THE ENEMIES OF THE SIGN AND ITS END
“Ne songez pas même à réformer les enseignes d’une ville!”
In mediæval times the signs were not only charming or pious
decorations of the snug narrow streets, but they were also very useful
and practical guides for the wayfarer through the labyrinth of crooked
lanes. Even the uneducated understood their pictorial language like
illustrations in a book which give even to a child a certain
clue to its meaning. For this very reason the learned Sebastian
Brant decorated his edition of Virgil of 1522 with elaborate
pictures,--_expolitissimis figuris atque imaginibus nuper per
Sebastianum Brant superadditis_,--firmly hoping that now even the
unlearned would easily understand the beauties of his beloved author:
“_Nec minus indoctus perlegere illa potest_.” While the learned men in
general continued to despise pictures in their editions of the
classics, the first popular books tried through their wood-cuts to
speak to the fancy of the common people and thus win their applause.
Just as these pictures in the old books, so the signs in the streets
spoke to the _indoctus_. Therefore, if somebody wished to send a
letter to his banker in Fleet Street, London, he needed only to tell
his messenger that it was at the “Three Squirrels,” and he was sure
that even the greatest numskull could find it. Unfortunately the
owners of this old banking-house have withdrawn the sign, so it took
me quite a while before I found it safely hung up on a modern iron arm
in the office of Messrs. Barclay & Co., No. 19, Fleet Street. The
characteristic interpretation of the sign, given to me by the banker
himself, was: “May you never want a nut to crack.”
[Illustration: ·THREE·SQUIRRELS·LONDON·]
In the old times the streets were not yet numbered, as Macaulay tells
us, not even at the end of the seventeenth century. “There would
indeed have been little advantage in numbering them; for of the
coachmen, chairmen, porters, and errand-boys of London, a very small
proportion could read.... The shops were therefore distinguished by
painted signs, which gave a gay and grotesque aspect to the streets.
The walk from Charing Cross to Whitechapel lay through an endless
succession of Saracens’ Heads, Royal Oaks, Blue Bears, and Golden
Lambs, which disappeared when they were no longer required for the
direction of the common people.” As a useful guide to find one’s way
the sign was expressly recognized by the state authorities; so in a
privilege granted by Charles I to the inhabitants of London to hang
out signs “for the better finding out such citizens’ dwellings, shops,
arts, or occupations.” For the landlords, it was even made obligatory
so as to facilitate the police in determining if the laws concerning
the liquor trade were properly observed. An Act of Parliament in the
reign of Henry VI forced the brewers to hang out signs and an
ordinance of Louis XIV for Paris distinctly demands: “Pour donner à
connoître les lieux où se vendent les vins en détail et si les
réglements y sont observez, nul ne pourra tenir taverne en cette dite
ville et faubourgs sans mettre enseigne et bouchon.” Similar
regulations we find in Switzerland; as, for instance, in Maienfeld
where the city fathers punished every one who kept tavern without an
“open sign.” Through such restrictions they hoped to stop the
competition of the simple burgher, “the temporary landlord,” who tried
to sell the surplus product of his own vineyard, and thus to secure
the patronage of all thirsty souls for the legal “Schildwirt,” the
landlord with a sign, even if he lived only from the “bouchon” or
cork and could not accommodate guests overnight.
[Illustration: ZUR GLOCKE WINNENDEN]
If they had not a sign out, how could the watchman, after the
night-bell--sometimes called “Lumpenglocke” in Germany--had sounded,
investigate properly if the tavern-keepers really stopped to furnish
the guests with new wine? And was it not the duty of the city fathers
to look after the morals of their subjects and to teach them the
wisdom of the German saying:--
“Er hat nicht wol getrunken, der sich übertrinket.
Wie ziemet das biderbem Mann, daz ihm die Zunge hinket?”
So the sign was in many ways a useful institution topographically,
politically, and morally. Its merits are not yet exhausted: it was a
good weather prophet, too. When the old iron things began to moan and
to squeak, storm and rain surely were not far, as an English rhyme
whimsically says:--
“But when the swinging signs your ears offend
With creaking noise, then rainy floods impend.”
