Cup found in the ruins of glastonbury abbey
The nut-brown ale, the nut-brown ale,
Puts down all drink when it is stale!
The toast, the nutmeg, and the ginger
Will make a sighing man a singer.
Ale gives a buffet in the head,
But ginger under-props the brain;
When ale would strike a strong man dead
Then nutmeg tempers it again.
The nut-brown ale, the nut-brown ale,
Puts down all drink when it is stale!
Having occasion to dine at a large country inn, in a market town, I requested some small beer in preference to strong. Judge my surprise, when I was informed that there was none to be had, except a pale sort in butts, which, I was told, they sold at the same price as strong. Judge my surprise, when I was informed that there was none to be had, except a pale sort in butts, which I was told, they sold at the same price as strong. Of this, nevertheless, I called for a pint, but could not drink it, for I found it to have been brewed from the malt and hops left from the brewing of strong beer, and boiled with the latter, which had communicated such an unpleasant earthy taste to it, as well as an unwholesome quality, that I could not touch it.
Drink brewed in this manner, I am enabled to distinguish in the dark, if I only taste it, by the earthy, phlegmatic nature of the refuse grains and hops it is made from; for after the malt has been washed with several parcels of hot water, to make strong beer with, what can remain in the grains but much earth? for it is the floury spirituous parts of the malt that are first extracted. And another evil, not less pernicious, is that of adding the refuse hops, which often go through two or several violent boilings in strong beer wort, before the are used for small beer; and the what else remains in them but a rank, ill-tasted bitter, which when mixed in a great degree with such cloudy small-wort, is enough to turn one's stomach, instead of recruiting nature; and which according to the opinion of our eminent physicians, corrupts the blood, cloys the stomach, and brings on sickness.
The dark time between the 18th and 21st Amendments
A curious survival of an old-time institution exists in some remote places in England, viz., the official ale-taster. The ale-taster takes an oath to "try, taste, and assize the beer and ale put on sale" in his district "whether the same be wholesome for man's body." The old ale taster's method of "analyzing" beer for the purpose of detecting the addition of sugar to the liquor was rather primitive. Like most men in those times, he wore leather breeches, and, when he went to test the ale for the presence of sugar, a pint of fluid was spilt on a well-cleaned bench, and the taster sat upon it till it dried. if, on rising, the seat of the breeches stuck to the bench, then sugar was present, but if not the beer was pure.
Beer cans forming garage gutter and downspout
In old heathen times there was, they say, a whimsical country, where the people talked much of religious, and the greatest part as to outward appearance seemed really devout: the chief moral evil among them was thirst, and to quench it a damnable sin; yet they unanimously agreed that every one was born thirsty more or less: small beer in moderation was allowed to all, and he was counted an hypocrite, a cynic, or a madman, who pretended that one could live altogether without it; yet, those who owned they loved it, and drank it to excess, were counted wicked. All this while the beer itself was reckoned a blessing from heaven, and there was no harm in the use of it: all the enormity lay in the abuse, the motive of the heart, that made them drink it. He that took the least drop of it to quench his thirst, committed a heinous crime, whilst others drank large quantities without any guilt, so they did it indifferently, and for no other reason than to mend their complexion.
Balm of my cares, sweet solace of my toils,
Hail Juice benignant! o'ver the costly cups
Of riot-stirring wine, unwholesome draught,
Let Pride's loose sons prolong the wasteful night;
My sober ev'ning let the tankard bless,
With toast embown'd, and fragrant nutmeg whiffs
Tobacco mild improves. Divine repast!
Where no crude surfeit, or intemperate joys
Of lawless Bacchus reign; but o'er my foul
A calm Lethean creeps; in drowsy trance
Each thought subsides, and sweet oblivion wraps
My peaceful brain, as if the leaden rod
Of magic Morpheus o'er mine eyes had shed
Its opiate influence. What tho' for ills
Oppress, dire want of chill-dispelling coals
Or chearful candle, (fave the make-weight's gleam
Haply remaining) heart-rejoicing ALE
Chear the fad scene, and every want supplies.
