CHAPTER IV.

_MEDIÆVAL AND OTHER VARIETIES OF ADVERTISING._ In the ages which immediately succeeded the fall of the Roman Empire, and the western migration of the barbarian hordes, darkness and ignorance held paramount sway, education was at a terrible discount, and the arts of reading and writing were confined almost entirely to the monks and the superior clergy. In fact, it was regarded as evidence of effeminacy for any knight or noble to be able to make marks on parchment or vellum, or to be able to decipher them when made. Newspapers were, of course, things undreamt of, but newsmen--itinerants who collected scraps of information and retailed them in the towns and market-places--were now and again to be found. The travelling packman or pedlar was, however, the chief medium of intercommunication in the Middle Ages, and it is not hard to imagine how welcome his appearance must have been in those days, when a hundred miles constituted an immense and almost interminable journey. We know how bad the roads were, and how difficult travelling was in comparatively modern days, but we can form very little idea of the obstacles which beset all attempts at the communication of one commercial centre with another in the early Middle Ages. Everybody being alike shrouded in the darkness of ignorance, it is safe to assume, therefore, that written advertisements were quite unknown, as few beyond those who had written them would have been able to understand them. Nearly the whole of the laity, from the king to the villain or thrall, were equally illiterate, and once more the public crier became the only medium for obtaining publicity; but from the simple mode in which all business was conducted his position was probably a sinecure. An occasional proclamation of peace or war, or a sale of slaves or plunder, was probably the only topic which gave him the opportunity of exercising his eloquence. But with the increase of civilisation, and consequent wealth and competition, the crier’s labours assumed a wider field. The mediæval crier used to carry a horn, by means of which he attracted the people’s attention when about to make a proclamation or publication. Public criers appear to have formed a well-organised body in France as early as the twelfth century; for by a charter of Louis VII., granted in the year 1141 to the inhabitants of the province of Berry, the old custom of the country was confirmed, according to which there were to be only twelve criers, five of which should go about the taverns crying with their usual cry, and carrying with them samples of the wine they cried, in order that the people might taste. For the first time they blew the horn they were entitled to a penny, and the same for every time after, according to custom. These criers of wine were a French peculiarity, of which we find no parallel in the history of England. They perambulated the streets of Paris in troops, each with a large wooden measure of wine in his hand, from which to make the passers-by taste the wine they proclaimed, a mode of advertising which would be very agreeable in the present day, but which would, we fancy, be rather too successful for the advertiser. These wine-criers are mentioned by John de Garlando, a Norman writer, who was probably a contemporary of William the Conqueror. “Præcones vini,” says he, “clamant hiante gula, vinum venumdandum in tabernis ad quatuor denarios.”[14] A quaint and significant story is told in an old chronicle in connection with this system of advertising. An old woman, named Adelheid, was possessed of a strong desire to proclaim the Word of God, but not having lungs sufficiently powerful for the noisy propagation contemplated by her, she paid a wine-crier to go about the town, and, instead of proclaiming the prices of the wine, to proclaim these sacred words: “God is righteous! God is merciful! God is good and excellent!” And as the man went about shouting these words she followed him, exclaiming, “He speaks well! he says truly!” The poor old body hardly succeeded according to her pious desire, for she was arrested and tried, and as it was thought she had done this out of vanity (_causa laudis humanæ_), she was burned alive.