How was it possible, then, that such an institution as our amiable
sign, approved and furthered by the State, such a popular, often
artistically charming creation, could have enemies? The first reason,
as we have seen in our chapter on “Religious Signs,” was that pious
signs were used by impious innkeepers or that religious themes were
represented in a manner insulting to all religious feeling. No wonder,
if a French landlord called his tavern “Au sermon,” and illustrated
the word “sermon” by a deer (_cerf_) and a mountain (_mont_), that the
really pious citizen protested and exclaimed indignantly: “Ne
devrait-on pas condamner à une grosse amende un misérable cabaretier
qui met à son enseigne un cerf et un mont pour faire une ridicule
équivoque à sermon? Ce qui autorise des ivrognes à dire qu’ils vont
tous les jours au sermon ou qu’ils en viennent.”
Surely the really pious signs subsisted beside their frivolous
brothers, as the English doctor-sign of 1623, beautifully carved and
gilded and now a treasure of a collector, proves by its inscription:
“Altissimus creavit de terra medicynam et vir prudens non abhorrebit
illam.” Curiously enough, the schoolmaster souls took offense at the
sign’s absurd combinations, its lack of “sound literature and good
sense,” its impossible orthography and ridiculous mottoes, which, by
the way, were added only later to the pictures. All this was extremely
shocking to these people and many of them thought it a noble life-task
to reform the signs. One of these reformers developed his programme in
one of the oldest English periodicals, “The Spectator,” in an April
number of the year 1710, fully aware of attempting an herculean labor.
Combinations, such as “Fox and Goose,” he deigns to admit; but what
sense, asks he, in logical indignation, “is in such absurdities as
‘Fox and the Seven Stars,’ or worse still, in the ‘Three Nuns and a
Hare’?” Molière, in “Les Fâcheux,” has ridiculed these sign reformers,
a species not unknown in Paris either, in the person of Monsieur
Caritidès, who humbly solicited Louis XIV to invest him with the
position of a General Sign Controller. His petition reads, in
Molière’s inimitable French, as follows:--
_Sire_:
Votre très-humble, très-obéissant, très-fidèle et très savant
sujet et serviteur Caritidès, Français de nation, Grec de
profession, ayant considéré les grands et notables abus qui se
commettent aux inscriptions des enseignes des maisons
boutiques, cabarets, jeux de boule et autres lieux de votre
bonne ville de Paris, en ce que certains ignorants,
compositeurs des dites inscriptions, renversent, par une
barbare, pernicieuse et détestable orthographe, toute sorte de
sens et de raison, sans aucun regard d’etymologie, analogie,
énergie ni allégorie quelconque au grand scandale de la
république des lettres et de la nation Française, qui se décrie
et déshonore, par les dits abus et fautes grossières, envers
les étrangers, et notamment envers les Allemands, curieux
lecteurs et inspecteurs des dites inscriptions ... supplie
humblement Votre Majesté de créer, pour le bien de son État et
la gloire de son empire une charge de contrôleur,
intendant-correcteur, réviseur et restaurateur général des
dites inscriptions et d’icelle honorer le suppliant....
[Illustration: ZUM SCHLÜSSEL BOZEN.]
In all impartiality we have to admit that really the sign lost by and
by its usefulness as a street-guide, since the trades and crafts
occupying a house changed often, while the old signs, especially those
which formed a part of its architecture, remained unchanged, thus
producing the most ridiculous contradictions against which the
above-mentioned reformer of “The Spectator” protested not without
reason, saying: “A cook should not live at ‘The Boot’ nor a shoemaker
at ‘The Roasted Pig.’”
But the most ruthless enemy of the sign became the police itself, who
once protected it. As early as the year 1419 we find an English police
regulation, threatening with a fine of forty pence--in those days
quite a sum--“that no one in future should have a stake bearing either
his sign or leaves, extending or lying over the King’s highway, of
greater length than seven feet at most.” As every innkeeper tried to
outdo the other by the size and the magnificence of his sign, one
arrived finally at absurdly great constructions which really hampered
the traffic: as in England, where we find wrought-iron signs which,
like arches of triumph, reached from one side of the street to the
other. A precious old book, “A Vademecum for Malt-Worms” (British
Museum), in a quaint woodcut, “The Dog in Shoreditch,” gives us a
picture of such a sign monument. To the artist’s eyes they were
charming things, combining happily great lanterns with the sign into a
harmony which we so often find lacking in modern days, where beautiful
old signs through the addition of ugly modern lamps lose all their
artistic charm of yore.
