Some time I was a tavernere, A gentel gossepp, and a tapstere Of wine and ale, a trusty brewer, Which woe hath me bewrought. Of cannes I kept no true measure, My cuppes I solde at my pleasure, Deceavinge many a creature, Tho’ my ale were nought. [Illustration: The Sad Fate of a Mediæval Ale-wife.] {126} The ale-wife is then carried off into Hell’s mouth by the attendant demons, and the play closes. The illustration is taken from a _miserere_ seat in Ludlow Church. The scene is a very similar one to that just described. A demon is about to cast the deceitful ale-wife into Hell’s mouth. She carries her gay head attire and her false measure. Another demon reads the roll of her offences, and a third is playing on the pipes by way of accompaniment. Elynour Rummynge, the celebrated ale-wife of Leatherhead in the reign of Henry VIII., has been handed down to fame by the pen of Skelton, the Poet Laureate of the day. It may be, as Mr. Dalloway, one of Skelton’s editors, suggests, that the poet made the acquaintance of Elynour while in attendance upon the Court at Nonsuch Palace, which was only eight miles from her abode. That the Laureate had a very intimate knowledge of this lady, may be gathered from his minute description of her unprepossessing person:― Her lothely lere Is nothynge clere But ugly of chere, * * * * * Her face all bowsy, Comely crynkled Wondrously wrinkled, Lyke a rost pigges eare, Brystled wyth here, * * * * * Her nose somdele hoked, And camously croked, Her skynne lose and slacke, Grained like a sacke; With a croked backe. * * * * * Her kyrtel Brystow red With clothes upon her hed That wey a sowe of led. {127} [Illustration: Eleanor Rummyng, Alewife. When Skelton wore the Laurell Crowne, My Ale put all the Ale-wiues downe. ] {128} Thus, and with many more unpleasing qualities, does the poet garnish the subject of his verse, going on to describe how— She breweth noppy ale And maketh thereof fast sale, To trauellers, to tynkers, To sweters, to swinkers And all good ale drynkers. So fond are many of her customers of her ale, that they will come to it, even though they cannot pay in coin of the realm. Instede of coyne and monney, Some brynge her a conny, And some a pot of honny, Some a salt, and some a spone, Some theyr hose, and some theyr shone. The writers of the Elizabethan age make frequent reference to the ale-wives. “Ask Marian Hacket, the ale-wife of Wincot,” says Christopher Sly, “if she know me not; if she say I am not fourteen pence on the score for sheer ale, score me up for the lyingest knave in Christendom.” One would think that the ale-wife mentioned in _The Knight of the Burning Pestle_ would have a large, if not a very lucrative, trade:—