Enscriptions. TAVERN-SIGNS. I'm amazed at the signs As I pass through the town, A magpye and crown, The razor and hen, The leg and seven stars, The tun and the lute, The shovel and boot.-British Apollo, 1710. THE absurdities which tavern-signs present are often curious enough, but may in general be traced to that inveterate propensity which the vulgar of all countries have, to make havoc with every thing in the shape of a proper name. What a magpie could have to do with a crown, or a whale with a crow, or a hen with a razor, it is as difficult to conjecture as to trace the corruption of language in which the connection more probably originated. The sign of the leg and the seven stars was merely an orthographical deviation from the league and seven stars, or seven united provinces; and the axe and bottle was, doubtless, a transposition of the battle-axe, a most appropriate sign for warlike times. The tun and lute formed suitable emblems enough of the pleasures of wine and music. The eagle and child, too, had meaning, though no application; but when we come to the shovel and boot, nonsense again triumphs, and it is in vain that we look for any rational explanation of the affinity. The Swan-with-two-necks has long been an object of mystery to the curious. This mystery is solved by the alteration of a single letter. The sign, as it originally stood, was the swan with two nicks; the meaning of which we find thus explained in a communication made by the late Sir Joseph Banks to the Antiquarian Society. Sir Joseph presented to the Society a curious parchment roll, exhibiting the marks, or nicks, made on the beaks of swans and cygnets in all the rivers and lakes in Lincolnshire, accompanied with an account of the privileges of certain persons keeping swans in these waters, and the duties of the king's swanherd in guarding these fowls from depredation and preventing any two persons from adopting the same figures or marks on the bills of their swans. The number of marks contained in the parchment roll amounted to two hundred and nineteen, all of which were different and confined to the small extent of the bill of the swan. The outlines were an oblong square, circular at one end, and containing dots, notches, arrows, or suchlike figures, to constitute the difference in each man's swans. Laws were enacted so late as the 12th of Elizabeth, for the preservation of the swans in Lincolnshire. The goat and compasses has been supposed to have its origin in the resemblance between the bounding of a goat and the expansion of a pair of compasses; but nothing can be more fanciful. The sign is of the days of the Commonwealth, when it was fashionable to give scriptural names to every thing and everybody, and when God-be-praised Barebones preferred drinking his tankard of ale at the God-encompasseth-us to anywhere else. The corruption from God-encompasseth-us to gout and compasses is obvious and natural enough. In Richard Flecknoe's Enigmatical Characters, published 1665, speaking of the "fanatic reformers," (the Puritans,) he observes, "As for the SIGNS, they have pretty well begun their reformation already, changing the sign of the salutation of the angel and our lady into the soldier and citizen, and the Kathe rine Wheel into the cat and wheel; so as there only wants thei making the dragon to kill St. George, and the devil to tweak St. Dunstan by the nose, to make the reformation complete. Such ridiculous work they make of their reformation, and so zealous are they against all mirth and jollity, as they would pluck down the sign of the cat and fiddle too, if it durst but play so loud as they might hear it.” The cat and fiddle is a a corruption of Caton fidele. The bag of nails, at Chelsea, is claimed by the smiths and carpenters of the neighborhood as a house designed for their peculiar accommodation; but, had it not been for the corruption of the times, it would still have belonged to the bacchanals, who, in the time of Ben Jonson, used to take a holiday stroll to this delightful village. But the old inscription satyr and bacchanals is now converted into Satan and bag o'nails. The origin of the chequers, which is so common an emblem of public houses, has been the subject of much learned conjecture. One writer supposes that they were meant to represent that the game of draughts might be played there; another has been credibly informed that in the reign of Philip and Mary the then Earl of Arundel had a grant to license public-houses, and, part of the armorial bearings of that noble family being a chequer-board, the publican, to show that he had a license, put out that mark as part of his sign. But, unfortunately for both solutions, unfortunately for the honors of Arundel, Sir W. Hamilton presented, some time ago, to the Society of Antiquaries, a view of a street in Pompeii, in which we find that shops with the sign of the chequers were common among the Romans! The real origin of this emblem is still involved in obscurity. The wittiest, though certainly not the most genuine, explanation of it was that of the late George Selwyn, who used to wonder that antiquaries should be at any loss to discover why draughts were an appropriate emblem for drinkinghouses. An annotator on Beloe's Anecdotes of Literature says, “I remember, many years ago, passing through a court in Rosemary Lane, where I observed an ancient sign over the door of an ale-house, which was called The Four Alls. There was the figure of a king, and on a label, 'I rule all;' the figure of a priest, motto, I pray for all;' a soldier, I fight for all;' and a yeoman, 'I pay all.' About two years ago I passed through the same thoroughfare, and, looking up for my curious 6 sign, I was amazed to see a painted board occupy its place, with these words inscribed :- The Four Awls.' In Whitechapel Road is a public house which has a written sign, The Grave Morris.' A painter was commissioned to embody the inscription; but this painter had not a poet's eye; he could not body forth the form of things unknown. In his distress he applied to a friend, who presently relieved him, and the painter delineated, as well as he could, The Graafe Maurice,' often mentioned in the Epistola Hoelinæ." 6 The Queer Door is corrupted from Coeur Doré (Golden Heart); the Pig and Whistle, from Peg and Wassail-Bowl; the Goat in the Golden Boots, from the Dutch Goed in der Gooden Boote (the god-Mercury-in the golden boots). Many signs are heraldic and represent armorial bearings. The White Heart was peculiar to Richard II.; the White Swan to Henry IV. and Edward III.; the Blue Boar to Richard III.; the Red Dragon to the Tudors; the Bull, the Falcon, and the Plume of Feathers to Edward IV.; the Swan and Antelope to Henry V.; the Greyhound and Green Dragon to Henry VII.; the Castle, the Spread Eagle, and the Globe were probably adopted from the arms of Spain, Germany, and Portugal, by inns which were the resort of merchants from those countries. Many commemorate historical events; others derive their names from some eminent and popular man. The Coach and Horses indicated post-houses; the Fox and Goose denoted the games played within; the Hare and Hounds, the vicinity of hunting-grounds. In the Middle Ages, a bush was always suspended in front of the door of a wine-shop, -whence the saying, "Good wine needs no bush." Some of the mediæval signs are still retained, as the Pilgrim, CrossKeys, Seven Stars, &c. The following is a literal copy of the sign of a small public house in the village of Folkesworth, near Stilton, Hants. It contains as much poetry as perhaps the rustic Folkesworth folks are worth; and doubtless they think it (in the Stilton vernacu lar) "quite the cheese." The Rawlinson of the district has deciphered this inscription, and conjectures its meaning to be as follows: I am a cunning fox, you see; There is no harm attached to me: It is my master's wish to place me here, To let you know he sells good beer. : In King Street, Norwich, at the sign of "The Waterman," kept by a man who is a barber and over whose door is the pole, are these lines :— Roam not from pole to pole, But step in here; Where nought exceeds the shaving, But the beer. This was originally an impromptu of Dean Swift, written at the request of his favorite barber. Over the door of a tippling-house in Frankford, Pa., is this:In this Hive we're all alive; Good liquor makes us funny; ON A TAVERN-SIGN NEAR CAMBRIDGE, ENGLAND. PUNISHMENT FOR TREASON. Tell them how Edward put to death a citizen, Only for saying he would make his son Heir to the Crown; meaning indeed his house, Which, by the sign thereof, was termed so.-Rich. III., Act iii. sc. 5. |