[Illustration: ·THE·DOG·IN·SHOREDITCH·]
Mercier’s “Tableau de Paris” tells us of ridiculously great signs:
spurs as large as a wheel, gloves big enough to house a three-year-old
babe, and the like. In old Germany, too, the sight of the giant signs,
as Victor Hugo describes them from Frankfurt-on-the-Main, must have
been fantastic enough. “Under the titanic weight of these sign
monuments caryatides are bowed down in all positions of rage, pain,
and fatigue.” Some of them carry an impudent bronze negro in a gilded
tin mantle; others an enormous Roman emperor--a monolith of twenty
feet in height--“dans toute la pompe du costume de Louis XIV avec sa
grande perruque, son ample manteau, son fauteuil, son estrade, sa
crédence où est sa couronne, son dais a pentes découpées et à vastes
draperies.”
Especially objectionable to the police in London were those signs that
reached far out over the street and, shaken by the wind, constituted a
real danger to the passer-by. So the fall of such a huge inn sign in
Fleet Street, London, in 1718, caused the death of two ladies, a court
jeweler, and a cobbler. Similar dangers threatening an innocent public
were vividly set forth in a Parisian police ordinance in 1761, in an
amusing bureaucratic French: “Les enseignes saillantes faisaient
paraître les rues plus étroites et dans les rues commerçantes elles
nuisaient considérablement aux vues des premiers étages, et même a la
clarté des laternes, en occasionnant des ombres préjudiciables à la
sureté publique; elles formaient un péril perpetuellement imminent sur
la tête des passants, tant par l’inattention des propriétaires et des
locataires sur la vétusté des enseignes ou des potences, qui en ont
souvent abattu plusieurs et causé les accidents les plus funestes.”
[Illustration: THE QUEEN·IN EXETER·]
If the police had contented itself in eliminating the offensive or
really dangerous signs, nobody could have blamed it. Unfortunately it
was much more aggressive, especially in France, the paradise of the
“ronds de cuir,” and attempted to cut down every individual or
artistic invention on the part of the signmakers. We are, therefore,
not surprised to find so little in modern France that could remind us
of the old abundance. The officials of the Revolution proved
themselves just as narrow-minded as those of royal times. Both,
animated by the bureaucratic instinct to confine everything to narrow
rules, tried to suppress all individual poetical invention that once
was the charm of the sign. A royal edict of 1763 prescribes a very
uninteresting design as a binding model for all signs, giving at the
same time the exact measurements of the same and warning the public
not to dare to make any changes on the “dessein cy-dessus marqué.” It
was a poor consolation for the owners of beautiful old signs that the
same edict granted them the great privilege of giving their
art-treasures in account as old iron--“quinze deniers la livre”--when
paying the bill for the new sign patented by the State. Still more
radically acted the men of the Revolution, who sincerely hated the
signs, with their crowns and heraldry, as abominable “marques du
despotisme.” They made short work, and simply ordered: “Toutes les
enseignes qui portent des signes de royalisme, féodalité et de
superstition seront renouvelées et remplacées par des signes
républicains: les enseignes ne seront plus saillantes mais simplement
peintes sur les murs des maisons.”
Another danger for the sign resulted from the attempt to number the
houses of which we hear, perhaps for the first time in France, as
early as 1512. This first attempt failed, but in the enlightened
eighteenth century the new and certainly more reasonable method of
distinguishing a house from its neighbor decidedly gained ground. In
1805 it was made obligatory by the Parisian police. A similar
development we observe in England. Nobody will deny the practical
progress and no business man would like to return to the old times
when an English bookseller, for instance, had to give the address of
his shop in the following way: “Over against the Royal Exchange at the
Sugar Loaf next Temple Bar.” In Germany, where the centralization in
large capitals made slower progress and a multitude of small social
and political centers kept their own, the rational institution of
numbering the houses, so necessary in great cities like Paris or
London, was not accepted so quickly. In 1802 Dresden, for instance,
had not even on the street corners signs indicating their names; “an
institution that facilitates topography and topography facilitates
business,” remarks a judicious contemporary. Here in Germany the cold
number did not conquer so easily over the poetical warmth of the dear
old sign. In the quiet, imperial towns of the south the artistic sign
of the Rococo period and the Empire style, unpersecuted and
unmolested, keep their place in the sun up to the present day in spite
of some ill-advised landlords who thought it necessary to hide the
humble oxen or lamb in the garret and call their house by some new
pretentious French name like “Hotel de l’Europe” or the like.
