Part 1

[Illustration:

CHAMBERS’S JOURNAL

OF

POPULAR

LITERATURE, SCIENCE, AND ART

Fifth Series

ESTABLISHED BY WILLIAM AND ROBERT CHAMBERS, 1832

CONDUCTED BY R. CHAMBERS (SECUNDUS)

NO. 154.—VOL. III. SATURDAY, DECEMBER 11, 1886. PRICE 1½_d._]

INN-SIGNS—THEIR ORIGIN AND MEANINGS.

In these days of enlightenment, the signs displayed by our inns, taverns, and public-houses are not matters of great or urgent importance to us in the ordinary routine of our daily life. But in times past the case was widely different. For several centuries at least, signs and signboards were matters not only of convenience, but even of necessity. During this time they played a by no means unimportant part in the busy world of trade and commerce, and were of great service to mankind in general in a way they are no longer capable of being. Under these circumstances, it will be easily understood that they gathered around them no small amount of interest, not only of a commercial, but also of a domestic, and even of an historical kind. Many, even of our modern inn-signs, are able to speak instructively to those who trouble to decipher their now somewhat indistinct and illegible meanings. They tell us of the customs of our forefathers, of the superstitious beliefs they held, of the wares they made and dealt in, and of the party strifes in which they engaged. They speak to us also of the great men who had so large a share in the making of English history in bygone times, and are able in many other ways to remind us of the pursuits, the pleasures, the manners, and the customs of our ancestors. It will therefore be worth while to devote some attention to the subject of our modern inn-signs, especially as comparatively little has hitherto been written about them.

The use of signs as a means of distinguishing different houses of business is a custom which has come down to us from times of great antiquity; nevertheless, it is not now at all difficult to discover the reasons which first led to their being employed. During the last and preceding centuries, only an infinitesimally small proportion of the people was able to read and write. In those times it would obviously have been useless for any tradesman to have inscribed his name and occupation, or the number of his house, over his door, as is now done. The words ‘W. & R. Chambers, Publishers,’ would then have conveyed very little meaning, or none at all, to the popular mind. But if each tradesman suspended before his house some easily recognisable device of a pictorial nature, the case would obviously have been different. If the sign thus displayed indicated the nature of the wares sold within, it would answer a double purpose; but in any case, it would serve to mark the particular house displaying it. Signs, too, would be especially useful in distinguishing different establishments in times when many members of the same craft dwelt together in a particular street or quarter. This they used formerly to do, very much more than now; and in the various large cities of the East the custom still to a great extent survives.

In speaking of the origin of the use of signs, it must never be forgotten that in past times they were not confined, as now, almost exclusively to ‘public-houses.’ We have still the sign of the Pole for a barber, the Black Boy for a tobacconist, the Rod and Fish for a tackle-dealer, the Golden Balls for a pawnbroker, and some others; but formerly, almost all houses of business displayed their signs, just as inns and taverns do now. Evidence of this fact is afforded by the imprint of almost any old book published in the seventeenth century. Such books were generally either printed or sold by an individual dwelling at the White Hart, the Red Lion, the Green Dragon, the Golden Tun, or some such sign. Most of Shakspeare’s works, it may be noted, were first issued from houses displaying devices similar to the above, and situated in or near to St Paul’s Churchyard. Were an imprint, like that which each of these works bore, to appear on any modern book, it would certainly convey to many the idea that the volume had been printed at an ordinary ‘public-house.’ In Paris, moreover, to the present day, it is almost or quite as common for ordinary tradesmen to display signs, as it is for hotel-keepers and liquor-sellers to do so. In that city, too, all vendors of firewood and coals have the fronts of their houses painted so as to convey the idea that they are built of rough logs of wood. This device, though not displayed upon a signboard, is in every way of the nature of a modern tradesman’s sign.

In the times when signs were in general use by all tradesmen, it was only natural that each man should endeavour to outdo his neighbours in the obtrusiveness of his signboard. Those firms who advertise on street hoardings do precisely the same kind of thing at the present day; each endeavours, by means of brilliancy of colour or novelty of design, to obtain, through his posters, greater publicity for the wares he deals in, and to attract more attention than his neighbours. Just so, a century or more ago, many ingenious devices were made use of to force into notice the signboards of those days. Some of the boards were made of enormous size; others were painted in flaring colours; others bore striking or amusing objects, likely to be remembered by those who saw them; while others were projected far out into the street, or suspended within elaborate, and often really ornamental, frameworks of iron. When each tradesman thus endeavoured to eclipse the signboards of his neighbours, it may well be imagined that inconvenience was caused to the general public. Complaints that the size and prominence of the signboards prevented the access of sunlight and the free circulation of the air in the narrow London streets, first began to be heard, we are told, as early as the beginning of the fifteenth century, when an order was made to abate the nuisance. In the course of time, however, the evil grew again, till Charles II., in 1667, directed that no signboards were thereafter to hang across the streets, but that they were to be fixed against the sides of the houses. Again, however, as years passed by, the nuisance reappeared. In 1762, large powers were once more granted, and there was a general and final clearing away of the too obtrusive signboards. Old prints and engravings of the last century often give a good idea of the way in which the public streets, both of London and other towns, were once disfigured by these overgrown signboards.

