Then there is Saturday night, when the villagers meet at the alehouse, not perhaps so much to drink as to converse, and, with church-wardens in mouth and tankard at elbow, to settle the affairs of the State. The newspaper, a week old, is produced, and one, probably the village tailor or maybe the barber, reads passages from it. “A party of fuddled rustics in a beer-shop,” exclaims the teetotaler, with a sneer. Not so; one or two may have had their pewter tankards filled more often than is prudent, but the majority will be moderate, drinking no more than is good for them. Drunkenness and crime are not the outcome of the village alehouse; for them, go to the gin-palaces of the towns. Nothing, we feel certain, more tends to keep our agricultural labourers from intemperance than the easy means of obtaining cheap but pure beer. What we may term temperance legislation (unless it be of a criminal character, punishing excess by fines) will always defeat its own object. Shut up the alehouses, Sundays or week-days, and the poorer classes at once take to dram drinking. This subject will be found fully considered in the last chapter. {20} One does not hear much now-a-days of that gallant Knight, Sir John Barleycorn. The song writers of the past were, however, loud in his praises, and Sir John used to be as favourite a myth with the people of England as was our patron saint, St. George. Elton’s play of _Paul the Poacher_ commences with the following charming verses:— ODE TO SIR JOHN BARLEYCORN. Though the Hawthorn the pride of our hedges may be, And the rose our gardens adorn, Yet the flower that’s sweetest and fairest to me, Is the bearded Barleycorn. Then hey for the Barleycorn, The Bonny Barleycorn, No grain or flower Has half the power Of the Bearded Barleycorn. Tho’ the purple juice of the grape ne’er find Its way to the cup of horn, ’Tis little I care—for the draught to my mind, Is the blood of the Barleycorn. Then hey, &c. Tho’ the Justice, the Parson and eke the Squire, May flout us and hold us in scorn, Our staunch boon friend, the best Knight in the shire, Is stout Sir John Barleycorn. Then hey for John Barleycorn, The merry John Barleycorn, Search round and about, What Knight’s so stout As bold Sir John Barleycorn?