[Illustration: ·Stuttgart·]
In our own enlightened times of general school education, nobody needs
any more the sign as a guide through even the most modest town.
Everywhere the number has taken its place for this purpose and we
regret to admit for the history of the sign too the truth of Darwin’s
words: “Progress in history means the decline of phantasy and the
advance of thought.”
ENVOY AND THE MORAL?
[Illustration: Sonne Neckarsulm, Württemberg]
ENVOY AND THE MORAL?
“I am here in a strange land and have perhaps the seat of honor
at table in this inn; but the man down there on the end has just
as good a right here and there as I, since we are both here only
guests.”
MARTIN LUTHER: Sermons. Jubilate, 1542.
It is not very much the fashion in these modern days to ask for the
moral meaning of things, but we are old-fashioned enough to hold with
those who believe that things have not only a soul, but that they give
us a lesson too in revealing their soul to us, “la leçon des choses,”
as the French, whom we are inclined to call condescendingly the
immoral French, call it. Old Frederic the Great in his famous
interview with the poet Gellert in Leipzig, after hearing from him one
of his fables “The Painter of Athens,” did not fail to ask the
all-important question: “And the Moral?”
Many a reader who has followed us but hesitatingly into regions that
seemed to him at the beginning of doubtful moral value, will be
perhaps surprised to see us conclude our investigations with this same
question. But I am sure we will do it with good profit, since in doing
so we shall have the chance to hear many a sermon of Doctor Martinus
Luther, whose moral force we children of the twentieth century would
love to dig out of his writings if its gold did not seem to us so
hopelessly buried under the sand of antiquated dogmatical quarrels.
The tavern sign has its moral lesson for all concerned, guests and
landlords alike. From its modest and unknown creators the modern
artist too may receive many a valuable inspiration. When the poet
Seume, in December, 1801, started from Grimma in Saxony on his long
pilgrimage to Syracuse, his way seems to have led him soon to a
knightly George, who fights the dragon in all Christian lands, over
many a tavern door for centuries and whom Shakespeare celebrated in
the verses:--
“St. George that swindg’ed the Dragon, and e’er since
Sits on his horseback at mine hostess’ door.”
Looking at the great green beast our romantic pilgrim prayed: “May
heaven grant me honest, friendly landlords and polite guardians at
the city gates from Leipzig to Syracuse!” In those old days when the
gate was dangerously near the tower and its dungeon, it was indeed of
the highest importance to find polite officials at the city gates;
just as we might sometimes pray to-day for polite customs officials,
the successors of the old grumpy watchmen who guarded the city
entrance and wrote the newcomer’s name in their big books. Still more
important, too, is it for the modern traveler to find friendly
landlords. They seem as in the old days a gift from heaven, for which
we must pray and which we cannot buy. Truly many travelers seem to
think a full purse buys everything, but they forget the old truth
which Charles Wagner, in his book “La vie simple,” has expressed
rightly in the following sentence: “Le travail d’un homme n’est pas
une marchandise au même titre qu’un sac de blé ou un quintal de
charbon. Il entre dans ce travail des éléments qu’on ne peut évaluer
en monnaie.” And just these fine elements in the work of a landlord
and his servants which we cannot weigh or pay for make the simplest
inn so homelike and cozy. A good landlord does not need to fear even
Death, who seems to seize only the dishonest one, if we believe the
author of a “Dance of Death” from the fifteenth century in the
Stuttgarter Hofbibliothek. In a few forceful lines the old artist
traces the figure of the bad landlord sitting behind his counter and
trying to win the good favors of the uncanny musician Death, by
offering him a great stein of beer and humbly confessing: “Against God
and against law I sought to win earthly goods, taking money unjustly
from knights and peasants as a robber does. Oh, if I only should not
die now, I could hope to improve and to win grace.”
