CHAPTER II.
INTRODUCTORY—STREET AND GENERAL ADVERTISING.

It seems indeed singular that we are obliged to regard advertising as a comparatively modern institution; for, as will be shown in the progress of this work, the first advertisement which can be depended upon as being what it appears to be was, so far as can be discovered, published not much more than two hundred years ago. But though we cannot find any instances of business notices appearing in papers before the middle of the seventeenth century, mainly because there were not, so far as our knowledge goes, papers in which to advertise, there is little doubt that the desire among tradesmen and merchants to make good their wares has had an existence almost as long as the customs of buying and selling, and it is but natural to suppose that advertisements in some shape or form have existed not only from time immemorial, but almost for all time. Signs over shops and stalls seem naturally to have been the first efforts in the direction of advertisements, and they go back to the remotest portions of the world’s history. Public notices also were posted about in the first days of the children of Israel, the utterances of the kings and prophets being inscribed on parchments and exposed in the high places of the cities. It was also customary, early in the Christian era, for a scroll to be exhibited when any of the Passion or other sacred plays were about to be performed, and comparatively recently we have received positive intelligence that in Pompeii and similar places advertising by means of signs and inscriptions was quite common. The “History of Signboards,” a very exhaustive and valuable book, quotes Aristotle, and refers to Lucian, Aristophanes, and others, in proof of the fact that signboard advertisements were used in ancient Greece, but the information is extremely vague. Of the Romans, however, more is known. Some streets were with them known by means of signs. The book referred to tells us that the bush, the Romans’ tavern sign, gave rise to the proverb, “Vino vendibili suspensa hedera non opus est;” and hence we derive our own sign of the bush, and our proverb, “Good wine needs no bush.” An ansa or handle of a pitcher was then the sign of a pothouse, and hence establishments of this kind were afterwards denominated ansæ.

A correspondent writing to Notes and Queries, in answer to a question in reference to early advertising, says that the mode adopted by the Hebrews appears to have been chiefly by word of mouth, not by writing. Hence the Hebrew word kara signifies to cry aloud, and to announce or make known publicly (κηρύσσειν); and the announcement or proclamation, as a matter of course, was usually made in the streets and chief places of concourse. The matters thus proclaimed were chiefly of a sacred kind, as might be expected under a theocracy; and we have no evidence that secular affairs were made the subject of similar announcements. In one instance, indeed (Isa. xiii. 3), kara has been supposed to signify the calling out of troops; but this may be doubted. The Greeks came a step nearer to our idea of advertising, for they made their public announcements by writing as well as orally. For announcement by word of mouth they had their κήρυξ, who, with various offices besides, combined that of public crier. His duties as crier appear to have been restricted, with few exceptions, to state announcements and to great occasions. He gave notice, however, of sales. For the publication of their laws the Greeks employed various kinds of tablets, πίνακες, ἄξονες, κύρβεις. On these the laws were written, to be displayed for public inspection. The Romans largely advertised private as well as public matters, and by writing as well as by word of mouth. They had their præcones, or criers, who not only had their public duties, but announced the times, places, and conditions of sales, and cried things lost. Hawkers cried their own goods. Thus Cicero speaks of one who cried figs, Cauneas clamitabat (De Divin. ii. 40). But the Romans also advertised, in a stricter sense of the term, by writing. The bills were called libelli, and were used for advertising sales of estates, for absconded debtors, and for things lost or found. The advertisements were often written on tablets (tabellæ), which were affixed to pillars (pilæ columnæ). On the walls of Pompeii have been discovered various advertisements. There will be a dedication or formal opening of certain baths. The company attending are promised slaughter of wild beasts, athletic games, perfumed sprinkling, and awnings to keep off the sun (venatia, athletæ, sparsiones, vela).[4] One other mode of public announcement employed by the Romans should be mentioned, and that was by signs suspended or painted on the wall. Thus a suspended shield served as the sign of a tavern (Quintil. vi. 3), and nuisances were prohibited by the painting of two sacred serpents. Among the French, advertising appears to have become very general towards the close of the sixteenth century. In particular, placards attacking private character had, in consequence of the religious wars, become so numerous and outrageous, that subsequently, in 1652, the Government found it necessary to interpose for their repression.[5]

