In another:—

Perhaps to the same origin may be referred the sign of Soldier Dick, which occurs near Disley, Stockport; and Happy Dick, at Abingdon. Tumbling-down Dick was also the name of a dance in the last century, which gives additional strength to the supposition that Dick Cromwell was intended, since otherwise an ordinary signboard would scarcely have come to such honour.

The Jolly Toper is a common public-house sign, probably put up as a good example to the customers; in London, there is a Tippling Philosopher, “the right man in the right place,” for he “hangs out” in Liquor Pond Street, opposite Reid’s great brewery. Here we have l’embarras du choix; which philosopher was intended by the sign, for they all, more or less, “pleaded guilty to the soft impeachment.” Theophrastus, in his “Treaty on Drunkenness,” tells us that the seven sages of Greece often met together to indulge in a cheerful glass. Plato not only excuses a drop too much occasionally, but even orders it. Heraclitus, the weeping philosopher, never laughed but when he was “half seas over.” Xenocrates gained a golden crown, awarded by Dionysius the tyrant to the deepest drinker. Seneca states that Solon and Arcesilaus are believed to have “indulged in wine,” and Cornelius Gallus says that Socrates “carried off the palm from his contemporaries by his drinking capacities.” Cato, we know from various sources, liked his glass; Horace tells us—

and Seneca says of him: “Cato vinum laxabat animum curis publicis fatigatum;”[659] elsewhere he remarks: “Catoni ebrietas objecta est, at facilius efficiet quisquis qui objecerit honestum quam turpe Catoni.”[660] Seneca was certainly a biassed judge, for he says: “Habebitur aliquando ebrietas honor et plurimum meri cepisse virtus erit.”[661] Other tippling philosophers are enumerated in the following quaint Latin verses, the author of which is not known:—

In Holland they have a curious practice, which the Spectator thus describes:—

“The Dutch who are more famous for their industry than for their wit and humour, hang up in several of their streets what they call the sign of the Gaper; that is, the head of an idiot dressed in a cap and bells and gaping in a most immoderate manner; this is a standing jest in Amsterdam.”

But the statement is slightly—probably wilfully—incorrect. Carved wooden busts of Gapers are still used at the present day in Holland, but are, and have always been, chemists’, or rather, druggists’ signs, to intimate that narcotics are sold within, as gaping or yawning is a precursor of sleep. The costume of these busts is generally somewhat Oriental, as Eastern nations were supposed to be not only expert in herbs and medicines, but also, because opium came from Eastern climes.

A very curious and rare sign is to be seen in the little village of Nidd, near Knaresborough; this is the Ass in the Band-Box. We find it mentioned in 1712 in Partridge’s MS. book of “Celestial Motions.”[663] In the month of October of that year he entered the following memorandum:—“At the end of this month the villains made the Band-box plot, to blow up Robin and his family with a couple of inkhorns, and that rogue Swift was at the opening of the band-box and the discovery of the plot. The truth of it all was: ‘—— in a Band-box.’”[664] It figured also as one of the signs in Bonnel Thornton’s signboard exhibition of 1762.[665] It seems to have originated from an extremely indelicate joke called “selling bargains,” with which the maids of honour amused themselves in Swift’s time, (see his “Polite Conversation;”) unless it be a vernacular reading of some crest, such as an antelope or a unicorn issuing out of a mural crown.

In the borough of Southwark is a sign on which is inscribed “The Old Pick-my-toe,” which, in the absence of any better origin, we may suppose to be a vulgar representation of the Roman slave who, being sent on some message of importance, would not stop to pick a thorn out of his foot, until he had completed his mission. Probably this was the same sign as that represented on the trades token of Samuel Bovery in George Lane, a naked figure picking one of its feet; but the name of the house is not given on the token. Jack of Both Sides, at Reading, is so named because the house stands at a point where two roads meet in the form of a Y, and the house being wedge-shaped, has an entry at each side. Such a house in London is often called by the vulgar a “Flat-iron.”

CHAPTER XV.
PUNS AND REBUSES.