Many a landlord would gladly follow the example of Abraham if only his
guests would try to learn a little from the angels. But how often come
to him such wild fellows who claim every good thing he has in cellar
and kitchen, and when it comes to pay take French leave.
It is well known that, as the old Bible saying goes, the sun is
shining over good and bad, over just and unjust, but Luther thought he
does not do it gladly. Perhaps the Doctor, who knew so many roads from
his own experience, even thought of the golden tavern sun when he
said: “The sun would prefer that all the bad fellows should get not a
single little gleam from him and it is a great grief and cross to him
that he must shine over them, wherefore he sighs and moans.”
[Illustration: ZUR SONNE WINNENDEN]
Nobody has admonished us so heartily as Doctor Martinus to hold
ourselves as pious guests in this inn of Life, to live honestly and
decently in it as it becomes a guest. “If you wish to be a guest, be
peaceful and behave yourself as a Christian; otherwise they will soon
show you the way to the tower.” It is characteristic for Luther to
remind the unruly guest of the tower, i.e., the prison. In other
connections too he readily refers to Master John the Hangman who is to
his mind a very useful, nay, even charitable man.
Since we did not hesitate to threaten the landlord with the ghastly
musician of the “Dance of Death,” it will seem only fair to remind the
guests of the tower, which in the old days was used as prison for the
peace-breakers. Luther, like all good Germans, was not a
prohibitionist; he recognized “a drink in honor,” “einen Trunk in
Ehren,” but he was a fierce enemy of all “drunkards and loafers” who
lie in taverns Sunday and week-day and pour the beer down their
throats as cows gulp water, saying: “What do I care about God, what do
I care about death? You miserable hog, you shall get what you are
striving for, you shall die too and be swallowed up by the mouth of
Hell.” To every decent landlord such guests are a curse. To chase them
from his threshold the owner of the “George and Dragon” in Great
Budworth (Cheshire) invented the fine rhyme which should stand over
every tavern door:--
“As St. George in armed array
Did the fiery dragon slay,
So may’st thou, with might no less,
Slay that dragon drunkenness.”
A decent behavior surely, but no melancholy teetotalism, such is
Luther’s standpoint. “Those have not been of the devil who drank a
little more as their thirst required and became joyful.”--“It is not
the fault of the eating and drinking, that some people degrade
themselves to swine.” Just as dancing in itself is no sin: “Why not
admit an honorable dance at a marriage feast? Go and dance! The little
children dance too without sin; do the same and be like a child whose
soul is not injured by dancing.”
The whole world appears to Luther like an inn in a strange town, in
which the pilgrim lies. In his nightly dreams he does not think of
becoming a citizen or a major of this town, his thoughts wander away
through the gate to the far city where his home is.
To the pretentious traveler his description of “Christ’s Inn,” which
reminds us of our Swiss sign, “Hie zum Christkindli,” might serve as
a little lesson in modesty. Thus he speaks about it in a Christmas
sermon: “Look, how the two parents in a strange land in a strange city
search in vain for good and hospitable friends. Even in the inns was
no room, since the city at that time was so crowded. In a cow-stable
they had to go and make the best of it as poor poor people! There was
no couch, no linnen, no cushions, no feather-beds; on a bundle of
straw they made their bed as close neighbours of the good cattle.
There in a hard winter-night the noble blessed fruit was born, the
dear child Jesus.” And in another Christmas sermon he says: “If you
look at it with cow’s or swine’s eyes it was a miserable birth ... but
if you open your spiritual eyes you will see countless thousands of
angels, filling the heaven with their song and honouring not only the
child but the manger too in which it lies.”
Everything depends finally upon the way we look at it, if with cows’
eyes or with spiritual eyes. Only these will enable us to see in the
poorest inn the angel of hospitality covering us at night with gentle
wings. Till finally Mother Earth shall cover us softly in our last
quiet “Deversorium” in which we have at least the hangman’s comfort:
“You shall be called to no more payments, fear no more tavern bills
which are often the sadness of parting as the procuring of mirth.”