[15] From this it would seem that there was as much protection for the monks in their profession as for the criers, who were very proud of their special prerogatives. The public criers in France, at an early period, were formed into a corporation, and in 1258 obtained various statutes from Philip Augustus, some of which, relating to the criers of wine, are excessively curious. Thus it was ordained that-- “Whosoever is a crier in Paris may go to any tavern he likes and cry its wine, provided they sell wine from the wood, and that there is no other crier employed for that tavern; and the tavern-keeper cannot prohibit him. “If a crier finds people drinking in a tavern, he may ask what they pay for the wine they drink; and he may go out and cry the wine at the prices they pay, whether the tavern-keeper wishes it or not, provided always that there be no other crier employed for that tavern. “If a tavern-keeper sells wine in Paris and employs no crier, and closes his door against the criers, the crier may proclaim that tavern-keeper’s wine at the same price as the king’s wine (the current price), that is to say, if it be a good wine year, at seven denarii, and if it be a bad wine year, at twelve denarii. “Each crier to receive daily from the tavern for which he cries at least four denarii, and he is bound on his oath not to claim more. “The crier shall go about crying twice a day, except in Lent, on Sundays and Fridays, the eight days of Christmas, and the Vigils, when they shall only cry once. On the Friday of the Adoration of the Cross they shall cry not at all. Neither are they to cry on the day on which the king, the queen, or any of the children of the royal family happens to die.” This crying of wines is frequently alluded to in those French ballads of street-criers known as “Les crieries de Paris.” One of them has-- Si crie l’on en plusors leus Li bon vin fort a trente deux, A seize, a douze, a six, a huict.[16] And another-- D’autres cris on faict plusieurs, Qui long seroient à reciter, L’on crie vin nouveau et vieu, Duquel on donne à tatter.[17] Early in the Middle Ages the public crier was still called _Præco_, as among the Romans; and an edict of the town of Tournay, dated 1368, describes him as “the sergeant of the rod (_sergent à verge_), who makes publications (_crie les bans_), and cries whatever else there is to be made known to the town.” The Assizes of Jerusalem, which contained the code of civil laws of the whole of civilised Europe during the twelfth and thirteenth centuries, and which take us back to the most ancient forms of our own civil institutions, make mention in the following manner of the public crier: “Whosoever desires to sell anything by auction, must have it proclaimed by the crier, who is appointed by the lord viscount; and nobody else has a right to make any publication by crying. If anybody causes any such auction to be proclaimed by any other than the public crier, then the lord has a right by assize and custom to claim the property so cried as his own, and the crier shall be at the mercy of the lord. And whoever causes anything to be cried by the appointed public crier in any other way than it ought to be cried, and in any other way than is done by the lord or his representative, the lord may claim the property as his own, and the crier who thus cries it shall be amenable for falsehood, and is at the mercy of the lord, who may take from him all he possesses. But if he [the lord] does not do that, then he shall not suffer any other punishment; and if he be charged, he must be believed on his oath.” From these very stringent and protective regulations it appears, then, that at this early period the public criers, or _præcones_, appointed by the lord, had the exclusive right of proclaiming all sales by auction, not only voluntary, but also judicial, of movables, as well as of fixtures; of “personal,” as well as of “real” property. In England criers appear to have been also a national institution at an early period. They were sworn to sell truly and well to the best of their power and ability. They proclaimed the cause of the condemnation of all criminals, and made proclamations of every kind, except as concerned matters ecclesiastical, which were exclusively the province of the archbishop. They also cried all kinds of goods. In London we find Edmund le Criour mentioned in the documents relating to the Guildhall as early as 1299. That criers used horns, as in France, appears from the will of a citizen of Bristol, dated 1388, who, disposing of some house property, desires “that the tenements so bequeathed shall be sold separately by the sound of the trumpet at the high cross of Bristol, without any fraud or collusion.” In Ipswich it was still customary in the last century to proclaim the meetings of the town council, the previous night at twelve o’clock, by the sound of a large horn, which is still preserved in the town hall of that borough. These horns were provided by the mayors of the different towns. [Illustration: O PER SE