ANCIENT TAVERN SIGNS
“La bourse du voyageur, cette bourse précieuse, contient tout
pour lui, puisque la sainte hospitalité n’est plus là pour le
reçevoir au seuil des maisons avec son doux sourire et sa
cordialité auguste.”
VICTOR HUGO (_Le Rhin_).
We must now take leave of “holy hospitality” which is written in the
hearts of men and truly needs no outward sign, and must follow Iago’s
counsel: “Put money in thy purse!” For our journey is no longer from
friend to friend, but from host to host and from sign to sign. Regret
it as we may, a hospitality for profit’s sake had to succeed the old
free hospitality of friends. The widening commerce of the Roman
world-empire could hardly have existed without a well-regulated
business of entertainment along those magnificent roads by which the
empire was bound together. The traveler was more and more unlikely,
with every extension of the area of his far journeyings, to find
houses to which he was bound by the friendly ties of genuine
hospitality; while he who remained quietly by his own fireside (“qui
sedet post fornacem”) would find the constantly increasing duties of
the voluntary host growing to be so great a burden that he would be
relieved to see the establishment of public inns. Indeed, he may
himself, at first, have sought relief by charging his guests a nominal
sum to defray their expense. At any rate, it would be very difficult
to fix an exact line between these two forms of entertainment, which
existed side by side for long ages of antiquity. Certain it is that at
some moment, we know not just when, there appeared the Pompeian
inscription over the tavern door: “Hospitium hic locatur.”
(Hospitality for hire.) That was the birth-hour of the tavern sign.
We cannot hide the fact that the beginnings of business hospitality
were of a very unedifying character, under the plague of Mammon. In
Jewish and Gentile society alike they must have been closely akin to
that kind of hospitality against whose smooth speech and Egyptian
luxury the wise old Solomon warned foolish youth in his Proverbs.
Witness the identical word in Hebrew to denote a courtesan and a
tavern hostess; witness Plato’s exclusion of the tavern-keeper from
his ideal republic; witness the reluctance of the respectable Greek
and Roman to enter a tavern. In the Berlin collection of antiques
there is a stone relief which has been pronounced an old Roman tavern
sign. On it the “Quattuor sorores,” or four sisters, are represented
as frivolous women. And there are charges entered on old Roman tavern
bills which could not possibly appear on a hotel bill to-day. Both the
rich and the poor were imbued with the spirit of Horace’s words:--
“Pereant qui crastina curant,
Mors aurem vellens: Vivite, ait, venio.”
(Dismiss care for the morrow,
Death tweaks us by the ear and says, Drink, for I come.)
This spirit reveals itself in a dance of death, which decorated the
beautiful silver tankards found in Boscoreale, a Pompeian suburb. And
so we must not be surprised to see later, during the Middle Ages, even
on tavern signs the grim figure of Death; as for example, on the
French tavern, “La Mort qui trompe.”
The magnificent frescoes of the rich in Pompeian art show us a
palatial feasting-hall with the inscription, “Facite vobis suaviter”
(Enjoy your life here); and at the same time the tavern guests for a
few pennies woo the philosophy of “carpe diem”--the careless
abandonment to pleasure that knows no concern for the morrow. Another
inscription found in Pompeii makes the tavern Hebe say: “For an as
[penny] I give you good wine; for a double as, still better wine; for
four ases, the famed Falerian wine of song.” To be sure, the wine was
often pretty bad in these greasy inns--Horace’s “uncta popina.” One
guest relieved his mind of his complaint by writing on the chamber
wall: “O mine host, you sell the doctored wine, but the undiluted you
drink yourself.” On the same wall, which seems to have served as a
kind of “guest-book” (“libro dei forestieri”) are the names of many
guests, one of whom complains in touching phrase that he is sleeping
far away from his beloved wife for whom he yearns: “urbanam suam
desiderabat.”