Punning on names, or a figurative rendering of names, was probably at first adopted not so much with any intent at joking, as means to assist the memory, giving the name a visible token, which would take the place of writing at a time when but few persons could either read or write. At the revival of learning, and the spread of what we may term the refinement of society, punning was one of the few accomplishments at which the fine ladies and gentlemen aimed. From the twelfth to the sixteenth century, it was at its greatest height. The conversation of the witty gallants and ladies, and even of the clowns and other inferior characters, in the comedies of Shakespeare and his contemporaries, which we may be sure was painted from the life, is full of puns and plays upon words. The unavoidable result of such an excess was a surfeit, and the consequent dégout, which lasted for more than a century.[666] Like other diseases, it broke out again subsequently with redoubled virulence, and made great havoc in the reign of Queen Anne. “Several worthy gentlemen and critics,” says the Tatler for June 23, 1709, “have applied to me to give my censure of an enormity, which has been revived after being long suppressed, and is called Punning. I have several arguments ready to prove that he cannot be a man of honour who is guilty of this abuse of human society.”

Bagford makes the following remark on this subject:—

“As for rebuses or name devices, thei ware brought into use heare in England after King Edward ye 3 had conquered France, and this was taken up by most people heare in this nation, espesially by them which had none armes; and if their names ended in ton, as Haton; Boulton; Luton; Grafton; Middellton; Seton; Norton; they must presently have for their signes or devises a hat and a tun; a boult and a tun; a lute and a tun, and so on, which signifies nothing to ye name, for all names ending in Ton signifieth a toune from whence they tooke their name. It would make one very merry to loke ouer ye learned Camden in his ‘Remaines,’ and to consider ye titles of our ould books printed by Haryson, Kingston, Islip, Woodcooke, Payer, Bushell,” &c.—Harl. MSS., 5910, p. ii.

Camden, in his “Remains,” mentions these punning signs, and gives a like statement with Bagford, that they were introduced from France, where they are still much in fashion. “These,” says Camden, “were so well liked by our English there and, sent hither ouer the streight of Calice with full sayle, were so entertained here although they were most ridiculous, by all degrees of the learned and unlearned, that he was nobody that could not hammer out of his name an invention by this witcraft, and picture it accordingly: whereupon who did not busy his brain to hammer his device out of this forge.” After many examples too long to quote, he concludes with the following:—

“Morton, Archbishop of Canterbury, a man of great wisedome, and borne to the universall good of this realme, was content to use mor upon a ton, and sometimes a mulberry-tree, called Morus in Latine, out of a ton. So Luton, Thornton, Ashton, did note their names with a Lute, a Thorn, and an Ash upon a Ton. So an hare on a bottle for Harebottle, a Maggot-pie upon a Goat for Pigot. Med written on a Calf for Medcalfe; Chester, a chest with a starre over it; Allet, a Lot; Lionel Ducket, a Lion with L on his head, where it should have beene in his tayle; if the lion had been eating a ducke it had been a rare device,—worth a Duckat or a duck-egge. And if you require more, I refer you to the wittie inventions of some Londoners; but that for Garret Dewes is most memorable: two in a garret casting dews at dice.[667] This for rebus may suffice, and yet if there were more, I think some lips would like such kind of Lettice.”[668]

How punning signboards were concocted we may gather from a scene in Ben Jonson’s “Alchymist,” act ii., scene 1, where a rebus sign is to be found for Abel Drugger, who for that purpose goes to a kind of fortune-teller, styling himself an alchymist, and who provides our shopkeeper in the following manner:—

This wonderful sign the Alchymist terms a “mystic character,” the “radii” of which are to produce no end of good results to Abel’s trade.

The Cockneys (“gentle dulness dearly loves a joke”) have at all times been celebrated for this kind of pleasantry. The mention of a few of their signs will be sufficient to show the extent of their wit and originality in this direction. The well-known bird-bolt through a tun, or Bolt in Tun, for Bolton, the device of one of the priors of St Bartholomew, is still in existence in Fleet Street.

“It may seem doubtful,” says Camden, “whether Bolton, prior of St Bartholomew, in Smithfield, was wiser when he invented for his name a bird-bolt through his Tun, or when he built him a house upon Harrow Hill, for fear of an inundation after a great conjunction of planets in the watery triplicity.”

