Romford, in Essex, is known to the few as the birthplace of Sir Anthony Cooke and Francis Quarles, the poet; but to the many it is the source whence come certain excellent and deservedly popular ales. Through the town wanders a little stream now called the Rom, but described in old country Maps as the Bourne Brooke, and which in the fifteenth century was called the Mercke-dyche.[67] Towards the close of the eighteenth century there stood by the bridge which carries the High Street over this rivulet, a small Inn called the Star. The innkeeper, according to the fashion of the times, brewed his own beer, and at the rear of his hostel was a small brewhouse. His mash tub was no doubt of modest dimensions, and his “liquor” was possibly drawn from the Mercke-dyche, for in that day pure water could be got from most streams and rivers. Now, sad to say, an unpolluted stream is almost unknown, and nine wells supply the water which, with a due admixture of malt and hops, forms that admirable compound known as Romford Ale. [67] It is curious that the river now takes its name from the town, and not _vice versa_, as is generally the case. “Romford” is mentioned in the Red Book of the Exchequer in 1166, when the stream was called the Mercke-dyche. Some antiquarians derive the word from Roman-ford, but it probably simply means broad-ford, the first syllable being the Saxon word for broad and akin to roomy. In the year 1799 two important events happened in the town. That which probably created the most profound sensation among the inhabitants was the death of a most eccentric person, James Wilson, the corpulent butcher of Romford. This worthy was in the habit of going to church on Sunday sometime before the hour of service, and loudly singing psalms by himself, until the minister came to the desk. On the last fast-day before his death he remained in church between morning and evening services, repeating the Lord’s Prayer and singing psalms in each of the pews, only leaving the church when there remained no pew in which he had not performed his devotions. Another peculiarity was the peripatetic manner in which he sometimes took his meals. Armed with a shoulder of mutton in one hand, some salt in the bend of his arm, a small loaf, and a large knife, he would wander up and down the street until all was consumed. He was, moreover, an {352} excellent penman, as the vestry books to this day witness, and his meat bills were well worthy of framing. One line would be in German text, another in Roman characters; no two meats being written in the same coloured ink. The death of such a man naturally attracted more attention than the second event alluded to, a small commercial transaction, which we venture to think was of more importance to the community at large than the decease of the butcher. This was the purchase of the Star Inn and Brewery by Mr. Ind, who, in conjunction with a Mr. Grosvenor, carried on the business of a brewer.