This general demolition in 1762 gave a blow to the use of signboards from which those evidences of past ignorance have never since recovered. But had the conditions which first brought them into existence remained the same, there can be no doubt that the signboards would have again risen, phœnix-like, from their own ruins. Happily those conditions have _not_ remained the same. That knowledge of reading and writing which during the present century has become widespread among all classes, has, it may be truly said, given a death-blow alike to the universal use of signs and to the art of the sign-painter. This, to be sure, is not a matter to call for regret on its own account; nevertheless, the great decline in the use of the old-fashioned pictorial signboards is to be regretted for many reasons. The signs our forefathers used have—as already pointed out—largely interwoven themselves with our history. In losing them, we are losing one of the well-known landmarks of the past. The signs of the Woolpack and the Golden Fleece, for instance, which are still common in the Eastern Counties, are mementos of the time when the woollen trade flourished in that part of England. The sign of the Coach and Horses, still a very frequent sign everywhere, calls to mind the old coaching-days. Our numerous Arms, our many Lions, Bulls, Dragons, Bears, and Horses—red, blue, black, green, or white—and divers other strangely coloured animals, most of which are quite unknown to men of science, are all relics of medieval times, when heraldry was cherished and understood by every one. Many similar instances might be pointed out, did space permit.

Most of the signboards now displayed by our inns and taverns bear strong evidence of their own degradation from the high position they once occupied. Inasmuch as they now usually bear the name of the house in written characters, they show most clearly how entirely forgotten are the reasons which originally led to the adoption of the use of signs. Only now and then do we see a pictorial signboard of the real old-fashioned sort.

This decay in the use of inn-signs, however, is no greater than the decline in importance of the inns themselves. These have, within little more than the last half-century, descended from a position of great importance and prosperity to one of comparative degradation. Few persons of the present day have an adequate idea of the extent to which tavern-life influenced thought and manners fifty, one hundred, or two hundred years ago. Then each man had his tavern, much as we now have our clubs and reading-rooms; there he nightly met his friends, heard the high-priced London newspapers read aloud, and discussed the political and business topics of the time. Dickens, in _Barnaby Rudge_, has well sketched the select village company which for many years had met nightly at the old Maypole to tipple and debate. Ale was the universal beverage on these occasions; and in days when there were no colossal breweries at Burton, Romford, or elsewhere, the fame of any tavern was great or small according to the skill of the landlord or his servants in producing this beverage. Inns, too, formed the stopping-places of the many coaches of a hundred years ago, and at them were kept the numerous horses then required for the traffic. In the old coaching-days, indeed, many a small town or village on any main road consisted largely or chiefly of inns; and supplying the necessaries for the passing traffic may be said to have formed the ‘local industry’ by which the inhabitants of such places lived. Thus the inns of olden times combined to a large extent within themselves the various uses to which modern clubs, reading-rooms, institutes, railway stations, eating-houses, hotels, public-houses, livery stables, and the like, are now severally put. Then they were the centres round which most events of the time revolved; now they are little more than tippling-houses for the lower classes.

The various _devices used as signs_ are of infinite variety and varying degrees of interest, from the _Heads_, or portraits, of modern political, naval, or military celebrities, to such signs as the Rose and Crown, the Fleur-de-Lys, the Spread Eagle, the Cross Keys, our numerous Arms, fantastically coloured animals of all kinds, and many other similar devices. Signs of the former kind require little or no explanation; they are usually modern and uninteresting vulgarisms, and their meanings are self-apparent. With signs of the latter class, however, the case is generally far different, and a search for their original significance, often much obscured by the mists of antiquity, is usually an interesting one. As a rule, such signs will be found to have been derived from the armorial bearings of some sovereign, noble, or other historical personage.