From an entry in the Patent Roll of 21 Henry VI., (1443,) this house in Fleet Street appears to have been an inn at that period. In a licence of alienation to the Friars Carmelites of London, of certain premises in the parish of St Dunstan, Fleet Street, “Hospitium vocatum le Boltenton” is mentioned as a boundary. On some of the seventeenth century trades tokens, we meet with a tun pierced by three arrows; this variation of the Bolt in Tun was called the Tun and Arrows, (or harrows, as the Cockney tokens have it.) There was one in Bishopsgate Street Within, and another in Bishopsgate Street Without, in the reign of Charles II.

A Hand and Cock was the punning sign of John Hancock, in Whitefriars. George Cox, in the Minories, tallow-chandler by trade, had Two Cocks for his sign. Thomas Cockayne, a distiller in Southwark, had the same sign, as a feeble pun on part of his name; whilst Christopher Bostock, not seeing any possibility “to hammer” a rebus out of his own patronym, fortunately for him lived at Cock’s Key, and so could make up for this misfortune by punning on the name of that place, whence his sign triumphantly exhibited the Cock and Key. John Drinkwater, a publisher, intimated his name by a Fountain; and William Woodcock, a bookseller in St Paul’s Churchyard in the seventeenth century, happily rendered his by a cock standing on a bundle of wood. William Hill, another bookseller in St Paul’s Churchyard in 1598, lived at the sign of the Hill. John Buckland, who followed the same profession in Paternoster Row, in 1750, was modestly content with half a pun, and adopted the sign of the Buck, while, in the same manner, another of his colleagues, Samuel Manship, who in 1720 lived “against the Royal Exchange, Cornhill,” was satisfied with the Ship. The Sun and Red Cross, in Jewin Street, was the sign of John Cross, who, taking a house with the sign of the Sun, added to it a Cross. In the same manner Pelham More, in Moorsgate, had the Sun and Moor’s Head. John Cherry, of Maidenhead, adopted a Cherry-tree as his sign, showing in this as much wit as the ancestor of the Crequi family in France, who chose a Crequier (old French for cherry-tree) as his coat of arms. Hugh Conny, of Caxton and Elsworth, Cambridge, had in 1666 Three Conies, or rabbits, for a sign. Richard Lion, in the Strand, had the Lion. Bartholomew Fish, at Queenhithe, in 1667, Three Fishes. William Horne, in Oak Lane, 1671, the Horns. Thomas Fox, in Newgate Market, a Fox. William Geese, King Street, Westminster, Three Geese. Ellinor Gandor, Upper Shadwell, 1667, a Gander; whilst H. Goes, a native of Antwerp, printer at York in 1506, next at Beverley, and finally, in London, had for his sign a Goose with an H above it. Joseph Parsons, “at the sign of Parson’s Green,” Market Place, St James, seems to have had a view of Parson’s Green, Fulham, for his sign; though why he did not simply take a parson is, we fear, a secret he has carried with him to the grave. John Hive, St Mary’s Hill, 1667, had the sign of the Beehive. Grace Pestell, in Fig-tree Yard, Ratcliffe, the Pestle and Mortar. John Atwood, in Rose Lane, the Man in the Wood. Andrew Hind, over against the Mews, Charing Cross, a Hind. Taylor, the Water poet, mentions a similar sign at Preston:—

Jane Keye, Bloomsbury Market, 1653, a Key. The Lion and Key was, in 1651, a sign in Thames Street, punning perhaps on the neighbouring Lion’s Quay; it is still the sign of a public-house in Hull, whilst the Red Lion and Key still occurs in Mill Lane, Tooley Street. A grocer, named Laurence Green, proved that to the “fortem ac tenacem propositi virum” nothing is impossible, and found means to pun upon his untractable name by painting his doorposts green, and called his shop the Green Posts. We meet with him in a newspaper advertisement, which, as it gives the price of various articles at that date, is not uninteresting. Green sold—

“Chocolate, made of the best nuts, at 3s. a pound; the best, with sugar, at 2s. a pound; a good sort of all nut, at 2s. 6d.; with sugar, 1s. 8d. To the buyers of three pounds, a quarter gratis. The best coffee, at 5s. 4d. a pound; to the buyer of three pounds, 1s. allowed. Bohee tea, at 16, 20, 24s., the very finest, at 28s. a pound. Fine green tea, at 14s., good, at 10s. a pound. Fine Spanish snuff, at 4s. a pound.” &c.[670]

The Harp was the sign of Richard Harper, West Smithfield; it occurs on a trades token. The house seems afterwards to have assumed the sign of the Bible and Harp. What occupation Richard Harper followed does not appear from his token, but in 1641 a Richard Harper at the sign of the Bible and Harp, published a tract called

In 1670 the house was occupied by a certain J. Clarke, and at a subsequent period by J. Bisset; both these men published numerous ballads.

