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.”