A VISIT TO BARCLAY, PERKINS, AND CO. On the southern banks of the Thames, between Southwark and London bridges, lies the hugest brewery in the world—the chief of those establishments which have made this great city the headquarters of malt liquor as well as civilisation. Ask any of the "fellowship porters" the way to BARCLAY, PERKINS, AND Co.'s, and there, from any one of these unaffected lovers of "heavy wet," you will get a direct direction. " There, Sir, right down afore ye !" and truly it would be difficult to miss a sight of the brewery, the buildings of which cover eleven acres of ground. But how to find out the entrance is the puzzle ; you must thread your way through narrow lanes, thronged with drays, while a rumbling sound reminds one of barrels and hogsheads, and the olfactory organs testify that a brewery is not only near, but round about- for communication between the buildings is maintained by suspension bridges over the lanes. At last we arrive at the gateway ; don't you see the ANCHOR, Sir, the symbol of Barclay, Perkins, and Co. ? All brewers have their sign- their symbol - their emblem ; and the anchor of Barclay, Perkins, and Co., is stamped, twisted, and interwoven on or in everything appertaining to the brewery - the very lamp-posts are propped up by the anchor.
Now, entering the gateway, we pass what may be termed the porter's lodge. An equivocal, or rather a very unequivocal tort of porter's lodge it is : porter-pots give intimation that beer : "drank on the premises," and though the court were clear of barrels and drays, one might have little hesitation in affirming as a verity, that we had entered a stronghold of the powerful spirit of malt. By the way, what is the etymology of "porter ! " A shrewd brewer of the olden time is said to have compounded a sort of half-and-half, which became very acceptable to those brawny fellows who, as the Dictionary says, "carry goods for hire;" and hence porter, a drink for porters, became a drink for the million. But "beer" is the genuine cockney name for "heavy wet;" "Be-ah!"' as the pot-boy bawls it, Sunday and Saturday, at eleven, at one, at eight, and at nine o'clock, in every narrow street, lane, or alley, where a hard-working and beer-loving population may be found.
Hillon, stand aside - here is a troop of the " rank and file " of the Brewery. Shoulder your - brooms; one looks almost instinctively to see whether or not the brooms are shaped in the form of an anchor. These men have just been cleansing out some of the huge receptacles - for malt is a cleanly spirit, and will resent as an injury any attempt to brew it in dirty beds. For this purpose a copious supply of water is a grand essential in ai brewery. Water, did we say ? Oh, do not mention the insipid word. Not a soul in all this establishment would admit it into his mouih. "Liquor" is the word, Sir; - we dare say, in the rainy months of winter, draymen and broom-men, brewers, tapsters, smiths, farriers, and "sample" men, will all be heard deploring the continuance of liquorish weather.But let us proceed to the counting-house, a range of buildings which fronts us as we enter the gateway. Here are a host of clerks and collectors ; we might fancy that we were not in a brewery but a bank. In one of the rooms, looking down upon the busy deskmen below, is a bust of as characteristic a head as one might meet in a day's walk. This is the head of an old servant of the firm, who saved his £20,000 while in his employment ; and his bust is placed here, as a kind of presiding genius, a perpetual remembrancer and exemplar for his brethren of the quill who shall come after him. A sharp, shrewd old man, he must have been in his day; took care of number one, doubtless, yet had a corner in his heart for something more than himself. He probably eschewed water, dreading the stomach-ache; and kept his spirit bland and kindly by an occasional draught of “two- year old" Only think of a servant in a private establishment accumulating his £20,000 ! An old fellow died the other day, leaving upwards of £70,000, accumulated whilst he was a messenger ; but he was a messenger of the House of Commons, and nourished during the "palmy days," when half-crowns and "something more " were freely given for seats in the gallery.
Talking of old folks and old times, do you know to whom this brewery once belonged ? It was the property of Thrale, the friend of Johnson, and whose house at Strcatham was a home for the Doctor during its owner's life. Thrale's beautiful, clever, versatile, volatile wife, married a second time, and, under the Italian name of Piozzi, is not without her notability Dr. Johnson was one of Thrale's executors. "I could not," says Boswell, “bat be somewhat diverted by hearing Johnson talk in a pompous manner of his new office, and particularly of the concerns of the brewery, which it was at last resolved should be sold. Lord l.urm tells a very good story, which, if not precisely exact, is certainly characteristical; that when the sale of Thrale's brewery was going forward, Johnson appeared bustling about, with an inkhorn and pen in his button-hole, like an exciseman; and on being asked what he really considered to be the value of the property which was to be disposed of, answered, 'We are not here to sell a parcel of boilers and vats, but the potentiality of growing rich beyond the dreams of avarice !' "The story is very likely an apocryphal one : but Dr. Johnson did certainly sell the "potentiality'' of becoming rich - very rich, not certainly "beyond the dreams of avarice," but beyond what Thrale, at least, could ever have imagined. The brewery was sold to Messrs. Barclay, Perkins, and Co., for £135,000 ; the capital now invested in it is stated to be somewhat about a million and a half. From out of the counting-house issues a gentlemanly, affable man, under whose guidance we propose to walk over the concern. But our friendly guide might himself be unable to thread his way through all the mazes of this amazing manufactory of "liquor;" at least there accompanies us a shrewd old man in a flannel jacket, whose office it is to act the "Cicerone "for visiting parties. An intelligent, sharp little man he is, not without a spice of humour; and though, of course, he has "expectations" at the conclusion of the visit, there is nothing in his manner indicative that his attention and quiet kind of garrulity are influenced by "considerations”. But where shall we go first? Let us begin with the beginning, though it may not be in the exact order in which a visitor may be conducted over the establishment.