Meantime, not mindless of the daily task
Of Tutor sage, upon the learned leaves
Of deep SMIGLECIUS much I meditate;
While ALE inspires, and lends its kindred aid,
The thought-perplexing labour to pursue,
Sweet Helicon of Logic! But if friends
Congenial call me from the toilsome page,
To pot-house I repaire, the sacred haunt,
Where ALE, thy votaries in full resort,
Hold tires nocturnal. In capacious chair
Of monumental oak and antique mould,
That long has stodd the rage of conquering years
Inviolate, (not in more ample chair
Smoaks rosy Justice, when th' important case,
Whether of hen-roost, or of mirthful rape,
In all the majesty of paunch he tries)
Studious of ease, and provident, I place
My gladsome limbs; while in repeated round
Returns replenish'd, the successive cup,
And the brisk fire conspires to genial joy:
While haply, to relieve the ling'ring hourse
In innocent delight, amusive Putt
On Smooth joint-stool in emblematic play
The vain vicissitude of fortunes shews.
Nor reck'ning, name tremendous, me disturbs,
Nor, call'd for, chills my breasts with suddent fear;
While on the wonted door, expressive mark,
The frequent penny stands descib'd to view,
In snowy characters and graceful row.--
Hail, TICKING! surest guardian of distress!
Beneath they shelter pennyless I quaff
The chearful cup, nor hear with hopeless heart
New oysters cry'd:-- tho' much the poet's friend,
Ne'er yet attempted in poetic strain!--
Nor proctor thrice with vocal heel alarms
Our joys secure, nor deigns the lowly roof
Of pot-house snug to visit: wifer he
The splendid tavern haunts, or coffee-house
Of JAMES or JUGGINS, where the grateful breath
Of loath'd tobacco ne'er diffus'd its balm;
But the lewd spendthrift, falsely deem'd polite,
While steams around the fragrant Indian bowl,
Oft damns the vulgar sons of humbler ALE:
In vain-- the Proctor's voice arrests their joys;
Just fate of wanton pride and loose excess!
Nor less by day delightful is thy draught,
All-pow'rful ALE! whose forrow-soothing sweets
Oft I repeat in vacant afternoon,
When tatter'd stockings ask my mending hand
Not unexperience'd; while the tedious toil
Slides unregarded. Let the tender swain
Each morn regale on nerve-relaxing tea,
Companion meet of languor-loving nymph:
Be mine each morn with eager appetite
And hunger undiffembled, to repair
To friendly buttery; there on smoaking cruft
And foaming ALE to banquet unrestrain'd,
Material breakfast! Thus in ancient days
Our ancestors robust with liberal cups
Usher'd the morn, unlike the squeamish sons
Of modern times: Nor ever had the might
Of Britons brave decay'd, had thus they fed
With British ALE improving British worth.
With ALE irriguous, undismay'd I hear
The frequent dun ascend my lofty dome
Importunate: whether the plaintive voice
Of laundress shrill awake my startled ear;
Or barber spruce with supple look intrude;
Or taylor with obsequious bow advance;
Or groom invade me with defying front
And stern demeanour, whose emaciate steeds
(Whene'er or Phoebus shone with kindler beams,
Or luckier chance the borrow'd boots supply'd)
Had panted oft beneath my goring steel.
In vain they plead or threat: All-pow'rful ALE
Excuses new supplied, and each descends
With joyless pace, and debt-despairing looks:
E'en SPACEY with indignant brow retires,
Fiercest of Duns! and conquer'd quits the field,
Why did the gods such various blessings pour
On hapless mortals, from their grateful hands
So soon the short-liv'd bounty to recall?--
Thus, while improvident of future ill,
I quaff the luscious tankard unrestrain'd,
And thoughtless riot in unlicens'd bliss;
Suddent (dire fate of all things excellent!)
Th' unpitying Barfar's cross-affixing hand
Blasts all my joys, and stops my glad career.
Nor now the friendly pot-house longer yields
A sure retreat, when night o'ershades the skies;
Nor SHEPPARD barbarous matron, longer gives
The wonted trust, and WINTER ticks no more.
Thus ADAM, exil'd from the beaueous scenes
Of Eden griev'd, no more in fragant bow'r
On fruits divine to feash, fresh shade or vale,
No more to visit, or vine-mantled grot;
But, all forlorn, the dreary wilderness,
And unrejoicing solitudes to trace:
Thus too the matchless bard, whose lay refounds
The SPLENDID SHILLING'S praise, in nightly gloom
Of lonesome garret pin'd for chearful ALE
Whose steps in verse Miltonic I pursue,
Mean follower, like him with honest love
Of ALE divine inspir'd, and love of song.
But long may bounteous Heav'n with watchful care
Avert his hapless lot! Enough for me
That burning with congenial flame I dar'd
His guiding steps at distance to pursue,
And sing his favorite theme in kindred strains.