The Hat and Tun is a pun on the name of Hatton, and is still preserved on a public-house sign in Hatton Wall. A man named Nobis, at the beginning of the present century opened an inn on the road to Pappenburgh, which he called Nobis Inn, and made free with grammar in order to find a punning motto, viz.: “Si Deus pro nobis quis contra Nobis.” Bells have been used by innumerable persons of the name of Bell. The Salmon was the sign of Mrs Salmon, the Madame Tussaud of the eighteenth century; her gallery was first in St Martin’s-le-Grand, near Aldersgate, whence she removed to Fleet Street, opposite what is now Anderton’s Hotel, then called the Horns Tavern. The Brace Tavern, in Queen’s Bench prison, was so called on account of its being kept by two brothers of the name of Partridge. The Golden Heart was the sign of Thomas Hart, a tailor in Monmouth Street, St Giles. (Harl. MSS., Bagford Bills, 5931.) Bat Pidgeon, the hairdresser immortalised in the Spectator, lived at the Three Pigeons, “the corner house of St Clement’s churchyard, next to the Strand,” says Pennant, where he “cut my boyish locks in the year 1740.”

The Black Swan in Bartholomew Lane, nicknamed Cobweb Hall, was kept by Owen Swan, parish clerk (hence the Black Swan?) of St Michael’s, Cornhill. It was a tavern of great resort for the musical wits in the seventeenth century. Failing in this business, Owen set up as a tobacconist in St Michael’s Alley; on the papers in which he wrapped tobacco for his customers, were the following rhymes:—

To which a friend of his wrote the following reply:—

There is a well-known anecdote of a man named Farr, who opened a tobacco shop on Fish Street Hill, and soon obtained a good custom from the pun over his door, “The best tobacco by Farr,” rather than from the quality of his tobacco. Opposite him there was another tobacconist who lost his customers through his pun, but he regained them in the same way as he lost them, for he fought Farr with his own weapons, and wrote up “Far better tobacco than the best tobacco by Farr.” This joke was thought so good that all his customers returned. Tobacco-papers of the original “finest tobacco by Farr” are preserved among the Banks hand-bills in the British Museum, as a proof of the truth of this history.

A Ling, or codfish, strange to say, entwined with honeysuckles, was the sign of Nicholas Ling, at the north-west door of St Paul’s, where, in 1595, he published “Pierce Pennylesse his Supplicacion to the Divell.” An Oak was the sign of Nicholas Okes, a bookseller dwelling at Gray’s Inn, publisher of some of Taylor the Water Poet’s works. His colophon represents Jupiter seated on an eagle between two oak trees. A French publisher, Nicholas Cheneau, in the Rue St Jacques, Paris, in 1580, had also an oak for his sign, (chêne, an oak.)

John Day, another publisher of the time of Queen Elizabeth, had a sort of pun, or charade, on his name in the sign of the Resurrection, his device representing a man waking a sleeper, with the words, “Arise, for it is day.” The Castle and Falcon was another of his signs. Richard Grafton, the first printer of the Common Prayer, who also printed the proclamation of Lady Jane Grey as Queen of England, for which he fell under the displeasure of Queen Mary, had a tun with a grafted fruit-tree growing through it. Stow made a pun upon this sign, saying that one of Grafton’s works was “a noise of empty tonnes and unfruitful grafftes,” to which Grafton retaliated by calling Stow’s Chronicle “a collection of lyes foolishly stowed together.” Hugh Singleton had a Golden Tun; Harrison, 1560, a hare sheltering under a corn-sheaf tied with a ribbon, and with the letters ri and a sun shining above; but the most absurd rebus of all was that of one Newberry, who, according to Camden, had a Yew Tree with several berries upon it, and in the midst a great golden N upon one of the branches, which by the help of a little false spelling made N-yew-berry.