In spite of the contempt which ancient writers all manifest for these
wine-shops and inns, we remark that men of the senatorial order, like
Cicero, did not scorn at times to stop for a few hours on their
summer journey at some country inn like the “Three Taverns,” in the
neighborhood of Rome, to call for a letter or to write one. This was
the same “Tres Tabernæ” to which the Roman Christians went out to meet
the Apostle Paul, to welcome him with brotherly greetings after the
trials of his Christian Odyssey. We read in the Acts of the Apostles
how great his joy was when he saw them, and how “he thanked God and
took courage.” He had no need, however, of the tavern. The hospitality
of Christian fraternity, which he had praised so beautifully in his
message to the Roman community, now received him with open arms.
The very name “tavern,” which in its Latin original means a small
wooden house built of “tabulæ,” or blocks, indicates the very modest
origins of professional hospitality. And we must distinguish, in the
olden times as in the Middle Ages, between hospitality proper, which
takes the guest in overnight, and the mere charity which refreshes him
with food and drink and sends him on his way.
The original sign of the tavern-keeper is the wreath of ivy with
which Bacchus and his companions are crowned, and which twines around
the Bacchante’s thyrsos staff. As the ivy is evergreen, so is Bacchus
ever young (“juvenis semper”), Shakespeare’s “eternal boy.” As the ivy
winds its closely clinging vine around all things, so Bacchus enmeshes
the senses of men. Thus the custom grew of crowning the wine-jars with
ivy, a custom which Matthias Claudius, in his famous Rhine wine song,
has described thus:--
“Crown with ivy the good full jars
And drink them to the lees.
In all of Europe, my jolly tars,
You’ll find no wines like these.”
Now, whether a good wine really needed the recommendation of the
wreath was a question on which experts were not agreed. In general,
the ancients leaned to the opinion that “good wine needs no
bush”--“Vino vendibili suspensa hedera non opus est.” The French later
expressed the same idea in their proverb, “À bon vin point
d’enseigne”; though La Fontaine seems to have been of a different mind
when he said, “L’enseigne fait la chalandise.” And Shakespeare enters
the controversy in his epilogue to “As You Like It,” when he makes
Rosalind say, “If it be true that good wine needs no bush, ’tis true
that a good play needs no epilogue.” An English humorist, George
Greenfield of Henfield (whoever he may be), is fully of the opinion
that there is no need of the bush: “No, certainly not,” says he; “all
that is wanted is a corkscrew and a clean glass or two.”
It is perfectly natural that gloomy and distrustful natures like
Schopenhauer’s should have no confidence in the sign. He uses the word
“sign” always as a synonym for deceit. He calls academic chairs
“tavern signs of wisdom”; and illuminations, bands, processions,
cheers, and the like, “tavern signs of joy”--“whereas real joy is
generally absent, having declined to attend the feast.” Wieland shows
the same mistrust in his verses of Amadis:--
“The finest looks prove only for the soul
What gilded signs prove for the tavern-bowl.”
On the other hand, happy optimistic natures like Fischart’s, the
author of the famous “Ship of Fools” (“Narrenschiff”), and perhaps of
its jolly woodcuts as well, give full credence to a handsome sign.
“How shall you think,” says he, “that poor wine can go with so brave a
sign displayed, or that so neat an inn can harbor a slovenly host or
guest?”
We can see what an important business the making of wreaths was in
ancient times by the place which the Amorettes, who were engaged in
this work, had in the favorite Pompeian wall frescoes, which portray
Cupids in varied activities. We look into the workshop where a small
winged figure is working industrially twining garlands; or into the
sale-shop where a tiny Psyche is asking the price of a wreath. The
winged saleslady answers her in the finger language which the Italians
still use: “Since it is you, pretty maiden, only two ases.”
A very favorite tavern sign in the later times also dates from high
antiquity, namely, the pentagram, triangles intersecting so as to make
this figure [* hexagram symbol]. The Pythagoreans held this as a
talisman of health and protection. The Northern myths called the sign
a footprint of a swan-footed animal. They called it the “Drudenfuss,”
and thought it would protect men against evil spirits like the
“Trude,” a female devil-nixie which harassed sleepers. We see the sign
in the study-scene in the first part of “Faust”; and remark how evil
spirits and the devil himself could slip into human habitations if the
pentagram before the door was not fully closed at the apexes--but had
a hard time getting out again. The elfish verses are well known:--
“_Mephistopheles_: I must confess it! just a little thing
Prevents my getting out beyond the threshold: That is the
Drudenfuss before the door.
