“But of what sort of malt? ‘Another question for the swordsmen,’ for of ‘malts’ there are as many flavours, almost, as of vintages. They who think that if malt be but sweet, mealy, and well crushed—that is all—know, begging their pardons, little of the matter. We have heard brewers, who thought themselves no fools, assert that the hops alone give the ale its flavour; and that the difference between pale and high dried malt is only in colour. They might as well have argued that the lemon gives all the flavour to punch! We, Christopher North, aver, that upon the degree of dryness which has been given to the malt, the distinguishing flavour of malt liquor mainly depends. The bitter principle of the hop is only the ground or substratum upon which the skilful brewer builds his peculiar flavour of beer. As more or less of hops is put in, no doubt the saccharine principle of the malt is subdued, or is suffered to predominate. But in malt there is, besides the mere sugar which it contains in common with so many other vegetables, a flavour peculiar to itself: and this is brought out and modified by the application of more or less of the great chemical agent, heat, to the malted barley. In short, fire makes malt more or less savoury, much as it makes a brandered fowl, or a mutton steak, or a toasted oaten cake, more or less savoury.” Countless receipts have been preserved for making, flavouring, and keeping home-brew from the days of the Saxon Leechbooks down to the present time. Some of the older ones were supposed to depend for their efficacy on supernatural intervention. “If the ale be spoilt,” says an old _Saxon Leechdom_, “take lupins, lay them on the four quarters of the dwelling, and over the door, and under the threshold, and under the ale-vat, put the wort (the herb) into the ale with holy water.” In a Scotch brewer’s instructions for Scotch ale, dated 1793, may be found a mystical note: “I throw a little dry malt, which is left on purpose, on the top of the mash, with a handful of salt, _to keep the witches from it_, and then cover it up.” Perhaps the idea that witches could spoil the ale by their evil charms gave rise to the phrase “water bewitched,” signifying very weak beer or other liquor. The plant, ale-cost (ground ivy), was, during the sixteenth and seventeenth centuries, used for “dispatching the maturation” of ale and beer. {63} Gerard, in his _Herball_ (1579), mentions the same plant under the name of ale-houve. “The women of our northern parts,” he says, “do tun the herb ale-houve into their ale, but the reason thereof I know not.”