A few punning signs still remain. At Oswaldstwistle, near Accrington, a man named Bellthorn has the Bell in the Thorn; at Warbleton, in Sussex, an old public-house has the sign of a war-bill in a tun, which sign of the Axe and Tun is further intended as an intimation to “axe for beer”! Another innkeeper named Abraham Lowe, who lives half way up Richmond Hill, near Douglas in the Isle of Man, has the following innocent attempt at punning on his name:—

Besides rebuses, and puns on names, the French have another class of punning signs, for which we have only very few equivalents, namely, rebus signboards. One of the most common is the Bœuf à la Mode, which some twenty or thirty years ago was thus Englished in golden letters on a low boarding-house at Brussels:—

It is the usual sign for eating-houses, being the standard dish of the French bourgeoisie. The picture represents an ox dressed up in the height of female elegance, with bonnet, shawl, &c. A good repartee is told, originating in this method of representing the sign: a citizen’s wife, of aldermanic proportions, was coming out of a magasin de nouveautés in Paris, just as two “social evils” were going in; “Dis-donc, Pelagie,” said one of the girls to her companion, “look at that Bœuf-à-la-Mode who is going out.” “Yes,” replied the indignant matron, who had overheard the remark, “and now game is coming in!”

Other French punning signs, such as St Jean Baptiste, Au Juste Prix, Le Bout du Monde, Le Signe de la Croix, and many more, have been noticed in former chapters, and need not, therefore, be again mentioned here.

CHAPTER XVI.
MISCELLANEOUS SIGNS.

Signs which could not well be classed under any of the former divisions will find their place in this chapter, and hence a motley gathering may be expected. As in all inquiries it is proper to begin with the a. b. c., we shall do so here. The A. B. C. was the sign of Richard Fawkes, a bookseller, as the imprint of his works says:—

“In the suburbss of the famous Cytye of Lōdon, withoute Templebarre dwellynge in Durresme rentes [part of Durham House, where now the Adelphi stands] or else in Powles churche-yerde at the sygne of the A. B. C. The year of our Lorde MCCCCCXXX.”

This, we must admit, was a very reasonable sign for a “man of letters.” Continental booksellers also employed it; amongst others, Jacob Pietersz Paetsy, of Amsterdam, in 1597; in the Hague such a sign gave its name to a street. About 1825 there was a public-house in Clare Market called the A. B. C., where the alphabet from A to Z was painted over the door. Even at the present day many public-houses are called the Letters; thus there are two in Shrewsbury, two in Carlisle, one in Oldham, and others in various places. Grand A is a public-house near East Dereham, Norfolk. Little A was the sign of a tobacconist in Leadenhall Street, circa 1780; his tobacco-papers, preserved among the Banks bills, were adorned with a portrait of “Sir Jeffrey Dunstan, or Old Wigs,” one of the mayors of Garrat, styled “Old Wigs” from his practice of buying those articles, by which he made an honourable living before ambition flamed his soul and he entered upon a political career. Grand B may be seen at Long Framlington, Morpeth; Q Inn at Staleybridge; and Q in the Corner in Sheffield. Rhyming alphabets and nursery rhymes present us with the first and last, but the second we confess is somewhat mysterious: the Crowned Q, (au Q Courronne,) which was an old sign in the Rue de la Ferronière, Paris, is easy enough to understand, and one of those broad Rabelaisian strokes of humour which the public delighted in a century or two ago; indeed the sign continued in its old quarters until 1828. The Y was formerly a mercer’s sign in France, and may have originated from the custom of tying ribbons up in festoons, when they would assume somewhat the shape of that letter. It was also the sign of Nicholas Duchemin, a bookseller in Paris, 1541-1576. He, however, took a Pythagorean view of this letter, and considered it, as the freemasons do, an emblem of the double path of life, the broad way leading to destruction, the narrow way unto life; hence the top of the left hand branch terminated in flames, the right hand in a crown. The idea was evidently borrowed from Matt. vii. 13, unless it be from Persius, who says—