Speaking of the signs of Herculaneum and Pompeii, the “History of Signboards” says that a few were painted, but, as a rule, they appear to have been made of stone, or terra cotta relievo, and set into the pilasters at the sides of the open shop fronts. Thus there have been found a goat, the sign of a dairy, and a mule driving a mill, the sign of a baker. At the door of a school was the highly suggestive and not particularly pleasant sign to pupils of a boy being birched. Like to our own signs of two brewers carrying a tun slung on a pole, a Pompeian publican had two slaves represented above his door carrying an amphora, and another dispenser of drink had a painting of Bacchus pressing a bunch of grapes. At a perfumer’s shop in the street of Mercury were represented various items of that profession, notably four men carrying a box with vases of perfume, and men laying out and perfuming a corpse. There was also a sign of the Two Gladiators, under which, in the usual Pompeian cacography, was the following:—“Abiam venerem Pompeiianama iradam qui hoc læserit.” Besides these were the signs of the Anchor, the Ship (possibly a ship-chandler’s), a sort of a Cross, the Chequers, the Phallus on a baker’s shop, with the words, “Hic habitat felicitas;” whilst in Herculaneum there was a very cleverly painted Amorino, or Cupid, carrying a pair of lady’s shoes, one on his head and the other in his hand. It is also probable that the various artificers of Rome used their tools as signs over their workshops and residences, as it is found that they were sculptured on their tombs in the catacombs. On the tombstone of Diogenes, the grave-digger, there is a pickaxe and a lamp; Banto and Maxima have the tools of carpenters, a saw, an adze, and a chisel; Veneria, a tire-woman, has a mirror and a comb. There are others with wool-combers’ implements; a physician has a cupping-glass; a poulterer, a case of fowls; a surveyor, a measuring rule; a baker, a bushel measure, a millstone, and some ears of corn; and other signs are numerous on the graves of the departed. Even the modern custom of punning on the name, so common on signboards, finds its precedent on these stones. The grave of Dracontius was embellished with a dragon, that of Onager with a wild ass, and that of Umbricius with a shady tree. Leo’s grave received a lion; Doleus, father and son, two casks; Herbacia, two baskets of herbs; and Porcula, a pig. It requires, therefore, but the least possible imagination to see that all these symbols and advertisements were by no means confined to the use of the dead, but were extensively used in the interests of the living.

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Street advertising, in its most original form among us, was therefore without doubt derived from the Romans; and this system gradually grew, until, in the Middle Ages, there was hardly a house of business without its distinctive sign or advertisement; which was the more necessary, as in those days numbers to houses were unknown. “In the Middle Ages the houses of the nobility, both in town and country, when the family was absent, were used as hostelries for travellers. The family arms always hung in front of the house, and the most conspicuous object in those arms gave a name to the establishment amongst travellers, who, unacquainted with the mysteries of heraldry, called a lion gules or azure by the vernacular name of the Red or Blue Lion. Such coats of arms gradually became a very popular intimation that there was—

