There’s an odd sort of liquor New come from Hamborough, ’Twill stick a whole wapentake Thorough and thorough; ’Tis yellow, and likewise As bitter as gall, And as strong as six horses, Coach and all. As I told you ’twill make you, As drunk as a drum; You’d fain know the name on’t, But for that my friend, _mum_. Readers of Sir Walter Scott will remember that Mr. Oldbuck is described at breakfast as despising the modern slops of tea and coffee and substantially regaling himself “more majorum, with cold roast beef and mum.” An Act of Parliament, which was passed annually during the greater part of the first half of this century, prescribed certain duties on “malt, mum, cyder and perry,” and a tale is told that when Mr. Perry, editor of the _Morning Chronicle_, was indicted for libel, he conducted his own case, and by his able defence secured a verdict of “Not guilty.” Cobbett, who was shortly afterwards tried on a similar charge, also conducted his own defence, but was convicted. Erskine remarked that Cobbett had tried to be Perry, when he should have been mum. In the eighteenth century patriotic sentiment was invoked to support the failing popularity of mum, as may be gathered from the old work _Political Merriment, or Truths to some Tune_ (1714), in which these lines occur:— Now, now true Protestants rejoice, Stand by your laws and King, Now you’ve proclaimed the nation’s choice, Let traitorous rebels swing; {175} Let Royal George, the Papists scourge, To England quickly come; His health till then, let honest men, Drink all in Brunswick Mum. But all would not avail, and the liquor is now as dead as Christopher Mummer, the first inventor of it. There is a tradition lingering in the northern parts of this island, that the Picts possessed the secret of making an ale from heather. Sir David Smith, in a MS. in the possession of the Duke of Northumberland, mentions a large trough cut in the solid rock at Kutchester, near the Roman wall. “The old peasants,” he says, “have a tradition that the Romans made a beverage somewhat like beer, of the bells of heather, and that this trough was used in the process of making it.” The tradition in Caithness runs that three Picts—an old blind man and his two sons—survived the rest of their race; that these alone of all mankind possessed the secret of making heather ale; that they guarded their secret with jealous care, and that they were in consequence much persecuted by their conquerors. At last the old Pict, in answer to the frequent importunities of his persecutors, promised to tell the secret, on condition that his two sons should be put to death. This was done, but the task was as far from accomplishment as ever, and nothing could be got from the old man but the truly Delphic words which are handed down in the couplet:— Search Brockwin well out and well in, And barm for heather crop you’ll find within. The secret died with him.