But we must not end without delivering a little sermon to the signs,
too, that still glitter in the warm sunshine. To them, cocks, deer,
bears, oxen, and horses, a church-tower cock, celebrated by the
humorous clergyman poet Möricke of Schwabenland, gives this solemn
warning:--
“You poor old iron things,
Why should you be so vain?
Who knows how many springs
You will up there remain?”
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* * * * *
C’est bien disné, quand on s’échappe
Sans débourser pas un denier,
Et dire adieu au tavernier
En torchant son nez dans sa nappe.
FRANÇOIS VILLON.
Index
Abbot’s inn, 62.
Absalom, 159.
Adam and Eve, 5, 7, 138.
Ad maurum, 38.
Ad Mercurium et Apollinem, 39.
Admiral Vernon, 207.
Ad rotam, 37 (_illus._).
Affenwagen, 91 (_illus._).
A l’enseigne de la belle étoile, 165.
A l’enseigne de la lune, 165.
A l’enseigne du pavillon des singes, 169.
A l’image du Christ, 71.
A l’image de Notre Dame, 151.
Alla spada, 80.
A man loaded with mischief, 155.
American signs, 151, 199 _f._, 213.
Anchor, 84, 85, 117.
Âne rayé, l’, 92.
Angel, 7, 11 (_illus._), 12 _ff._, 81, 124.
Annunciation, 12.
Apollo, 38, 203, 213.
Ark of Noah, 89.
Asne rouge, 173.
Ass in the bandbox, 210.
Auberge de la mule, 89.
Auerbach’s Keller, 85.
Au grand monarque, 189.
Au grand vainqueur, 195.
Au juste prix, 257.
Au lit on dort, 257.
Au paradis des dames, 7.
Au perroquet vert, 97.
Au sermon, 266.
Au temps perdu, 256.
Au vase d’or, 123.
Aux deux Pierrots, 151.
Aux trois lapins, 227 (_illus._).
Axe, 85.
Bacchus, 152, 203.
Bag of nails, 255.
Bakers’ signs, 86, 134, 135 (_illus._), 241.
Barking dogs, 158.
Bear, 36, 44, 72, 120, 185, 211, 251.
Bear and Billet, 240.
Beehive, 98.
Bee’s Wing, 248.
Bell, 73, 117, 138, 247 _f._
Bell and candlestick, 249.
Bell and lion, 249.
Belle sauvage, 249.
Blue bear, 263.
Blue boar, 115 (_illus._), 239.
Blue cap, 248.
Boar’s head, 115 _f._
Bock, 228.
Bonaparte, 151, 207 _f._, 210.
Boot, 85, 269.
Bowman tavern, 114.
Bras d’or, 199.
Bratwurstglöckle, 185.
Brutus, 196.
Bull, 86, 164.
Bull and bell, 86.
Bull and magpie, 86.
Bull and mouth, 241.
Bull and stirrup, 86.
Buona moglie, la, 69.
Butcher sign (_illus._), 197.
Cabaret du petit père noire, 178.
Cadran bleu, 214.
Cage, 73, 97.
Camel, 44.
Canone d’oro, 80.
Capello, 117.
Castor and Pollux, 203.
Cat and fiddle, 204, 255.
Cat and wheel, 204.
Cavallo bianco, 45, 174.
Cave des morts, la, 160.
Centaur, 107, 119.
Chaste Suzanne, la, 152.
Chat noir, 150, 175.
Chat qui dort (_illus._), 89.
Cheshire Cheese, 180 _ff._
Chessboard, 33, 139.
Cheval blanc, 151, 174.
Cicero, 207.
Cigogne, 90.
Club signs, 243.
Cochon mitré, 204.
Cock, 34, 90, 162, 180, 183, 184 (_illus._), 190.
Cock and bell, 249.
Cock and bottle, 241.
Cock and crown, 215.
Cockpit, 104.
Couronne civile, 194.
Cradle, 99.
Crocodile, 92.
Croix de Lorraine, 175.
Cromwell, 206.
Cross, 82, 99, 185, 205, 257.
Cross Keys, 104.
Crown, 18, 72, 86, 120, 122, 124, 191 (_illus._), 192, 211 _f._
Cursus publicus, 40.
Curtain, 104.
Czar’s head, 206.
Death and the doctor, 160.
Deux torches, 177.
Devil, 182.
Diable, 176.
Diana, 38.