And innkeepers began to adopt them, hanging out red lions and green dragons as the best way to acquaint the public that they offered food and shelter. Still, as long as civilisation was only at a low ebb, the so-called open houses few, and competition trifling, signs were of but little use. A few objects, typical of the trade carried on, would suffice; a knife for the cutler, a stocking for the hosier, a hand for the glover, a pair of scissors for the tailor, a bunch of grapes for the vintner, fully answered public requirements. But as luxury increased, and the number of houses or shops dealing in the same article multiplied, something more was wanted. Particular trades continued to be confined to particular streets; the desideratum then was to give to each shop a name or token by which it might be mentioned in conversation, so that it could be recommended and customers sent to it. Reading was still a scarce acquirement, consequently to write up the owner’s name would have been of little use. Those that could advertised their name by a rebus—thus, a hare and a bottle stood for Harebottle, and two cocks for Cox. Others, whose names could represent, adopted pictorial objects; and as the quantity of these augmented, new subjects were continually required. The animal kingdom was ransacked, from the mighty elephant to the humble bee, from the eagle to the sparrow; the vegetable kingdom, from the palm-tree and cedar to the marigold and daisy; everything on the earth and in the firmament above it was put under contribution. Portraits of the great men of all ages, and views of towns, both painted with a great deal more of fancy than of truth; articles of dress, implements of trades, domestic utensils, things visible and invisible, ‘Ea quæ sunt tanquam ea quæ non sunt,’ everything was attempted in order to attract attention and to obtain publicity. Finally, as all signs in a town were painted by the same small number of individuals, whose talents and imagination were limited, it followed that the same subjects were often repeated, introducing only a change in the colour for a difference.”[6]

From the foregoing can be traced the gradual growth of street advertising until it has reached its present extensive pitch; and though the process may be characterised as slow, no one who looks around at the well-covered hoardings and the be-plastered signs on detached and prominent houses can doubt that it is sure. Proclamations, and suchlike official announcements, were probably the first specimens of street advertising, as we now understand the term; but it was not until printing became general, and until the people became conversant with the mysteries of reading and writing, that posters and handbills were to any extent used. Mention is made in 1679 of a tradesman named Jonathan Holder, haberdasher, of the city of London, who gave to every purchaser to the extent of a guinea a printed list of the articles kept in stock by him, with the prices affixed. The paper in which this item of news was recorded seems to have regarded Mr Holder’s practice as a dangerous innovation, and remarks that it would be quite destructive to trade if shopkeepers lavished so much of their capital in printing useless bills. This utterance now seems ridiculous; but in the course of another two centuries many orthodox opinions of the present day will receive as complete a downfall as that just recorded.

Within the recollections of men who are still young street advertising has considerably changed. Twenty years ago the billsticker was a nuisance of the most intolerable kind, and though we can hardly now consider him a blessing, his habits have changed very much for the better. Never heeding the constant announcement to him to beware, the billsticker cared nothing for the privacy of dead walls, or, for the matter of that, of dwelling-houses and street doors; and though he was hardly ever himself to be seen, his disfigurative work was a prominent feature of the metropolis. It was also considered by him a point of honour—if the term may be used in connection with billstickers—to paste over the work of a rival; and so the hoardings used to present the most heterogeneous possible appearance, and though bills were plentiful, their intelligibility was of a very limited description. Sunday morning early used to be a busy time with the wandering billsticker. Provided with a light cart and an assistant, he would make a raid on a whole district, sticking his notices and disappearing with marvellous rapidity. And how he would chuckle as he drove away, more especially if, in addition to disfiguring a private wall, he had succeeded in covering over the handiwork of a rival! For this reason the artful billsticker used to select a time when it was still early enough to evade detection, and yet late enough to deface the work of those who had gone before him. Billsticking was thus an art attended with some difficulties; and it was not until the advent of contractors, like Willing, Partington, and others, that any positive publicity could be depended upon in connection with posting.