An Ale Wife
Lambs Wool is merely a variety of the Wassail Bowl, and although not common in Oxford, is a great favourite in some parts of England. The following is the origin of the term Lambs Wool, as applied to this particular beverage. Formerly the first day of November was dedicated to the Angel presiding over fruits, seeds, &c. and was therefore named La mas ubal, that is, The day of the apple fruit, and being pronounced lamasool, our country people have corrupted it to Lambs Wool.
Lambs Wool was anciently often met with in Ireland, but is now rarely heard of in that country, having been entirely superseded by the more intoxicating liquor called Whiskey.
Recipe.
Mix the pulp of a half a dozen roasted apples with some raw sugar, a grated nutmeg, and a small quantity of ginger. Add one quart of strong ale made moderately warm. Stire the whole well together, and, if sweet enought, it is fit for use.
The mixture is sometimes served up in a bowl, with sweet cakes floating in it.
James Howell leaning against a tree
It is without controversy that in the nonage of the world, men and beasts has but one buttery, which was the fountain and rive, nor do we read of any vines or wines till two hundred years after the flood; but now I do not know or hear of any nation that hath water only for their drink, except the Japanese, and they drink it hot too; but we may say that whatever beverage soever we make, either by brewing, by distillation, decoction, percolation, or pressing, it is but water at first; nay, wine itself is but water sublimed, being nothing else but that moisture and sap which is caused either by rain or other kind of irrigations about the roots of the vine, and drawn up to the branches and berries by the virtual attractive heat of the sun, the bowels of the earth serving as an alembic to that end, which made the Italian vineyard-man (after a long drought, and an extreme hot summer which had parched up all his grapes) to complain, `For want of water I am forced to drink water; if I had water I would drink wine'. It may also be applied to the miller when he has no water to drive his mills.
The vine doth so abhor cold, that it cannot grow beyond the 49th degree to any purpose; therefore God and nature hath furnished the north-west nations with inventions of beverage. In this island the old drink was ale, noble ale, than which, as I heard a great foreign doctor affirm, there is no liquor that more increaseth the radical moisture, and preserves the natural heat, which are the two pillars that support the life of man. But since beer hath hopped in amongst us, ale is thought to be much adulterated, and nothing so good as Sir John Oldcastle and Smugg the smith was used to drink. Besides ale and beer, the natural drink of part of this isle may be said to be metheglin, braggot, and mead, which differ in strength according to the three degrees of comparison. The first of the three which is strong in the superlative if taken immoderately, doth stupefy more than any other liquor, and keeps a humming in the brain, which made only one say, that he loved not metheglin because he was used to speak too much of the house he came from, meaning the hive. Cider and perry are also the natural drinks of parts of this isle. But I have read in some old authors of a famous drink the ancient nation of the Picts, who lived betwixt Trent and Tweed and were utterly extinguished by the overpowering of the Scot, were used to make of decoction of flowers, the receipt whereof they kept as a secret and a thing sacred to themselves, for it perished with them. These are all the common drinks of this isle and of Ireland also, where they are more given to milk and strong waters of all colours. The prime is usquebagh, which cannot be made anywhere in that perfections, and whereas we drink it here in aqua-vitae measures, it goes down there by beer-glassfuls, being more natural to the nation.
BROWN BETTY
Dissolve a quarter of a pound of brown sugar in one pint of water, slice a lemon into it, let it stand a quarter of an hour, then add a small quantity of pulverized cloves and cinnamon, half a pint of brandy, and one quart of good strong ale; stir it well together, put a couple of slices of tasted bread into it, grate some nutmeg and ginger on the toast, and it is fit for use. Ice it well and it will prove a good summer, warm it and it will become a pleasant winter, beverage. It is drank chiefly at dinner.
The Black Boy Inn
TEWAHDIDDLE.
A pint of table beer (or ale, if you intend it for a supplement to your "night-cap"), a tablespoonful of brandy, and a teaspoonful of brown sugar, or clarified syrup; a little grated nutmeg or ginger may be added, and a roll of very thin cut lemon peel.
Obs.-- Before our readers make any remarks on this composition, we beg of them to taste it; if the materials are good, and their palate vibrates in unison with our own, they will find it one of the pleasantest beverages they ever put to their lips,-- and, as Lord Ruthven says, "this is a right gossips' cup, that far exceeds all the ale that ever MOTHER BUNCH made in her lifetime."-- See his Lordship's "Experiments in Cookery," &c., page 215. 180mo. London, 1654.