“_Faust_: Ah, then the pentagram is in thy way! So tell me
then, abandoned son of Hell, If that can stop thee how thou
camest in; Can such a spirit be so tricked and caught!
“_Mephistopheles_: Look closely! It is badly drawn: one angle,
The one that’s pointing outward, is not closed.
“_Faust_: Ah, that’s a lucky fall of fortune then; It makes
thee willy-nilly captive here.”
Besides wreath and pentagram, we find among the ancients a third
customary sign of hospitality, namely, a chessboard, which invited the
passer-by to a game of draughts along with a draught of wine. The game
was not chess, for that came to Europe from the East in the
post-classical age. Hogarth’s engraving “Beerstreet” shows us that
this sign prevailed in old England, for the characteristic signpost in
front of the tavern door is painted in black and white checkered
squares.
Painted and carved animal images also served as signs in Roman times.
We have a few examples left, and the names of a great many more. In
Pompeii there was a little inn called the “Elephant,” in which one
could rent a dining-room with three couches and all modern comforts
(“cum commodis omnibus”). The sign represents an elephant, around
whose body a serpent is entwined, and to whose defense a dwarf is
running. It was an animal scene on an old sign that inspired Phædron
with his fable of the battle of the rats and the weasels; so the
author tells us at the opening of his poem: “Historia quorum et in
tabernis pingitur.” Perhaps the host of the “Elephant” had an ancestor
in the African wars, and in his honor chose the African animal as a
sign; just as the host of the “Cock,” in the Roman Forum, hung out for
a sign a Cimbric shield captured in the old wars against Germania. On
the shield he had painted a stately rooster with the inscription:
“Imago galli in scuto Cimbrico picta.” The choice of the elephant,
however, might be due simply to the preference which tavern-keepers
showed for strange and wonderful beasts. For the traveler would first
stop and stare at the queer animal, and then, like as not, turn in at
the door, half expecting that the wily host might be harboring the
very beast in real life. There was a grand elephant sign on a
Strassburg tavern, which invited to a hospitable table the young
students of the town, especially the law students--among them a young
man named Goethe. The elephant stood erect on his hind legs, and the
toast of the students was: “à l’élève en droit” (à l’éléphant droit).
Among other figures of animals on Roman signs the eagle was a great
favorite. The Romans bore the eagle on their standards, after having
long accorded the honor to the she-wolf, the minotaur, and the wild
boar. The Corinthians likewise carried a Pegasus, and the Athenians an
owl, on their banners. The sign was closely related to the banner: it
was a kind of rigid flag. We shall see later, in the Dutch pictures,
how, at the jolly kermess, flag and shield together invited the
peasant to drink and dance. In mediæval France the tavern hosts hung
out flags on which the sign was painted or woven in colors. The French
word “enseigne” means originally a flag: “Le signe militaire sous
lequel se rangent les soldats,” as the classic definition in Diderot’s
famous _Encyclopédie_ runs. A secondary definition is: “Le petit
tableau pendu à une boutique.”
The Romans seldom had signs that hung free, such as the Cimbric shield
described above. Generally their signs were paintings or reliefs on a
wall. There were in the shops of Pompeii depressions in the wall made
especially to receive these signs. So, too, the so-called “dealbator”
whitewashed a place on the wall for the election bulletins. Sometimes
the painter used wood or glass as the ground for his sign.
We find all the Roman animal signs--storks, bears, dragons, as well as
the eagle, the cock, and the elephant--in the later Christian ages. It
is not impossible that the eagle signs of later days are the direct
descendants of the old Roman eagle; and they probably existed in most
of the old towns founded by the Romans--Mayence, Speyer, Worms,
Basel, Constance. The names that have come down to us are chiefly of
taverns in the African colonies. Here we find, curiously enough, the
wheel (“ad rotam”), the symbol of St. Catherine, which we shall meet
later in Christian lands; for example, in a picturesque sign in the
old town of Ravensburg in Württemberg.