Yet, in the days of which we have just been speaking, the man of paste considered himself a very important personage; and it is not so very long since one individual published himself under the style and title of “Champion Billposter,” and as such defied all comers. It was for some time doubtful whether his claims depended upon his ability to beat and thrash all rivals at fisticuffs, whether he was able to stick more bills in a given time than any other man, or whether he had a larger and more important connection than usually fell to the poster’s lot; in fact, the question has never been settled, for exception having been taken to his assumption of the title of champion from any point of view, and reference having been made to the editors of sporting papers, the ambitious one gracefully withdrew his pretensions, and the matter subsided. A generation ago one of the most popular songs of the day commenced something like this—

The advent of advertisement contractors, who purchased the right, exclusive and absolute, to stick bills on a hoarding, considerably narrowed the avocations of what might almost have been called the predatory billsticker. For a long time the fight was fierce and often; as soon as an “advertisement station” had been finished off, its bills and announcements being all regulated with mathematical precision, a cloud of skirmishers, armed to the teeth with bills, pots, and brushes, would convert, in a few minutes, the orderly arrangements of the contractor to a perfect chaos. But time, which rights all things, aided in the present instance by a few magisterial decisions, and by an unlooked-for and unaccountable alacrity on the part of the police, set these matters straight; and now it is hard to find an enclosure in London the hoarding of which is not notified as being the “advertisement station” of some contractor or other who would blush to be called billsticker. In the suburbs the flying brigade is still to be found hard at work, but daily its campaigning ground becomes more limited, and gradually these Bashi-Bazouks of billsticking are becoming absorbed into the regular ranks of the agents’ standing corps.

Placard advertising, of an orderly, and even ornamental, character, has assumed extensive proportions at most of the metropolitan railway stations, the agents to whom we have just referred having extended their operations in the direction of blank spaces on the walls, which they sublet to the general advertising public. Often firms which advertise on an extensive scale themselves contract with the railway companies, and not a few have extended their announcements from the stations to the sides of the line, little enamelled plates being used for this purpose. Any one having a vacant space at the side of his house, or a blank wall to the same, may, provided he live in anything like a business thoroughfare, and that the vantage place is free from obstruction, do advantageous business with an advertisement contractor; and, as matters are progressing, we may some day expect to see not only the private walls of the houses in Belgrave Square and suchlike fashionable localities well papered, but the outsides and insides of our public buildings utilised as well by the hand of the advertiser. One thing is certain, no one could say that many of the latter would be spoiled, no matter what the innovation to which they were subjected.

The most recent novelty in advertising has been the introduction of a cabinet, surmounted by a clock face, into public-house bars and luncheon rooms. These cabinets are divided into spaces of say a superficial foot each, which are to be let off at a set price. So far as we have yet seen, these squares have been filled for the most part with the promoters’ advertisements only; and it is admitted by all who know most about advertising that the very worst sign one can have as to the success of a medium is that of an advertisement emanating from the promoters or proprietors of anything in which such advertisement appears. Why this should be we are not prepared to say. We are more able to show why it should not be; for no man, advertisement contractor or otherwise, should, under fair commercial conditions, ask another to do what he would not do himself. So we are satisfied to rest content with the knowledge that what we have stated is fact, however incongruous it may seem, which any one can endorse by applying himself to the ethics of advertising. Certainly, in the instance quoted, the matter looks very suggestive; perhaps it depends on the paradox, that he who is most anxious that others should advertise is least inclined to do so himself.

Not long ago the promoters of a patent umbrella, which seems to have gone the mysterious way of all umbrellas, patent or otherwise, and to have disappeared, availed themselves of a great boat-race to attract public attention to their wares. Skiffs fitted with sails, on each of which were painted the patent parapluie, and a recommendation to buy it, dotted the river, and continually evaded the efforts of the Conservancy Police, who were endeavouring to marshal all the small craft together, so as to leave a clear course for the competitors. Every time one of these advertising boats broke out into mid-stream, carrying its eternal umbrella between the dense lines of spectators, the advertisement was extremely valuable, for straying boats of any kind are on such occasions very noticeable, and these were of course much more so. Still it would seem from the sequel that this bold innovation had been better applied to something more likely to hit the public taste; for whether it was that people, knowing how fleeting a joy is a good umbrella, were determined not to put temptation in the way of their friends, or whether the experiment absorbed all the spare capital of the inventor and patentees, we know not; but this we do know, that since the time of which we speak little or nothing has been heard of the novel “gingham.”

