Dr. Thudichum, in a work Alcoholic Drinks, published by the Executive Council of the late Health Exhibition, speaking of the supposition that hops are sometimes supplanted, entirely or in part, in the manufacture of beer by absynth, menyanthes, quassia, gentian, and other matters, regards such adulteration as rare and such as “if practised persistently would no doubt be discovered, and the liquids produced by their aid would be declined by the public.”
An Irish brewer told us of a rather comic incident connected with hop substitutes. A traveller in these commodities was in the habit of pestering our friend, who informed the man that he believed his wares were poisonous, and that he ought to eat some to prove the contrary. With a wry face the traveller swallowed a portion of his sample and shortly afterwards left. Coming again in a week’s time the same performance was gone through. The traveller made yet another visit, when the brewer said the experiment had not satisfied him, as so small a quantity of the hop had been eaten. This time the traveller outdid himself, and when and before leaving the brewery promised to write and inform the brewer if the bitter meal had any evil effects. Whether the traveller died, or whether he discovered that he had been befooled, we do not know, but nothing more was heard of him.
We believe that the importance of a supply of good, pure beer to the labouring classes of this country can hardly be over-estimated, particularly having regard to the fact—as we shall show with greater particularity, when we come to discuss the question of total abstinence as opposed to temperance, that malt liquors undoubtedly assist in the support of the body, and are in practical effect equivalent to so much easily digested food.
“Thou clears the head o’ doited lear, Thou cheers the heart o’ drooping care; {426} And strings the nerves o’ labour fair, At’s weary toil. Thou even brightens dark despair, Wi’ gloomy smile.”
Dr. Paris, from whose works we have already quoted, explains that it is the stimulus of the beer that proves so serviceable to the poor man, enabling his stomach to extract more aliment from his innutritive diet. “Happy is that country,” he writes, “whose labouring classes prefer such a beverage to the mischievous potations of ardent spirit.”
Barley wine is without doubt the wine of this country, and where shall we find, all the world over, a more stalwart, muscular, able-bodied race of labouring men than we find at home? The mighty thews of the English navigator are renowned, and not at home only, for it is well known that while the French railways were making, the contractors actually imported English “navvies” to do the heavy work, paying them higher wages than their French competitors.
We would commend to the attention of those who, as the phrase goes, would rob a poor man of his beer, the certainty that, though the evils of intoxication can hardly be exaggerated, yet in counselling the labouring classes everywhere, and under all circumstances, to abstain from all kinds of liquor, they are taking upon themselves a very grave responsibility.
The following old Somersetshire song has, we believe, at any rate in this form, never before appeared in print. It was taken down verbatim from the lips of the singer at a harvest-home. The verses no doubt lack the elegance of the productions of our greater English poets, but the composer, whoever he may have been, treated his subject with commendable vigour of expression, and “Robin Rough, the Plowboy,” illustrates in a remarkable manner the love of the agricultural labourer for his beer, and his belief in its health-giving qualities; a belief, by-the-bye, founded on many centuries of experience:—
I’ze Robin Rough, the plowboy, A plowman’s son am I, And like my thirsty feyther, My trottle is always a-dry, The world goes round, to me it’s reet, Why need I interfere? For I whistles and sings from morn till neet, And I smokes and I drinks my beer. {427} For I likes a drop of good beer, I does; I’ze fond of a drop of good beer, I is. Let gentlemen fine Sit down to their wine, But I will stick to my beer.
There’s Sally—that’s my wife, zurs— Likes beer as well as me, She’s the happiest woman in life, zurs, As happy as woman can be. She minds her work, Takes care of bairns, No gossiping neighbours near; When every Saturday neet returns, Like me she drinks her beer. For Sally likes her beer, she does, She’s fond of a drop of good beer, she is, Let gentlemen fine Sit down to their wine, But my Sally will stick to her beer.