Dog, 89, 214, 246.
Dog and duck, 250.
Dog and pot (_illus._), 214.
Dog in Shoreditch (_illus._), 270.
Dolphin, 203, 241.
Donkey, 210.
Dove, 90.
Dragon, 93.
Dromedary, 91.
Drudenfuss, 32.
Eagle, 35, 41, 82, 117, 120, 169, 232.
Eagle and child (_illus._), 100.
Eisenhut, 79.
Elephant, 34, 35, 45, 113.
Elephant and castle (_illus._), 7.
Epée de bois, 177.
Erasmus of Rotterdam, 206.
Falcon, 104, 105 (_illus._), 242.
Falstaff, 242.
Federal punch, 213.
Femme sans tête, 67, 69.
Feuerkugel, 229.
Fighting cocks, 249.
Fish, 84.
Flags, 36.
Fleur de lys, 82.
Flying Dutchman, 248.
Flying horse, 108.
Fontaine de jouvence, la, 152.
Fortune, 104, 203.
Four alls, 255.
Four swans, 240.
Fox, 94, 246.
Fox and goose, 267.
Fox and hounds, 252.
Fox and the seven stars, 267.
Frederic the Great, 206.
Garter, 112.
Géant, le, 94.
George, 54, 62, 63, 108, 280.
George and dragon, 164, 286 (_illus._).
German hospitality, 21 _f._
German War-poster, 162.
Giraffe, 93.
Globe, 164.
Goat, 163.
Goat and compasses, 256.
God begot house, 54.
God encompasses us, 256.
Golden bear, 229.
Golden cannon, 45.
Golden cross, 205.
Golden eagle, 208.
Golden head, 176.
Golden lamb, 263.
Golden lion, 103, 170, 226, 227.
Golden louse, 233.
Golden tiger, 112.
Goldene Brunnen, 228.
Goldene Wage, 226.
Good eating, 73, 139.
Good man, 70.
Good Samaritan, 154.
Good woman, 67, 68.
Governor Hancock, 200.
Grand Hercule, le, 94.
Gray donkey, 210.
Greek signs, 44.
Green monkeys, 90 _f._
Grosser Engel, 226.
Guild-houses, 137.
Gustavus Adolphus, 206.
Habsburger Hof, 111.
Half-Moon, 87, 88, 112, 136.
Half-Moon and punchbowl, 213.
Hand and cock, 254.
Hand of hospitality, 19 _f._
Haubert, le, 80.
Hell, 45, 72.
Helmet, 78 _f._
Hercules, 9, 38, 94, 203, 244.
High Lily, 53.
Horse, 246 _f._
Hospice of the Great St. Bernard, 50.
Hospital of St. Cross, 53.
Hôtel de l’Arquebuse, 114.
Hôtel de l’Empereur, 211.
Hôtel de l’Europe, 276.
Hôtel Victoria, 232.
Huron, 151, 204.
In angelo, 13.
In der Roskam, 136.
In duobus angelis, 13.
Indian signs, 204.
Iron helmet, 78 _f._
Jonge Stier, 154.
Kaiserhof, 111.
Kaiser Joseph, 210.
Knights of St. John, 51 _ff._
Knights Templars, 51 _f._
Kölner Hof, 111.
Königin von England, 232.
Korn’s Hotel, 220.
Krug, 135.
Labor in vain, 256.
Lamb, 85, 99, 137.
Leopard, 111.
Linde, 81.
Lion, 83, 185, 186 (_illus._).
Little and great sleeper, 94.
Living signs, 97.
Logger-Heads, 159.
Lubbar’s Head, 111.
Mayde’s Hede, 109.
Mercury, 38.
Mermaid, 93, 178.
Minerva, 203.
Mirabilia Romæ, 53.
Mitre, 182.
Mol’s Coffee House, 81.
Moon, 87.
Moor, 38.
Mortar, 173.
Mort qui trompe, la, 27, 160.
Mouton blanc, 176 _f._
Mule, 89, 173.
Mutter Grün, 165.
New Inn, 110, 239.
Oak, 211.
Ochse, 232.
Ostel des singes, l’, 90.
Osteria del penello, 46.
Ours qui pile, 173.
Pack-Horse, 246 (_illus._).
