Sir Watkin Wynne — Brown Betty — Rumfustian —
Mother-in-law — A delightful summer drink — Brasenose ale.
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.
But to return. In Queen Elizabeth’s reign it was, I used to believe, a
capital offence to put hops into beer. But these are the directions for
_Brewing of Strong Ale_,
issued by one Gervase Markham, an authority on the subject, and a
contemporary of Shakespeare; and in these directions “hops” are
distinctly mentioned as one of the component parts of the brew. {53}
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.
Another way
_To make Strong Beer_
was published at a later date than the above, and to my thinking is not
a better way.
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.
The Germans make
_Beer Soup._
Whether this is made from British or lager beer is not stated in the
recipe before me, which hardly reads suited to the ordinary English
palate.
I will now give a few modern recipes for tasty beer-compounds. {55}
_Ale Cup (Cold)._
Squeeze the juice of a lemon into a round of hot toast; lay on it a
thin piece of the rind, a tablespoonful of powdered sugar, a little
grated nutmeg or powdered all-spice, and a sprig of balm. Pour over
these one wine-glass of brandy, two of sherry, and three pints of mild
ale. Do not allow the balm to remain in many minutes.
_Ale Flip (Hot)._
Put into a saucepan three pints of ale, a tablespoonful of sugar,
a blade of mace, a clove, and a small piece of butter, and bring
the liquor to a boil. Beat the white of one egg and the yolks of
two thoroughly, mixing with them a tablespoonful of cold ale. Mix
all together, and then pour the whole rapidly from one large jug to
another, from a good height—mind your fingers and the furniture—for
some minutes, to froth it thoroughly. Do not allow it to get cool.
_Ale Posset (Hot)._
Boil a pint of new milk, and pour it over a slice of toasted bread.
Stir in the beaten yolk of an egg and a small piece of butter, and
sugar _ad lib._ Mix these with a pint of hot ale, and boil for a few
minutes. When the scum rises the mixture is ready for use.
_Mulled Ale (Very Hot)._
Put half a pint of ale, a clove, a little whole ginger, a piece of
butter the size of a marble, and a teaspoonful of sugar into a
saucepan, and bring {56} it to boiling-point. Beat two eggs with a
tablespoonful of cold ale, and pour the boiling ale into them, and
then into a large jug. Pass the whole from one jug to another, as
in the case of Ale Flip, return to saucepan, and heat it again till
almost, _not quite_, at boiling-point.
With regard to
_Wassail, or Swig (Cold)_,
which used to be a very popular beverage at the universities—at one
time it was peculiar to Jesus College, Oxford—is of very ancient date
indeed.
“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_?
Sometime lurk I in a gossip’s bowl,
In very likeness of a roasted crab,
And when she drinks against her lips I bob,
And on her wither’d dewlaps pour the ale.
_Brown Betty_
Here is another old recipe:—
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.
Another recipe for
_Ale Flip_
will serve, here. {58}
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.
_Rumfustian._
Beat up in a jug, the yolks of two eggs with a tablespoonful of sifted
sugar; then take half a pint of old Burton ale, one wine-glass of gin,
one wine-glass of sherry, a little spice and lemon rind. Let the ale,
wine, and gin, mixed together come to the boil, then pour in the egg
mixture, whisking rapidly; serve hot, with a little nutmeg grated atop.
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
_Mother-in-law_,
and old-and-mild, for which the pet name is {59}
_Uncle_,
are also in much request amongst the groundlings; whilst during the
warm weather I know of no more popular swallow, for moderate drinkers,
who do not require their throats to be scratched, than a small bottle
of lemonade to which is added just one “pull” of pale-ale. This is
called, for the sake of brevity, a
_Small Lem and a Dash_,
or the Poor Man’s Champagne; and is a refreshing and innocuous drink
which might commend itself to total abstainers.
In the Universities of Oxford and Cambridge there is probably as much
malt liquor drunk per head as in any other part of the world.
_Brasenose Ale_
has obtained a reputation which the beverage doubtless fully merits.
Since the foundation of this college a custom has prevailed of
introducing into the refectory on Shrove Tuesday, immediately after
dinner, what is denominated Brasenose Ale, but what is known in
many other parts of England as Lamb’s Wool. Verses in praise of
the Ale are—or at all events were—annually written by one of the
undergraduates, and a copy of them is sent to every resident member of
the College.
The following stanzas are taken from one of these contributions:— {60}
Shall all our singing now be o’er,
Since Christmas carols fail?
No! Let us shout one stanza more
In praise of Brasenose Ale!
A fig for Horace and his juice,
Falernian and Massic;
Far better drink can we produce,
Though ’tis not quite so classic.
Not all the liquors Rome e’er had
Can beat our matchless Beer;
Apicius’ self had gone stark mad
To taste such noble cheer.
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.
{61}