Renish Wine,
that is to say, Elstertune and Barabant.
“The Elstertune,” says my informant, “are best, you shall know it by the Fat, for it is double bard and double pinned”—I have not the faintest idea what he means, but those are his words; “the Barabant is nothing so good, and there is not so much good to be done with them as with the other. If the Wines be good and pleasant, a man may rid away a Hogshead or two of White wine, and this is the most vantage a man can have by them; and if it be slender and hard, then take three or four gallons of stone-honey and clarify it cleane; then put into the honey four or five gallons of the same wine, and then let it seeth a great while, and put into it twopence in cloves bruised, let them seeth together, for it will take away the sent of honey; and when it is sodden take it off, and set it by till it be thorow cold; then take foure gallons of milke and order it as before, and then put all into your wine, and all to beate it; and (if you can) role it, for that is the best way; then stop it close and let it lie, and that will make it pleasant.”
Possibly, but it seems a deal of trouble to take over a wine.
And now let us adjourn to a more familiar subject, for discussion in the next chapter.
CHAPTER V 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.