beverage, but was permitted to bathe in Malmsey once a week, so that her strength might be maintained and her beauty preserved until she mounted the scaffold.

From their household book we learn that a quart of wine and a quart of ale formed the regular breakfast allowance of the Earl and Countess of Northumberland. Before they retired at night, a gallon of ale and a quart' of wine were served in their bedchamber. How much they drank between whiles is not recorded, but they were accounted very sober and discreet personages.

There were wild scenes at some of the royal masques in this age of drunkenness. Writing of an entertainment at the court of James I., an eye-witness says nearly all the women characters were rolling about in a state of intoxication. Wine so occupied their upper stories that many of the presenters staggered and fell upon the floor.

Three noble ladies, who impersonated Faith, Hope and Charity, made a frightful exhibition of themselves. When Hope stepped forward to speak her lines, her gait was so eccentric and her utterance so thick and confused that she had to be conveyed from the hall. Faith was in like condition; indeed the three graces were soon sprawling upon the floor of an ante-room together and making the rafters ring with drunken screeching. Another titled lady, who took the part of Victory, was led howling away like a silly captive; and Peace, which hath her victories no less renowned than war, converted her olive branch into a bludgeon, and battered the heads of those who tried to coax her into decent behavior.

Roger Ascham, one of the tutors of Queen Elizabeth, in describing a drinking bout he witnessed between the Emperor of Germany and the King of Denmark, says: "The emperor drank the best I ever saw. He had his head in the glass five times as long as any of us, and never drank less than a good quart of Rhenish wine at once."

And, according to the custom described in "Hamlet," the kettle drum and trumpet brayed out in triumph at each

rouse.

Nearly every private house of importance had its own. brewery. William Harrison, a devout clergyman and careful chronicler of social details in the Elizabethan period, tells of the process by which 200 gallons of ale were brewed every month for his own household. He took no hand in this work himself. Like political economists of this day, he believed that a division of labor produced the best results. He provided the raw material for the monthly brew, but the brewing itself was done by his wife and her maid-servants, who, of course, helped to dispose of the product, which was deemed as indispensable for their bodily and spiritual comfort as their prayers for daily bread. Harrison's stipend was 40 pounds a year, which, compared with the values of to-day, would be equal to about $1,000 to $1,100 of our money. His monthly brew, we are told, cost nearly onethird of his income.

In the "Anatomy of Melancholy," Burton gives a vivid picture of the general social condition. ""Tis now come to that pass, " he says, "that he is no gentleman, a very milksop, that will not drink; fit for no company. 'Tis no disparagement now to stagger in the streets, reel, rave, etc., but much to his renown. 'Tis the summum bonum of our tradesmen, their felicity, life and soul to be merry together in an alehouse or tavern. They will labor hard all day to be drunk at night, and spend all they have earned in tippling places. How they love a man that will be drunk, crown him, honor him for it; hate him that will not drink; a most intolerable offense and not to be forgiven."

Water had no vogue at all as a beverage; it was believed to be injurious to health when used internally. "You are pretty when you are bubbling out of a spring," said a veteran toper as he apostrophized this gift of nature; "you look fine sparkling in the sunshine; you are grand as you rush in rivulets down the mountain side; and you are glorious and inspiring dripping from the clouds when the rainbow appears; but-you aren't worth a tinker's dam to drink." This dislike of "Adam's toddy" was shared by the Puritans, who, sober enough in other ways, were passionately fond of a "drop of something good" to drink; and it is recorded that several of our Pilgrim fathers were surprised to discover, when their supply of ale gave out, that they could drink the water of the New World without suffering any ill effects.

So common a drink was ale that it became part of the name of festal meetings, such as lamb ale, bride ale, leet ale, and Whitson ale. It was brewed extra strong for parochial assemblies, and was sold by the church wardens to provide funds for repairing the churches.

Those church ales, the forerunners of modern festivals and picnics, became a public nuisance and scandal, and were finally suppressed by statute. Ribaldry and rioting were their usual accompaniments. An Elizabethan poet denounced their vulgar pastimes and indecent dances in vigorous verse. The priest, he declared, was often first and foremost in the revels. In noise he outbawled all his parishoners, and he was a very prince in "drinking dry the cups." Several stanzas of this poem reveal startling features of social life and the introductory lines are strong enough for the liveliest Donnybrook fair ever celebrated:

When drunkards they do lead the dance with free and bloody fight, That hands and ears, and head and face are torn with woeful plight, And streaks of blood run down the arms, and oftentimes is seen The carcass of some ruffian slain and left upon the green.

Nearly everybody in England drank beer or wine at breakfast. Small ale was on tap in the humblest cottage. The virtues of hock and soda water had not been discovered, and malt liquor was the composing draught after a night's carousal.

But the people never complained of ill effects from this persistent swilling. Katzenjammer seems to have been unknown in those grand old days of yore.

SHAKESPEARE THE MAN

Now let me see the proudest

He, that dares most, but wag his finger at thee;
By all that's holy, he had better starve

Than but once think this place becomes thee not.

-HENRY VIII.

Whether William Shakespeare was himself a devotee of Bacchus is a debatable question. Most of the stories told about the wild days of his youth are of uncertain credit. Few facts are really known concerning his actual life and habits. From such trivial matters as the spelling of his name and the identity of the house in which he was born, up to the perplexing problem of the meaning of his sonnets, almost all the particulars of his career are either involved in total darkness, or seen only in the twilight of country gossip and bewildering tradition.

But it has been the fashion in some circles to regard Shakespeare as addicted to sack and loose living. have already noted one of the doubtful incidents of youthful dissipation-that of a drinking challenge having been accepted by him and his companions, and of Shakespeare sleeping off the effects of the bout under a crab-tree. As a corollary to this, we have been regaled with mysterious yarns of wine and frolic at the Mermaid with Ben Jonson and other wits of the Elizabethan era; and Rev. John Ward, vicar of Stratford, 40 years after the poet's death, gave a brief statement of what has been termed the final catastrophe: "Shakespeare, Drayton and Ben Jonson had a merry meeting, and it seems drank too hard, for Shakespeare died of a fever then contracted."

Those who give heed to such stories overlook an important phase in the known character of the man. Shake