Another innovation in the way of advertisements was that, common a few years back, of stencilling the flagstones. At first this system assumed very small proportions, a parallelogram, looking like an envelope with a black border that had been dropped, and containing the address of the advertiser, being the object of the artist entrusted with the mission. Gradually, however, the inscriptions grew, until they became a perfect nuisance, and were put down—if the term applies to anything on such a low level—by the intervention of the police and the magistrates. The undertakers were the greatest sinners in this respect, the invitations to be buried being most numerous and varied. These “black workers” or “death-hunters,” as they are often called, are in London most persistent advertisers. They can hardly think that people will die to oblige them and do good for trade, yet in some districts they will, with the most undeviating persistency, drop their little books, informing you how, when, where, and at what rates you may be buried with economy or despatch, or both, as the case may be, down your area, or poke them under your door, or into the letter-box. More, it is stated on good authority, than one pushing contractor, living in a poor neighbourhood, obtains a list of all the folk attended by the parish doctor, and at each of the houses leaves his little pamphlet, let us hope with the desire of cheering and comforting the sick and ailing. To such a man Death must come indeed as a friend, so long, of course, as the grim king comes to the customers only.

A few years back, when hoardings were common property, the undertakers had a knack of posting their dismal little price-lists in the centre of great broadsheets likely to attract any unusual share of attention. They were not particular, however, and any vantage space, from a doorpost to a dead wall, came within their comprehension. Another ingenious, and, from its colour, somewhat suggestive, plan was about this time brought into requisition by an undertaker for the destruction of a successful rival’s advertisements. He armed one of his assistants with a great can of blacking and a brush, and instructed him to go by secret ways and deface the opposition placards. Of course the other man followed suit, and for a time an undertaker’s bill was known best by its illegibility. But ultimately these two men of colour met and fought with the instruments provided by their employers. They did not look lovely when charged before a magistrate next morning, and being bound over to keep the peace, departed to worry each other, or each other’s bills, no more. There is another small bill feature of advertising London which is so objectionable that we will pass it by with a simple thankful notice that its promoters are sometimes overtaken by tardy but ironhanded justice.

Most people can recollect the hideous glass pillars or “indicators” which, for advertising purposes, were stuck about London. The first one made its appearance at Hyde Park Corner, and though, in deference to public opinion, it did not remain there very long, less aristocratic neighbourhoods had to bear their adornments until the complete failure of the attempt to obtain advertisements to fill the vacant spaces showed how fatuous was the project. The last of these posts, we remember, was opposite the Angel at Islington, and there, assisted by local faith and indolence, it remained until a short time back. But it too has gone now, and with it has almost faded the recollection of these hideous nightmares of advertising.

The huge vans, plastered all over with bills, which used to traverse London, to the terror of the horses and wonder of the yokels, were improved off the face of the earth a quarter of a century ago; and now the only perambulating advertisement we have is the melancholy sandwich-man and the dispenser of handbills, gentlemen who sometimes “double their parts,” to use a theatrical expression. To a playhouse manager we owe the biggest thing in street and general advertising—that in connection with the “Dead Heart”—that has yet been recorded. Mr Smith, who had charge of this department of the Adelphi, has published a statement which gives the totals as follows:—10,000,000 adhesive labels (which, by the way, were an intolerable nuisance), 30,000 small cuts of the guillotine scene, 5000 reams of note-paper, 110,000 business envelopes, 60,000 stamped envelopes, 2000 six-sheet cuts of Bastile scene, 5,000,000 handbills, 1000 six-sheet posters, 500 slips, 1,000,000 cards heartshaped, 100 twenty-eight sheet posters, and 20,000 folio cards for shop windows. This was quite exclusive of newspaper wrappers and various other ingenious means of attracting attention to the play throughout the United Kingdom.