Paon blanc, 96.
Paradise, 7, 72.
Parrot and punchbowl, 213.
Peacock, 96, 103.
Pegasus, 108, 203.
Pentacle, 230.
Pentagram, 32 _f._, 230.
Pestle, 173.
Pheasant, 96.
Phenix, 104, 107, 203.
Pig and carrot, 255.
Pig and whistle, 254 _f._
Pilgrim inns, 51, 63.
Pitcher, 134, 136.
Plat d’argent, 73.
Plat d’estein, 173.
Pomegranate, 107.
Pomme de pin, 174 _f._
Poor men’s inns, 51, 61.
Post, 221.
Publishers’ signs, 243 _f._
Punchbowl, 212.
Purgatory, 72.
Quatre nations, 170.
Quattuor sorores, 27.
Rathskeller, 84.
Raven, 222.
Red bull, 104.
Red cock, 232.
Red horse, 103.
Red lion, 106, 109, 239.
Rembrandt, 206.
Rémouleur (_illus._), 152, 153.
Renard dansant devant une poule, 95.
Rheinischer Hof, 111.
Ritter, 62.
Roasted pig, 269.
Roi mort, le, 196.
Roman eagle, 41.
Roman post-system, 40.
Römischer Kaiser, 228, 271.
Rose, 104, 121 (_illus._), 212, 228.
Rowing barge, 164 (_illus._), 125.
Royal oak, 211, 263.
Running horses, 247.
Ruysdael, 206.
Sagittary, 113, 203.
Sainte Opportune, 171.
Salutation, 72, 158, 205, 245.
Samaritaine, 244.
Saracen’s Head, 263.
St. Barbara, 73.
St. Catherine and wheel, 204.
St. Christopher, 60 _f._
St. Dominic, 66.
St. Fiacre, 70.
St. George, 62 _ff._, 65.
St. Martin, 65 _f._
St. Urban, 66.
Schiller, 206.
Schoolmaster sign, 131, 147.
Seelhäuser, 51.
Ship, 84.
Ship and punchbowl, 213.
Shoemaker sign, 241.
Silent woman, 68.
Siren, 93, 203.
Six reines, 93.
Soleil d’or, 152.
Speaking signs, 135 _f._
Spread eagle, 117.
Star, 72, 86, 87, 140, 185, 225.
Star and garter, 113.
Stella maris, 86.
Stork, 36, 90.
Striped donkey, 92.
Sugar Loaf, 275.
Sun, 38, 39, 86 _f._, 138, 284 (_illus._).
Surgeon’s sign, 147 _f._
Swan, 95, 229, 239.
Swan and horse shoe, 215.
Sword, 80.
Tabard, 80, 237.
Tavern, 29.
Temps gagné, le, 256.
Tessera hospitalis, 19.
Tête noire, 176.
Three angels, 13.
Three crowns, 220.
Three jolly sailors, 85.
Three Kings, 185, 192 _f._, 210.
Three Madonnas, 46.
Three Moors, 193 _f._
Three nuns and a hare, 267.
Three squirrels, 262 (_illus._).
Tiger, 103, 111.
Tres tabernæ, 29.
Trinité, 71.
Trois ponts d’or, 177.
Unicorne, 83, 93.
Union Hotel, 199.
Vertumnus and Pomona, 150.
Washington, 200.
We are three, 159.
Wellington, 206.
We three asses, 159.
White hart, 201, 246, 251.
White horse, 45, 82, 174, 257.
Wild man, 203.
Wo der Fuchs den Enten predigt, 95.
Wooden Indian, 151.
Wool pack, 247.
Wreath, 17 _f._, 30, 32, 134, 136.
Zebra, 92.
Zu den Slaraffen, 94.
Zum Anker, 85.
Zum Engel, 226.
Zum Geiste, 90, 229.
Zum guldin Schooffe, 86.
Zum Kameeltier, 92.
Zum Kindli, 71 (_illus._), 287.
Zum Ochsen, 133.
Zum Ritter, 63.
Zum Rössle, 83 (_illus._).
Zum Rohraff, 91.
Zum Rosenkrantz, 194.
Zum wilden Mann, 38 (_illus._).
Zur Linde, 122.
Zur Schlange, 136.