We must go to the country districts, and best of all to one of our old cathedral towns, to see really old-fashioned signs. In some cases a signboard may still be seen hanging beneath beautifully scrolled iron work, from which in more artistic days the “ale-house painted signs” depended. Even in such a stronghold of conservative and antiquarian feeling as a cathedral city, these relics of the past are yearly becoming more and more scarce, though in those out-of-the-world places, where a change in the situation of the parochial pump must be preceded by about a proportionate amount of discussion as would attend the proposal to make a new underground railway for London, the removal of an old signboard is usually a matter causing grave public agitation. The authors of the History of Signboards have given an account of the demolition of the time-honoured sign of Sir John Falstaff, which for many a generation had gladdened the hearts of the good citizens of Canterbury. However, as a matter of fact, the signboard was only removed to be repainted, and in spite of the orders of Local Boards and City Authorities, in spite of law suits and various other disagreeable attempts at persuasion, the owner of the house has persisted in maintaining in its place this fine old sign with its elaborate iron-work, and there to this day may the gallant knight be seen, with sword and buckler, ready to make instant assault on those men in buckram, or on any other foes. {221}
The close connection that existed between the profession of host and the signboard, may be judged from the fact that the publican who was deprived of his licence also had his sign removed by the minions of the law. A New Way to Pay Old Debts illustrates this fact in the lines—
For this gross fault I here do damn thy licence, Forbidding thee ever to tap or draw; For instantly I will in mine own person Command the constables to pull down thy sign.
In 1629 one Price was forbidden to open a certain house in Leadenhall Street as a tavern, “whiche house was heretofore never used for a taverne, and standeth unfitly for that purpose, being neare unto the Church and two auncient tavernes already neere unto the same in the same streete.” Price, however, persisted, and accordingly the Common Council issued orders for the closing of his doors and the taking down of his bush.
Probably the most elaborate signboard that ever existed, a marvel even in the palmy days of signs, was hung before The White Hart at Scole, in Norfolk. Sir Thomas Brown mentions it in the year 1663. “About three miles further,” he says, “I came to Scoale, where there is a very handsome inne, and the noblest signnepost in England, about and upon which are carved a great many stories as of Charon and Cerberus, Actæon and Diana, and many others; the signe itself is a White Hart, which hanges downe carved in a stately wreath.” This king of signboards was built in the year 1655 by James Peck, a merchant of Norwich, and is said to have cost over £1,000. It was in existence up till the end of the last century.
Goldsmith, in making some comments on the influence of signs, relates how “an alehouse keeper, near Islington, who had long lived at the sign of the French King, upon the commencement of the last war, pulled down his old sign and put up that of the Queen of Hungary. Under the influence of her red face and golden sceptre, he continued to sell ale, till she was no longer the favourite of his customers; he changed her, therefore, some time ago, for the King of Prussia, who may probably be changed in turn for the next great man that shall be set up for vulgar admiration.”
An anecdote is related which illustrates the danger incurred by altering a sign. It seems that the landlord of the Magpie and Crown in Aldgate, a house famous for its ale, was minded to discard {222} the Magpie and to have his house known by the sign of the Crown only. He did so, and the results were disastrous, for the customers fancied that the Crown ale did not taste as good as that formerly sent out from the Magpie and Crown, and the custom fell off. The landlord died, and the business came into the hands of a waiter of the house, one Renton, who restored the Magpie to his old place on the signboard, and with such good effect that on his death the ex-waiter left behind him an estate worth some £600,000, chiefly the produce of the Magpie and Crown ale.
Space only permits that we should mention a very few of the more curious signs in use. The Pig and Whistle is said to be a corruption of the old sign the Peg and Wassail, alluding to the peg-tankards introduced in Saxon times. The Goose and Gridiron is a whimsical variation on the Swan and Harp, which was once common, the inartistic execution of the latter sign no doubt affording the suggestion. The Tumbling Down Dick is supposed to be a derisive sign commemorating the fall of Richard Cromwell.
Then Dick, being lame, rode holding the pummel, Not having the wit to get hold of the rein; But the jade did so snort at the sight of a Cromwell, That poor Dick and his kindred turn’d footmen again.
The Crooked Billet is a sign for which it is difficult to suggest an explanation. It is generally represented by a rough untrimmed stick hanging before the door. Near Bridlington is one such, to which are appended the following lines:—