Fair Venus, the Goddess of beauty and love, Arose from the froth that swam on the sea, Minerva leap’d out of the cranium of Jove, A coy sullen slut, as most authors agree; Bold Bacchus they tell us, the prince of good fellows, Was his natural son, but attend to my tale, For they that thus chatter mistake quite the matter, He sprang from a barrel of Nottingham Ale, Nottingham Ale, boys; Nottingham Ale; no liquor on earth is like Nottingham Ale.
This song was a great favourite in the eighteenth century, and was sung to the tune of “Lilabolero.”
The Crown and Anchor in the Strand was one of the most famous houses in London during the first part of the present century. A tragic story is related of how one Thomas Simpkin, the first landlord after the rebuilding of the house in 1790, on the occasion of an inaugural dinner, in leaning over a balcony to look into the street, broke the balustrade and, falling to the ground, was killed on the spot. Here were held the famous Westminster political meetings, and here the birthday of Fox was celebrated in 1794, when two thousand persons sat down to dinner. Many another tavern in this region so famous for houses of entertainment, brings back memories of the past, but space forbids us to linger over the recital.
John Taylor, the Water Poet (poeta Aquaticus, as he was fond of calling himself), who was the author of many whimsical works in prose as well as verse, was a Thames waterman, and the keeper of an alehouse in Phœnix Alley, Long Acre. It is related of him that on the death of Charles I. he changed his sign, which had formerly been the Crown, into the Mourning Bush, as expressing his grief and loyalty. He was, however, soon compelled to take this sign down, and he then substituted the Poet’s Head, his own portrait, with this inscription:—
There is many a head hangs for a sign; Then, gentle reader, why not mine?
At the same time he issued the following poetical advertisement:—
My signe was once a Crowne, but now it is Changed by a sudden metamorphosis. The Crowne was taken downe, and in the stead Is placed John Taylor’s, or the Poet’s Head. {212} A painter did my picture gratis make, And (for a signe) I hanged it for his sake. Now if my picture’s drawing can prevayle, ’Twill draw my friends to me, and I’ll draw ale. Two strings are better to a bow than one; And poeting does me small good alone. So ale alone yields but small good to me, Except it have some spice of poesie. The fruits of ale are unto drunkards such, To make ’em sweare and lye that drink too much. But my ale, being drunk with moderation, Will quench thirst and make merry recreation. My booke and signe were published for two ends, T’ invite my honest, civill, sober friends. From such as are not such I kindly pray, Till I send for ’em, let ’em keep away. From Phœnix Alley, the Globe Taverne neare The Middle of Long Acre, I dwell there.
An old dodge of some of the London tavern-keepers was to hang up in a conspicuous place in the taproom, a notice to the effect that no one could have more than one glass at a sitting. The result of this notable device was the very opposite to what one might expect; it is thus quaintly told by old Decker, in his Seven Deadly Sins, seven times pressed to death: “Then you have another brewing called Huff’s ale, at which, because no man must have but a pot at a sitting, and so be gone, the restraint makes them more eager to come in, so that by this policie one may huffe it four or five times a day.”
Last century was pre-eminently the century for Clubs, some literary some political, and some purely social, many partaking of all these characters. The October Club, which was so called on account of the quantities of October ale which the members drank, used to meet at the Bell Tavern, King Street, Westminster, and drink confusion to the Whigs. Swift was a member. “We are plagued here,” he writes to Stella, “with an October Club; that is a set of above a hundred Parliament men of the country, who drink October beer at home, and meet every evening at a tavern near the Parliament, to consult affairs and drive matters to extremes against the Whigs, to call the old Ministry to account, and get off five or six heads.”
The Mug Houses, famous early in the last century, were distinguished {213} by the rows of pewter mugs placed in the window, or hung up outside as in the illustration, which is taken from the Book of Days. In A Journey through England (1722) the original Mug-house is thus described: “But the most diverting and amusing of all is the Mug-house Club in Long Acre. They have a grave old gentleman, in his own gray hairs, now within a few months of ninety years old, who is their President, and sits in an arm’d chair some steps higher than the rest of the company, to keep the whole room in order. A harp plays all the time at the lower end of the room; and every now and then one or other of the company rises and entertains the rest with a song, and (by-the-by) some are good masters. Here is nothing drunk but ale, and every gentleman hath his separate Mug, which he chalks on the table where he sits as it is brought in; and everyone retires when he pleases as from a Coffee House. The Room is always so diverted with songs, and drinking from one table to another to one another’s healths, that there is no room for Politicks, or anything that can sow’r conversation. One must be there by seven to get Room, and after ten the Company are for the most part gone. This is a Winter’s amusement, that is agreeable enough to a Stranger for once or twice, and he is well diverted with the different Humours, when the Mugs overflow.”