It is related that the Empress of Brazil, who a few years since visited the Brewery, went away under the impression—a not unnatural one—what beer was laid on like gas and water to all the houses in Dublin.
A small railway of 22-inch gauge, and which is altogether about two miles in length, penetrates every part of the Brewery. The rolling stock includes six locomotives and upwards of one hundred and sixty trucks and bogies.
The descent from the Brewery to the lower level of the river side has been engineered with remarkable skill. In order to avoid crossing the street which bisects the works a spiral tunnel has been constructed, by means of which the line descends thirty feet in three circuits, the diameter of which is only forty yards, while the gradient is 1 in 39. Much of the internal traffic of the Brewery is thus carried on with ease and rapidity by means of this unique underground railway.
So far as is possible in a Brewery which has been added to from time to time, advantage has been taken of the physical features of the locality in the general arrangement of the plant. Thus the finished beer runs by gravitation from the Brewery to the Racking Stores, which are situated upon the Quays. Full advantage has been taken of this excellent position, and the firm possesses a fleet of steamers and barges which convey the filled casks to the docks, a distance of a mile and a half. The Export trade is entirely carried on by river, while a branch line from the Great Southern and Western Railway terminus bears away many a train-load of porter every day, to be distributed over the whole length and breadth of Ireland.
We have already borne witness to the increasing popularity of porte in Ireland, and feel sure that no better thing could happen to the “distressful country” than that the drinking of whisky and the bad substitutes that are sold under that name should be brought within {351} reasonable limits, and that malt liquor should become the daily drink of every Irish farmer, who from that source will find, to again quote Grattan’s words, “the means of Health with all her flourishing consequences, and the cure of intoxication with all her misery.”
Romford, in Essex, is known to the few as the birthplace of Sir Anthony Cooke and Francis Quarles, the poet; but to the many it is the source whence come certain excellent and deservedly popular ales. Through the town wanders a little stream now called the Rom, but described in old country Maps as the Bourne Brooke, and which in the fifteenth century was called the Mercke-dyche.[67] Towards the close of the eighteenth century there stood by the bridge which carries the High Street over this rivulet, a small Inn called the Star. The innkeeper, according to the fashion of the times, brewed his own beer, and at the rear of his hostel was a small brewhouse. His mash tub was no doubt of modest dimensions, and his “liquor” was possibly drawn from the Mercke-dyche, for in that day pure water could be got from most streams and rivers. Now, sad to say, an unpolluted stream is almost unknown, and nine wells supply the water which, with a due admixture of malt and hops, forms that admirable compound known as Romford Ale.
[67] It is curious that the river now takes its name from the town, and not vice versa, as is generally the case. “Romford” is mentioned in the Red Book of the Exchequer in 1166, when the stream was called the Mercke-dyche. Some antiquarians derive the word from Roman-ford, but it probably simply means broad-ford, the first syllable being the Saxon word for broad and akin to roomy.
In the year 1799 two important events happened in the town. That which probably created the most profound sensation among the inhabitants was the death of a most eccentric person, James Wilson, the corpulent butcher of Romford. This worthy was in the habit of going to church on Sunday sometime before the hour of service, and loudly singing psalms by himself, until the minister came to the desk. On the last fast-day before his death he remained in church between morning and evening services, repeating the Lord’s Prayer and singing psalms in each of the pews, only leaving the church when there remained no pew in which he had not performed his devotions. Another peculiarity was the peripatetic manner in which he sometimes took his meals. Armed with a shoulder of mutton in one hand, some salt in the bend of his arm, a small loaf, and a large knife, he would wander up and down the street until all was consumed. He was, moreover, an {352} excellent penman, as the vestry books to this day witness, and his meat bills were well worthy of framing. One line would be in German text, another in Roman characters; no two meats being written in the same coloured ink. The death of such a man naturally attracted more attention than the second event alluded to, a small commercial transaction, which we venture to think was of more importance to the community at large than the decease of the butcher. This was the purchase of the Star Inn and Brewery by Mr. Ind, who, in conjunction with a Mr. Grosvenor, carried on the business of a brewer. Seventeen years later the partnership was dissolved, Mr. John Smith took the place of Mr. Grosvenor, and until 1845 the firm traded as Ind and Smith. In that year Mr. Smith sold his share in the Brewery, and Mr. O. E. Coope and his brother, George Coope, joined the firm, which then, for the first time, adopted its present title of Ind, Coope & Co.
A few years back the following epigram appeared in one of the London comic papers in connection with the name of the firm and Drink, the English version of the play L’Assomoir:—
The drunkards in the play of Drink All reeling in a group, O, Close on intoxication’s brink, Swill stronger stuff than soup, O, What is their liquor do you think?— It should be Ind and Coope, O (Coupeau).