Among other forms of advertising, that on the copper coinage must not be forgotten. The extensive defacement of the pence and halfpence of the realm in the interests of a well-known weekly paper ultimately led to the interference of Parliament, and may fairly be regarded as the cause, or at all events as one of the principal causes, of the sum of £10,000 being voted in July 1855 for the replacement of the old, worn, battered, and mixed coppers by our present bronze coinage.

And now, having given a hurried and summarised glance at the growth and progress of advertising of all kinds and descriptions, from the earliest periods till the present time, we will begin at the beginning, and tell the story with all its ramifications, mainly according to those best possible authorities, the advertisements themselves.

CHAPTER III.
ANCIENT FORMS OF ADVERTISING.

Though it would be quite impossible to give any exact idea as to the period when the identical first advertisement of any kind made its appearance, or what particular clime has the honour of introducing a system which now plays so important a part in all civilised countries, there need be no hesitation in ascribing the origin of advertising to the remotest possible times—to the earliest times when competition, caused by an increasing population, led each man to make efforts in that race for prominence which has in one way or other gone on ever since. As soon as the progress of events or the development of civilisation had cast communities together, each individual member naturally tried to do the best he could for himself, and as he, in the course of events, had naturally to encounter rivals in his way of life, it is not hard to understand that some means of preventing a particular light being hid under a bushel soon presented itself. That this means was an advertisement is almost certain; and so almost as long as there has been a world—or quite as long, using the term as it is best understood now—there have been advertisements. At this early stage of history, almost every trade and profession was still exercised by itinerants, who proclaimed their wares or their qualifications with more or less flowery encomiums, with, in fact, the advertisement verbal, which, under some circumstances, is still very useful. But the time came when the tradesman or professor settled down, and opened what, for argument’s sake, we will call a shop. Then another method of obtaining publicity became requisite, and the crier stepped forward to act as a medium between the provider and the consumer. This is, however, but another form of the same system, and, like its simpler congener, has still an existence, though not an ostentatious one. When the art of writing was invented, the means of extending the knowledge which had heretofore been simply cried, was greatly extended, and advertising gradually became an art to be cultivated.

Very soon after the invention of writing in its rudest form, it was turned to account in the way of giving publicity to events in the way of advertisement; for rewards for and descriptions of runaway slaves, written on papyri more than three thousand years ago, have been exhumed from the ruins of Thebes. An early but mythical instance of a reward being offered in an advertisement is related by Pausanias,[7] who, speaking of the art of working metals, says that the people of Phineum, in Arcadia, pretended that Ulysses dedicated a statue of bronze to Neptune, in the hope that by that deity’s intervention he might recover the horses he had lost; and, he adds, “they showed me an inscription on the pedestal of the statue offering a reward to any person who should find and take care of the animals.”

The Greeks used another mode of giving publicity which is worthy of remark here. They used to affix to the statues of the infernal deities, in the temenos of their temples, curses inscribed on sheets of lead, by which they devoted to the vengeance of those gods the persons who had found or stolen certain things, or injured the advertisers in any other way. As the names of the offenders were given in full in these singular inscriptions, they had the effect of making the grievances known to mortals as well as immortals, and thus the advertisement was attained. The only difference between these and ordinary public notices was that the threat of punishment was held out instead of the offer of reward. A compromise was endeavoured generally at the same time, the evil invoked being deprecated in case of restitution of the property. A most interesting collection of such imprecations (diræ defixiones, or κατάδεσμοι) was found in 1858 in the temenos of the infernal deities attached to the temple of Demeter at Cnidus. It is at present deposited in the British Museum, where the curious reader may inspect it in the second vase-room.

