“It is not in my power,” says Pennant in the work we have before quoted, “to trace the progress of this important article of trade. Let me only say that it is now a national concern; for the duty on malt from July 5th, 1785, to the same day 1786, produced a million and a half of money to the support of the State, from a liquor which invigorates the bodies of its willing subjects, to defend the blessings they enjoy. One of these Chevaliers de Malte (as an impertinent Frenchman styled a most respectable gentleman of the trade) has, within one year, contributed not less than fifty thousand pounds to his own share.”
The person to whom the Frenchman applied the title of Chevalier de Malte was Humphrey Parsons, a brewer of last century, and the incident which gave rise to the name has already been referred to.
Pennant gives a list of the chief porter brewers of London at the end of last century, with the number of barrels of strong beer they brewed from Midsummer, 1786, to Midsummer, 1787. Samuel Whitbread heads the list with 150,280 barrels, and among the others may be noted Calvert, now the City of London Brewery; Hester Thrale, now Barclay and Perkins; W. Read; and Richard Meux. Most of the other names, though famous in their day and generation, are not familiar to the modern reader. The total amount produced by some twenty-four of the chief London brewers was considerably over one million barrels.
It is interesting to contrast the state of the Brewing trade a hundred years ago with the proportions to which it has attained to-day. According to a Parliamentary return made in 1884, there are now six brewers of the United Kingdom who produce annually over three and a half million barrels of malt liquor, and who pay to the revenue in Licence and Beer duty nearly one million and a half sterling per annum. {369}
A fine flavour has occasionally been given to stout by extraordinary means, as witness the following legend, entitled
PATENT BROWN STOUT.
A Brewer in a country town Had got a monstrous reputation; No other beer but his went down. The hosts of the surrounding station, Carving his name upon their mugs, And painting it on every shutter; And though some envious folks would utter, Hints that its flavour came from drugs, Others maintained ’twas no such matter, But owing to his monstrous vat, At least as corpulent as that At Heidelberg—and some said fatter.
His foreman was a lusty Black, An honest fellow; But one who had a ugly knack Of tasting samples as he brewed, Till he was stupefied and mellow. One day in this top-heavy mood, Having to cross the vat aforesaid, (Just then with boiling beer supplied), O’ercome with giddiness and qualms he Reel’d—fell in—and nothing more was said, But in his favourite liquor died, Like Clarence in his butt of Malmsey.
In all directions round about The negro absentee was sought, But as no human noddle thought That our fat Black was now Brown Stout, They settled that the rogue had left The place for debt, or crime, or theft. Meanwhile the beer was day by day Drawn into casks and sent away, Until the lees flowèd thick and thicker, When, lo! outstretched upon the ground, Once more their missing friend they found, As they had often done before—in liquor. {370}
“See,” cried his moralising master, “I always knew the fellow drank hard, And prophesied some sad disaster: His fate should other tipplers strike, Poor Mungo! there he welters like A toast at bottom of a tankard!”