The King of Great Britain was reckon’d before The head of the Church by all good Christian people, But his brewer has added still one title more To the rest, and has made him the head of the steeple.
Another celebrated brewer of last century was Humphrey Parsons, twice Lord Mayor of London. This gentleman, when upon a hunting party with Louis XV., happened to be exceedingly well mounted, and, contrary to the etiquette observed in the French Court, outstripped the rest of the company, and was first in at the death. On the King asking the name of the stranger, he was indignantly informed that he “was un chevalier de malte.” The King entered into conversation with Mr. Parsons, and asked the price of his horse. The Chevalier, bowing in the most courtly style, replied that the horse was beyond any price other than his Majesty’s acceptance. The horse was delivered, and from thenceforward the _chevalier_ Parsons had the exclusive privilege of supplying the French Court and people with his far-famed “black champagne.”
It has been the sad reflection of many an one, on wandering in a churchyard and reading the epitaphs of the departed, that certainly the most virtuous and highly-gifted of mankind have already passed { 150} away—that is, if the epitaphs are absolutely to be relied on. Mr. Tipper, the Newhaven brewer, who died in 1785, and lies buried in Newhaven Churchyard, is an instance in point. Surely none but himself could have been Mr. Tipper’s parallel. His epitaph runs thus:—
Reader! with kind regards this grave survey, Nor heedless pass where Tipper’s ashes lay. Honest he was, ingenuous, blunt and kind, And dared do, what few dare do—speak his mind. Philosophy and History well he knew, Was versed in Physick and in Surgery too. The best old Stingo he both brewed and sold, Nor did one knavish trick to get his gold. He played thro’ life a varied comic part, And knew immortal Hudibras by heart. Reader, in real truth, such was the man, Be better, wiser, laugh more if you can.
The last resting place of Mr. Pepper, sometime brewer of Stamford, in Lincolnshire, bears these lines:—
Though _hot_ my name, yet mild my nature, I bore good will to every creature; I brew’d good ale and sold it too, And unto each I gave his due.