A common mode of advertising, about the same time, was by means of the public crier, κήρυξ. In comparatively modern times our town-criers have been proverbial for murdering the king’s English, or, at all events, of robbing it of all elecutionary beauties. Not so among the Greeks, who were so nice in point of oratorical power, and so offended by a vicious pronunciation, that they would not suffer even the public crier to proclaim their laws unless he was accompanied by a musician, who, in case of an inexact tone, might be ready to give him the proper pitch and expression. But this would hardly be the case when the public crier was employed by private individuals. In Apuleius (“Golden Ass”) we are brought face to face with one of these characters, a cunning rogue, full of low humour, who appears to have combined the duties of crier and auctioneer. Thus, when the slave and the ass are led out for sale, the crier proclaims the price of each with a loud voice, joking at the same time to the best of his abilities, in order to keep the audience in good humour. This latter idea has not been lost sight of in more modern days. “The crier, bawling till his throat was almost split, cracked all sorts of ridiculous jokes upon me [the ass]. ‘What is the use,’ said he, ‘of offering for sale this old screw of a jackass, with his foundered hoofs, his ugly colour, his sluggishness in everything but vice, and a hide that is nothing but a ready-made sieve? Let us even make a present of him, if we can find any one who will not be loth to throw away hay on the brute.’ In this way the crier kept the bystanders in roars of laughter.”[8]

The same story furnishes further particulars regarding the ancient mode of crying. When Psyche has absconded, Venus requests Mercury “to proclaim her in public, and announce a reward to him who shall find her.” She further enjoins the divine crier to “clearly describe the marks by which Psyche may be recognised, that no one may excuse himself on the plea of ignorance, if he incurs the crime of unlawfully concealing her.” So saying, she gives him a little book, in which is written Psyche’s name and sundry particulars. Mercury thereupon descends to the earth, and goes about among all nations, where he thus proclaims the loss of Psyche, and the reward for her return:—“If any one can seize her in her flight, and bring back a fugitive daughter of a king, a handmaid of Venus, by name Psyche, or discover where she has concealed herself, let such person repair to Mercury, the crier, behind the boundaries of Murtia,[9] and receive by way of reward for the discovery seven sweet kisses from Venus herself, and one exquisitely delicious touch of her charming tongue.” A somewhat similar reward is offered by Venus in the hue and cry she raises after her fugitive son in the first idyl of Moschus, a Syracusan poet who flourished about 250 years before the Christian era: “If any one has seen my son Eros straying in the cross roads, [know ye] he is a runaway. The informer shall have a reward. The kiss of Venus shall be your pay; and if you bring him, not the bare kiss only, but, stranger, you shall have something more.”[10] This something more is probably the “quidquid post oscula dulce” of Secundus, but is sufficiently vague to be anything else, and certainly promises much more than the “will be rewarded” of our own time.

So far with the Greeks and their advertisements. Details grow more abundant when we enter upon the subject of advertising in Rome. The cities of Herculaneum and Pompeii, buried in the midst of their sorrows and pleasures, their joys and cares, in the very midst of the turmoil of life and commerce, and discovered ages after exactly as they were on the morning of that ominous 24th of August A.D. 79, show us that the benefit to be derived from publicity was well understood in those luxurious and highly-cultivated cities. The walls in the most frequented parts are covered with notices of a different kind, painted in black or red. Their spelling is very indifferent, and the painters who busied themselves with this branch of the profession do not appear to have aimed at anything like artistic uniformity or high finish. Still these advertisements, hasty and transitory as they are, bear voluminous testimony as to the state of society, the wants and requirements, and the actual standard of public taste of the Romans in that age. As might be expected, advertisements of plays and gladiators are common. Of these the public were acquainted in the following forms,—

AEDILIS . FAMILIA . GLADIATORIA . PUGNABIT
POMPEIS . PR . K . JUNIAS . VENATIO ET VELA
ERUNT.

or,

N . FESTI AMPLIATI
FAMILIA GLADIATORIA . PUGNA ITERUM
PUGNA . XVI . K . JVN . VENAT . VELA.[11]

Such inscriptions occur in various parts of Pompeii, sometimes written on smooth surfaces between pilasters (denominated albua), at other times painted on the walls. Places of great resort were selected for preference, and thus it is that numerous advertisements are found under the portico of the baths at Pompeii, where persons waited for admission, and where notices of shows, exhibitions, or sales would be sure to attract the attention of the weary lounger.