[Illustration: Zumwilden Mann Eßlingen]
In Spain we find the Moor (“ad Maurum”) who kept his popularity for
centuries. In Sardinia, Hercules, the pattern of the later hero with
the “big stick,” as he appears in the German sign at Esslingen. Some
of the inns had names of heathen divinities, like Diana, or Mercury,
the god of commerce, or Apollo, whose emblem the sun shed its inviting
rays from so many a tavern portal in fair and foul weather alike. A
tavern in Lyons was named “Ad Mercurium et Apollinem”: “Mercurius hic
lucrum permittit, Apollo salutem” (“Here Mercury dispenses prosperity,
and Apollo health”). It is possible that these taverns had gods as
signs, just as in the Middle Ages the streets abounded in images of
the Madonna and saints, which invited the traveler to turn in for
profit or pleasure. Tertullian tells us that there was not a public
bath or tavern without its image of a god: “balnea et stabula sine
idolo non sunt.” After the victory of Christianity the images of the
gods were cheap: tavern-keepers could buy them for a few obols. We can
little doubt that among this “rubbish” was many a precious work of art
which the museums of to-day would be proud to own.
It would be hard to say whether an unbroken tradition connects the
signs of the Middle Ages with those of like name in classical
antiquity. Many a sign may have been invented anew. But that we have
learned much directly from the old Romans in the field of hospitality
is proved by a curious fact. The Bavarian Knödel, which every true
Bajuware claims as an indigenous, national institution, are prepared
to-day exactly like the old Roman “globuli,” after the recipes of
Columella and Varro. Such, at least, is the assurance of Herr von
Liebenau in his interesting book on Swiss hospitality.
We remarked above that it was by their roads especially that the
Romans extended their power over all the world. We must notice now
briefly the Roman post-system, the “cursus publicus,” whose coaches
probably carried travelers from tavern to tavern like the modern
mail-coaches. We must, however, curb the imagination of the reader
with a reminder that practically only the state officials used this
service. Not every country bumpkin could mount with market-basket on
his arm, to make a jolly journey over hill and dale to the sound of
the echoing horn. Still the Emperor or his prefect could issue
tickets to private persons; and furthermore, these persons could,
under certain circumstances, get a sort of Cook’s ticket, called
“diploma tractoria,” which included board and lodging as well as
transportation. If the journey lay through a lonely region, where
there were no private taverns to provide shelter for the night, the
traveler might put up at the state inn (“mansio”) which the province
was obliged to maintain at public cost, with all the necessities and
comforts to which respectable Roman travelers were accustomed. One can
well understand how, as the empire disintegrated, the provincials were
glad to throw off this hated compulsory tax for the support of the
state inn. It was not till the time of Charlemagne that the
institution was revived as a military-feudal service along the routes
of the imperial army. Whether these Roman state inns displayed signs
or not, we do not know. It is, however, very likely that they were
distinguished by the sign of the Roman eagle, and so became the type
of the later private eagle inns.
Here let us remark that the post-coaches of our own day, which seem to
us an institution dating from the Deluge, are a comparatively late
invention. The first so-called “land-coach” in Germany was established
between Ulm and Heidelberg in the year 1683. Through all the Middle
Ages and the Renaissance period, we depended on mounted messengers,
traveling cloister brothers, university students, and rare travelers
to carry messages. In Württemberg, where we find to-day the most
abundant reminders of the good old post-coach days, and consequently
the finest old signs, bands of “noble post-boys” are found, including
the distinguished names of Trotha and Hutten.
That the common workman, even in the Roman days, had to use “shank’s
mare” when he went traveling goes without saying. But the well-to-do
burgher or trader who had no license to ride in the state post-coach
rode on his horse or his high mule. Horse and saddle remained for
centuries the only method of travel after the Roman roads had fallen
into that state of dilapidation from which they fully recovered only
in the days of Napoleon. One needs only to look at the coaches of
princes in past centuries to see for what bottomless mud-bogs these
lumbering vehicles were built. Montaigne rode on horseback from his
home in Bordeaux to the baths of southern France and Italy, although
he seems, from the entries in his diary, to have been very much
afflicted with “distempers.”
