_Sir J._ Hopp’d? why if it had hopp’d a little further it would have hopp’d into the river. O, my lord, my ale is meat, drink, and cloth; it will make a cat speak and a wise man dumb. _Lady S._ I was told ours was very strong. _Sir J._ Ay, madam, strong of the water; I believe the brewer forgot the malt, or the river was too near him. Faith, it is mere whip-belly vengeance; he that drinks most has the worst share. _Col._ I believe, Sir John, ale is as plenty as water at your house. _Sir J._ Why, faith, at Christmas we have many comers and goers; and they must not be sent away without a cup of Christmas ale for fear they should—— _Lady S._ I hear Sir John has the nicest garden in England; they say ’tis kept so clean that you can’t find a place where to spit. _Sir J._ O, madam; you are pleased to say so. _Lady S._ But, Sir John, your ale is terribly strong and heady in Derbyshire, and will soon make one drunk or sick; what do you then? _Sir J._ Why, indeed, it is apt to fox one; but our way is to take a hair of the same dog next morning. I take a new-laid egg for breakfast; and faith one should drink as much after an egg as after an ox. Thompson, in his _Autumn_, makes reference to the strong October brew. Nor wanting is the brown October, drawn Mature and perfect from his dark retreat Of thirty years; and now his honest front Flames in the light refulgent, not afraid Even with the vineyard’s best produce to vie. {61} Seldom, it may be imagined, even in the sphere of domestic brewing, has so small a “browst” been brewed as that described by Hone in his _Table Book_ as having been made by Widow Wood, of Beckenham Alms House. She brewed with her ordinary cooking utensils, and the fireplace of her little room; a tin kettle served her for boiler, she mashed in a common butter-firkin, ran off the liquor in a “crock,” and tunned it in a small beer barrel. She thought that poor folk might do a great deal for themselves if they only knew how; “but,” said she, “where there’s a will there’s a way.”