Baths we find advertised in the following terms,—

THERMAE
M . CRASSI FRUGII
AQUA . MARINA . ET . BALN.
AQUA . DULCI . JANUARIUS . L.

which of course means “warm, sea, and fresh water baths.” As provincials add to their notices “as in London,” or “à la mode de Paris,” so Pompeians and others not unfrequently proclaimed that they followed the customs of Rome at their several establishments. Thus the keeper of a bathing-house near Bologna acquainted the public that—

IN . PRAEDIS
C . LEGIANNI VERI
BALNEUM . MORE . URBICO . LAVAT.
OMNIA COMMODA . PRAESTANTUR.

At his establishments there were baths according to the fashion of “the town,” besides “every convenience.” And a similar inscription occurred by the Via Nomentana, eight miles from Rome—

IN . PRAEDIS . AURE
LIAE . FAUSTINIANAE
BALINEUS . LAVAT . MO
RE . URBICO . ET OMNIS.
HUMANITAS . PRAESTA
TUR.

Large illustration (118 kB)

Those who had premises to let or sell affixed a short notice to the house itself, and more detailed bills were posted at the “advertising stations.” Thus in Plautus’s “Trinummus,” Act v., the indignant Callicles says to his spendthrift son, “You have dared to put up in my absence, and unknown to me, that this house is to be sold”—(“Ædes venales hasce inscribit literis”). Sometimes, also, the inscription, “Illico ædes venales” (“here is a house for sale”) appears to have been painted on the door, or on the album. An auctioneer would describe a house as “Villa bona beneque edificata” (a good and well-built house), and full details of the premises were given in the larger placards painted on walls. In the street of the Fullers in Pompeii occurs the following inscription, painted in red, over another which had been painted in black and whitewashed over,—

IN . PRAEDIS . JULIAE . S . P . F . FELICIS
LOCANTUR
BALNEUM . VENEREUM . ET . NONGENTUM . PERGULAE
CENACULA . EX . IDIBUS . AUG . PRIORIS . IN . IDUS . AUG .
SEXTAS . ANNOS . CONTINUOS . QUINQUE.
S . Q . D . L . E . N . C.

Which has been translated, “On the estate of Julia Felix, daughter of Spurius Felix, are to let from the 1st to the 6th of the ides of August (i.e., between August 6th and 8th), on a lease of five years, a bath, a venereum, and nine hundred shops, bowers, and upper apartments.”[12] The seven final initials, antiquaries, who profess to read what to others is unreadable, explain, “They are not to let to any person exercising an infamous profession.” But as this seems a singular clause where there is a venereum to be let, other erudites have seen in it, “Si quis dominam loci eius non cognoverit,” and fancy that they read underneath, “Adeat Suettum Verum,” in which case the whole should mean, “If anybody should not know the lady of the house, let him go to Suettus Verus.” The following is another example of the way in which Roman landlords advertised “desirable residences,” and “commodious business premises”—

INSULA ARRIANA
POLLIANA . GN . ALIF I . NIGID I MAI
LOCANTUR . EX . I . JULIS . PRIMIS . TABERNAE
CUM . PERGULIS . SUIS . ET COENACULA
EQUESTRIA . ET . DOMUS . CONDUCTOR
CONVENITO . PRIMUM GN . ALIF I
NIGID I . MAI SER.

Said to mean, “In the Arrian Pollian block of houses, the property of Cn. Alifius Nigidius, senior, are to let from the first of the ides of July, shops with their bowers, and gentlemen’s apartments. The hirer must apply to the slave of Cn. Alifius Nigidius, senior.”