Nectar on Olympus — Beer and the Bible — “Ninepenny” at Eton — “Number One” Bass — “The wicked weed called hops” — All is not beer that’s bitter — Pathetic story of “Poor Richard” — Secrets of brewing — Gervase Markham — An “espen” full of hops — Eggs in ale — Beer soup — The wassail bowl — Sir Watkin Wynne — Brown Betty — Rumfustian — Mother-in-law — A delightful summer drink — Brasenose ale. As much poetry has been written in praise of John Barleycorn as in praise of wine, woman, battles, heroes, Cupid’s darts, and patent medicines. And one dear old song, which seems to ring in my ears as I write, proclaimed that in the opinion of the author the nectar which the gods imbibed from golden goblets on the top of Mount Olympus was in reality cool, refreshing pale ale, quaffed out of pewter tankards. Whether this was so matters not, but as to the antiquity of beer as a beverage there can be no question; and however much the demand for other liquors may have slackened during the rolling on of time, John Barleycorn is still growing in public estimation. Breweries keep on {49} springing up all over the country, and those who purchase shares in them receive, for the most part, substantial dividends. “Beer and the Bible” have won more elections than any other combination; the organization of the brewers has hitherto proved powerful enough to withstand all the slings and arrows of the Prohibition party, whilst there has been an enormous increase in the value of houses licensed to sell fermented refreshment; and the name of Bass will “live on,” like Claudian, “through the centuries.” There be more than one description of beer put before the public. I forget at this moment who was responsible for the “swipes” of my school days, which tasted like red ink—and I have sampled both—but I have always believed that the manufacturer—I do not believe him to have been a brewer at all—had a special spite against the rising generation, which he wished to die a lingering death. The “ninepenny” quaffed beneath the holy shade of Henry was good, sound, wholesome tipple; but I fancy an inferior brand was poured forth to us at “half time” in the football field. Since those days I have tasted pretty nearly all sorts and conditions of beer, from the “Number One” Bass drawn from the wood in pewter pots, in a little hostelry just off the Waterloo Road—the very best according to my taste—to the awful stuff tasted, and only tasted, one Sunday in a charmingly rural-looking little inn, with a thatched roof—a licensed house which apparently laid itself out to entrap the daring and enterprising “_bona fide_ traveller,” and whose malt liquor was apparently composed for {50} the most part of vinegar and dirty water, in which had been soaked quassia chips, salt, bloater-heads, and some of the thatch from the roof.