From the quaint and now almost forgotten science of heraldry, indeed, has been derived a large majority of our oldest and most interesting signs. This fact need cause no surprise when it is remembered that in former days every one was familiar with this so-called ‘science.’ The incomprehensible jargon, spoken of as ‘blazon’ by heraldic writers, and the various devices appearing on all modern coats of arms, though little more nowadays than grotesque hieroglyphics to most, were once read and perfectly understood even by the common people. A knowledge of heraldry was once, probably, as general as a knowledge of the ‘three Rs’ is now. It was no wonder, therefore, that the idea early suggested itself to the minds of tradesmen and others to use their own coats of arms—when they had any—or those of the great trade guild to which they belonged, or those of their landlord, or some patron, as signs. This convenient custom, once established, would be sure to be largely followed; there can, indeed, be no question that in this way arose the custom of naming houses the ‘So-and-so Arms.’ At the present time, the custom itself remains, though its origin has been almost entirely lost sight of. Many inns have in consequence come to be known as the Arms of persons, trades, places, and things which never did, and never could bear, a coat of arms. Such signs, for instance, as the Lilliput Arms, the Cricketers’ Arms, and the Libra Arms, are modern and meaningless absurdities. Clearly the origin of the sign of the King’s Arms had never occurred to the simple clodhopper of whom it is related that he once walked many miles to see King George IV. on one of his journeys, and who came home greatly disappointed; for he found the king had arms like other men, while he had always understood that His Majesty’s right arm was a lion, and his left a unicorn. Arms of various kinds form a large proportion of our modern signs, often as much as ten per cent., and sometimes double that in particular districts. As a general rule, where a house has displayed for many years together an armorial sign, the ‘coat’ will be found to be that of the largest landowner or most prominent personage in the district.

When the general knowledge of heraldry began to decline, and armorial bearings fell largely into disuse, many houses, formerly known as the ‘Somebody’s Arms,’ probably came gradually to be called after, and distinguished by, the most prominent ‘charge’ in the coat, or after the ‘crest’ or one of the ‘supporters,’ which might have been, in heraldic blazon, a lion gules (red), a boar azure (blue), a white hart, or a rose crowned. Thus undoubtedly originated many strange signs which are still common.

The personal ‘badges’ adopted by kings and great nobles in early times, and worn on the arm by their servants and retainers, have also given origin to many similar signs. Thus, the White Hart—one of our very commonest signboard devices—represents the favourite badge of King Richard II., although the white hart has also a legendary existence. The Rose and Crown—another extremely abundant sign—owes its existence to the fact that most of the earlier English sovereigns used a rose crowned as a badge. The Blue Boar, the badge of the once powerful De Veres, Earls of Oxford, is to this day commoner in the county of Essex, where lay the family seat, than anywhere else. The Red Lion, another of our very commonest signs, is probably in the same way derived from the personal badge of John of Gaunt, Duke of Lancaster, though it doubtless represents also the lion in the arms of Scotland. As a rule, fantastically coloured animals will be found to have had an heraldic origin. Creatures in their natural colours either may or may not have been derived from heraldry; thus, the Greyhound, though it has figured both as the badge, and one or both of the ‘supporters’ of the arms of several English sovereigns, may owe its frequent appearance on the signboard to its modern use in the coursing-field. In the case of the White Horse, too, a very common sign, it is difficult now to decide whether it represents the White Horse of the Saxons, or that of the House of Hanover, or one of the many white horses to be seen in our streets.

The number Three, it will be found, occurs on signboards in most districts more than twice as often as all other numbers put together. This may be partly explained by the fact that three has been regarded as a lucky number from very early times. It is, however, extremely common for three ‘charges’—that is, objects—to appear on coats of arms; and there can be no doubt that very many of our modern Threes have had, either directly or indirectly, an heraldic origin. Among signs which have, in all probability, been derived directly from heraldry, may be mentioned the Three Cups, taken from the arms of the Salters’ Company; the Three Tuns, from the arms either of the Brewers’ or the Vintners’ Companies; the Three Compasses, from the armorial bearings of the Carpenters’ Company; the Three Pigeons, probably derived from the arms of the Tallow-chandlers’ Company; the Three Fleurs-de-Lys—formerly, though not now, a common sign—taken from the arms of France; and many others. To this class also belongs the sign of the Three Golden Balls, still displayed by every pawnbroker. The balls, it is said, represent certain round gilt objects, technically known as ‘bezants,’ which formed part of the coat of arms of the dukes of Medici, from whose states and from Lombardy most of the early bankers came. These capitalists advanced money on valuable objects, and thus gradually became pawnbrokers. The custom of naming houses the ‘Three Somethings’ still survives, although the origin of that custom has been lost sight of. Thus, we get such meaningless absurdities as the Three Jolly Wheelers (whatever they may be), the Three Mariners, the Three Loggerheads, and various others, which may be said to have had an indirectly heraldic origin.

Many signs, too, once formed a ‘rebus’ or pun on the names of the persons who displayed them; such signs are not now common, though they appear frequently on the ‘tokens’ issued so numerously by tradesmen in the seventeenth century. Most of these bore the sign under which their issuers traded. Thus, we find Three Conies, or rabbits, on those of Hugh Conny; a Finch on those of John Finch; a Hand and Cock representing Hancock; and a Babe and Tun representing Babington.