Messrs. Barclay, Perkins, and Co. do not make any malt for themselves, - they buy it. When the malt arrives, it is all carried np to the stores by the laborious process of manual labour. Here the visitor will sec the contrast between human labour and machinery. The malt, as it arrives, is carried up to the stores sack by sack ; and at the same moment, and in the same neighbourhood, where this inartificial process is going on, the ground malt is carried from the grinding-mill, at the rate of 60 quarters an hour, up an enclosed box or shaft, called a "Jacob's ladder," and emptied into its proper receptacle. Lift a small door or opening in the shaft - there, you see the little baskets or boxes, full of ground malt, flying up, and, as they revolve, they empty themselves, and fill again. Now, why is it that the same machinery cannot be made to lift the sacks of malt as they arrive into the granary, instead of having two or three dozen stout fellows staggering up stairs, and along narrow passages, each with a sack on his shoulder ? Oh ! there is a reason for this; Southwark, where the brewery lies, is under the municipal jurisdiction of the "City," and within these municipal bounds the "fellowship porters " have a monopoly, and while sacks continue to be carried on men's shoulders " for hire," they contend that their shoulders should enjoy the privilege. They get two-pence for every sack of malt they carry from below up to the granary ; but Messrs. Barclay, Perkins, and Co., "argufy" in this way:- These lads have a monopoly, or a privilege, call it what you will; twopence a sack is no trifle to us, seeing that, on an average, we use (stand aghast, ye members of a temperance society) two thousand quarters of malt meekly; but then the fellowship porters wo'n't drink a drop of any sort of beer but Barclay, Perkins, and Co.'s, and of that they consume no inconsiderable quantity. This is, we presume, what is called "reasoning in a circle," or an argument which returns into itself.Bestowing a passing glance on the huge bins for containing the malt (there is stowage for 36,000 quarters), we go down to look at the mill which is crushing the malt, and turning it into "grist." We may here remark the different kinds of malt used (Barclay, Perkins, and Co. now brew ale, as well as porter); the pale malt for the ale, the brown malt for the porter, and the roasted or black malt, which is employed to give the dark colouring. These different-coloured malts are produced by different processes in the drying or the making of the malt.
Pshaw ! but our nice black coats are becoming odious ! Let no gentleman visit this part of the concern in full dress, and no lady in black silk or satin. What with the dust from the grinding-mill, and a few a “shoulders" from the fellowship porters, as they climb the narrow stairs with their twopenny sacks, one is made quite a figure. It is dry, choking work, too; one has no heart for conversation ; we listen to all that is told us, but ask few questions. Relief, however, is at hand. Step this way - look at those goodly tuns; we shall have a drop of genuine "two-year old." Now, if ever you wish to enjoy a refreshing drop out of a pewter- pot, come here; first get covered with dust, and nearly choked with it, and then step hither. Hum ! but this is porter - let us have a bit of bread and cheese. Another draught;- why, this it admirable ! - another - it is exquisite ! One begins to feel quite cheerful,- almost hearty; fine, wholesome, stuff that. Any more porter, gentlemen ? Oh! certainly, we shall taste it again ;- two- year old, is it ? Let us have another slice of bread and cheese, this porter quite gives one an appetite!
We are now in a fine lively humour for visiting the rest off the establishment. Here then are the mashing-tuns, where the grist, or ground malt, is deposited, to undergo the first process in the whole art of converting it into liquor. Malt, in its conversion into beer, undergoes eight different specific operations; it is mashed, boiled, cooled, fermented, racked, or vatted, and fined, or cleansed. These operations are, in such an establishment as the one we are now visiting, carried on in a vast and magnificent style. The mashing-tuns, the coppers, and the fermenting-tuns, are all "inland" seas; there you look down on a dark brown ocean, - here yon ascend steps to gaze on a surface of milk-white foam. But have a care of your head - beware of the carbonic acid gas ! Our little guide in the flannel jacket told us of a French lady who would go up the steps to have a third peep ; but her head became giddy; she staggered, she slipped ; she would have fallen disastrously, but he, albeit a John Bull, and therefore by birth and breeding deficient in the promptitude of politeness, caught her in his arms and restored her to herself.
Marvellously capacious are the vats, whose contents would float the biggest man-of-war in the navy. Thrale, when he had the brewery, thought it was something of a brag to say that he had four vats, each of which held 1,600 barrels, above a thousand hogsheads. There are now one hundred and thirty-six vats, varying in their contents from above 4,000 barrels down to 500. There are, on an average, a thousand barrels of beer sent out daily. One hundred and sixty-two fat sleek horses are employed in dragging drays to all parts of London. There are a smithy and a farriery, and a steam-engine, shining like polished silver, and water-tanks (we beg pardon, "liquor" tanks) pillared high in air, and a railroad for coals, and - a world within itself. Now, kind reader, it were impossible to go out of this lesser world into the larger world of London, without stepping into the "sample" room, and tasting a drop of "genuvine" good ale. How tempting it looks, in those long funnel-shaped glasses ! "Ha! dat ish goot!" "Another glass, sir?" " Aye, to be sure, with pleasure !" "There now, that will do - let moderation have the helm in the ship of pleasure." But we are all in excellent humour with one another. " Good bye, gentlemen - hope to have the pleasure of seeing you all again - good bye, good bye ! “
"The London Saturday Journal" 1839, pages 268-269
Posts
No comments:
Post a Comment