A late Roman relief found in Isernia (in Samnium)--a kind of tavern
sign--shows us a traveler holding his mule by the bridle as he takes
leave of the hostess and pays his account. The traveler has on his
cloak and hood. The hood, even up to Seume’s time (i.e., up to the end
of the eighteenth century), was generally worn by travelers in Italy,
and especially in Sicily: “My mule-driver showed a tender solicitude
for me,” wrote Seume, “and gave me his hood. He could not understand
how I dared to travel without one. This peculiar kind of dark-brown
mantle with its pointed headgear is the standard dress in all Italy,
and especially in Sicily. I took a great fancy to it, and if I may
judge from this night’s experience, I have a great inclination toward
Capuchin vows, for I slept very well.”
[Illustration: ROMAN·TAVERN·SIGN·FROM·ISERNIA]
We have had to confine ourselves in the treatment of ancient signs
entirely to Roman examples, for we have very little knowledge of Greek
signs. In fact, the tavern sign seems to have come late into Greece,
through Roman influence. We hear of a tavern “The Camel” at the
Piræus, also of a sailors’ inn having the sign in relief: a boiled
calf’s head and four calf’s feet.
We shall later see what an important part signs played in directing
travelers in a city through the Middle Ages and even in modern times.
They took the place of house numbers and street names. In ancient Rome
a whole quarter was often named after an inn, like the “Bear in the
Cap” (“vicus ursi pileati”). This is the longest-lived bear in
history: he lives even to-day. An excellent German tavern guide, Hans
Barth, writes in his delightful little book “Osteria”: “On the quay of
the Tiber was the famous old inn of the Bear, where Charlemagne
lodged, because the Cafarelli Palace was not yet built; where Father
Dante frolicked with the pussy-cats; where Master Rabelais raised
his famous bumpers of wine.” In Montaigne’s time the Bear was so
frightfully stylish an inn, with its rooms hung with gilded leather,
that the essayist stayed there only two days and then forthwith sought
a private lodging.
[Illustration: Campana and Canone d’Oro Borgo San Dalmazzo, Italy]
In modern Italy there are only a few interesting signs. The most
delightful ones (the Golden Cannon, and the Bell) we found in the main
street of the North Italian mountain town of Borgo San Dalmazzo. The
“White Horse” (“cavallo bianco”) was a little off the main street. The
form of these was probably influenced by the proximity of
Switzerland--a country very rich in beautiful signs.
Seume, who had the finest opportunity for studying taverns and signs
in his walking tour from Leipzig to Syracuse, often mentions the name
of his inn; as, for instance, “Hell” in Imola, or the “Elephant” in
Catania. But there was only one Italian town in which the signs
impressed him: that was Lodi. “The people of Lodi,” he writes, “must
be very imaginative if one can judge them from their signs. One of
them, over a shoemaker’s shop, represents a Genius taking a man’s
measure--a motif which reminds one of Pompeii.”
Our excellent guide, who has an eye for everything picturesque, does
not seem to have met much of interest from Verona to Capri. An
exception was the “Osteria del Penello,” in Florence, on the Piazza
San Martino, a tavern established about the year 1500 by Albertinelli,
the friend of Raphael. On the sign over the door was the jolly curly
head of the founder, who, when the envy of his colleagues poisoned the
work of his brush, here established a tavern. An inscription read:
“Once I painted flesh and blood, and earned only contempt; now I give
flesh and blood, and all men praise my good wine.”
Barth also mentions, by the way, the characteristic wall-paintings of
Italy that rest on the old Roman tradition and yet serve as tavern
signs, like the “Three Madonnas” of the Porta Pincia in Rome: “A
portal decorated with three pictures of the Mother of God leads into
the green garden court.”
Lest the thought of a religious painting serving as a tavern sign
should shock any of our readers, we hasten to turn to the study of
religious hospitality and its emblems.