Many most absurd and altogether incongruous combinations still appear on our signboards, though these are not so abundant as formerly; thus, we have the Sun and Whalebone, the Dog and Gridiron, the Plough and Sail, the Crown and Blacksmith, the Bull and Horseshoe, and numerous others. In some cases, a connection between the two objects is obvious; every one, for instance, will be able to see what brought together on a signboard the Cat and Fiddle, the Eagle and Child, the Dog and Partridge, George and the Dragon, &c. But in the case of the examples given above, there is no connection between the two objects referred to, and their combination is quite meaningless. They have in most cases arisen from an ancient custom of adding the sign of the old house to that of the new, when a tradesman has been removing from one place of business to another; or else an apprentice, when beginning business on his own account, has added some sign of his own selection to that of the master under whom he formerly served.

Not a few signs for which no likely meaning or derivation can be found are in all probability corruptions; that is to say, they were originally set up to commemorate some person, object, or event of, perhaps, only local celebrity. In the course of time, this became forgotten; and under vulgar pronunciation—or, possibly, on the advent of a new landlord, who knew nothing of the original meaning of the device—the sign was changed to something else which it seemed to imply or nearly resemble. Thus, it is said the sign of the George Canning has become changed into the George and Cannon, and that of the Island Queen into the Iceland Queen. In Oxfordshire there is a house with the sign of the Sheep and Anchor, which probably was once the Ship and Anchor. Another house, in Hertfordshire, formerly had a ship in full sail represented on its signboard; of late years, however, the board has merely been inscribed the Ship; and quite recently, on the advent of a new landlord who had been a cattle-dealer, the sign was changed to that of the Sheep.

Inn-signs have in some cases been painted by artists of considerable eminence. An interesting account of various instances in which this has been the case will be found in the volume of this _Journal_ for 1881, page 107.

Want of space obviously prevents any attempt being here made to explain in detail the origin and meanings of all our innumerable existing signs. The last edition of the London Directory enumerates no fewer than seventeen hundred and forty-two distinct devices as appearing in the metropolis alone. All that it is possible to do here is to indicate in a general way the manner in which most of our modern signs originated, and that has now been done.

BY ORDER OF THE LEAGUE.

CHAPTER XVIII.

‘You wished to see me?’

‘Yes; if you will be so good as to sit down and listen to me.’

Enid stood looking at her mysterious visitor in some perplexity. There was something almost weird about the strange woman’s beauty; but in obedience, she seated herself to listen.

‘I have a strange story to tell,’ Isodore commenced. ‘For a long while now I have been watching over your welfare. Do not think me personal or rude in any questions I may ask. Believe me, I do not for one moment wish to pain you; indeed, on the other hand, I wish to do you a great service.’

Enid inclined her head gently. ‘Perhaps it will be as well to have as perfect confidence between us as possible. You already know my name. Will you be so good as to tell me to whom I owe this visit?’

‘My name is Isodore.’

Enid looked at her visitor in interest and admiration. This, then, was the beautiful mystery about whom Maxwell had often spoken, the princess to whom the fatal Brotherhood owed allegiance. Then she grew frigid. Had it not been for her and such as her, Frederick would have been with her now.

‘You misjudge me,’ Isodore continued sadly, for she had read the other’s thoughts as easily as an open book. ‘Believe me, had I known, Mr Maxwell would never have been sent to Rome. But if I am to continue, I must have your confidence. What if I tell you your lover is in England now?’

‘In England, and never came to see me!’ Enid exclaimed with a little gasp. ‘Impossible! He would surely have written.’

‘Nevertheless, it is perfectly true, though he only arrived yesterday. He would have come to you, or written, had I not forbidden him.’

‘Forbidden him,’ Enid echoed haughtily. ‘And why?’

‘Because things were not ready,’ Isodore replied calmly. ‘I did not take a journey to Rome at the hazard of my life, to rescue him from a great danger, to have my plans upset at the last moment. If it had not been for me, Mr Maxwell would not be alive now.’ Isodore could not restrain herself sufficiently to conceal this touch of womanly feeling.

Enid’s face softened strangely. ‘I have heard of you. Forgive me, if I seem cold, but I have been severely tried lately,’ she said. ‘You do not know what a load you have taken off my mind; and yet, perhaps’—— She stopped abruptly; her thoughts turned in the direction of Le Gautier, and wondering how she could face her lover now.

‘And yet,’ Isodore replied—‘and yet you would see a way out of the difficulty into which the miserable schemes of Le Gautier have placed you? Do I speak plainly, or shall I be more explicit?’