O, OR A NEW CRYER. “THE BELMAN OF LONDON.” _From_ _Thomas Decker’s Lanthorne and Candle Light; or, The Bell-Man’s Second Night’s Walke._ 1608-9.] The public crier, then, was the chief organ by which the mediæval shopkeeper, in the absence of what we now know as “advertising mediums,” obtained publicity: it was also customary for most traders to have touters at their doors, who did duty as living advertisements. In low neighbourhoods this system still obtains, especially in connection with cheap photographic establishments, whose “doorsmen” select as a rule the most improbable people for their attentions, but compensate for this by their pertinacity and glibness. Possibly the triumph is the greater when the customer has been persuaded quite out of his or her original intentions. Most trades, in early times, were almost exclusively confined to certain streets, and as all the shops were alike unpretending, and open to the gaze--in fact, were stalls or booths--it behoved the shopkeeper to do something in order to attract customers. This he effected sometimes by means of a glaring sign, sometimes by means of a man or youth standing at the door, and vociferating with the full power of his lungs, “What d’ye lack, sir? what d’ye lack?” Our country is rather deficient in that kind of mediæval literature known in France as _dicts_ and _fabliaux_, which teem with allusions to this custom of touting, which is noticeable, though, in Lydgate’s ballad of “London Lyckpenny” (Lack-penny), written in the first half of the fifteenth century. There we see the shopmen standing at the door, trying to outbawl each other to gain the custom of the passers-by. The spicer or grocer bids the Kentish countryman to come and buy some spice, pepper, or saffron. In Cheapside, the mercers bewilder him with their velvet, silk, and lawn, and lay violent hands on him, in order to show him their “Paris thread, the finest in the land.” Throughout all Canwick (now Cannon Street), he is persecuted by drapers, who offer him cloth; and in other parts, particularly in East Cheap, the keepers of the eating-houses sorely tempt him with their cries of “Hot sheep’s feet, fresh maqurel, pies, and ribs of beef.” At last he falls a prey to the tempting invitation of a taverner, who makes up to him from his door with a cringing bow, and taking him by the sleeve, pronounces the words, “Sir, will you try our wine?” with such an insinuating and irresistible accent, that the Kentish man enters and spends his only penny in that tempting and hospitable house. Worthy old Stow supposes this interesting incident to have happened at the Pope’s Head, in Cornhill, and bids us enjoy the knowledge of the fact, that for his one penny the countryman had a pint of wine, and “for bread nothing did he pay, for that was allowed free” in those good old days. Free luncheons, though rare now, were commonly bestowed in the seventeenth and eighteenth centuries on regular drinkers; and the practice of giving food to those who pay for drink is still current in many parts of the United States. The “Lyckpenny” story is one of the few instances in English literature of this early period, in which the custom of touting at shop doors is distinctly mentioned, but, as before remarked, the French _fabliaux_ abound with such allusions. In the story of “Courtois d’Arras”--a travestie of the Prodigal Son in a thirteenth-century garb--Courtois finds the host standing at his door shouting, “Bon vin de Soissons, à six deniers le lot.” And in a mediæval mystery entitled “Li Jus de S. Nicolas,” the innkeeper, standing on the threshold, roars out, that in his house excellent dinners are to be had, with warm bread and warm herrings, and barrelfuls of Auxerre wine: “Céans il fait bon diner, céans il y a pain chaud et harengs chauds, et vin d’Auxerre à plein tonneau.” In the “Trois Aveugles de Compiègne,” the thirsty wanderers hear mine host proclaiming in the street that he has “good, cool, and new wine, from Auxerre and from Soissons; bread and meat, and wine and fish: within is a good place to spend your money; within is accommodation for all kind of people; here is good lodging:”-- Ci a bon vin fres et nouvel Ça d’Auxerre, ça de Soissons, Pain, et char, et vin, et poissons, Céens fet bon despendre argent, Ostel i a à toute gent Céens fet moult bon heberger. And in the “Débats et facétieuses rencontres de Gringald et de Guillot Gorgen, son maistre,” the servant, who would not pay his reckoning, excuses himself, saying, “The taverner is more to blame than I, for as I passed before his door, and he being seated at it as usual, called to me, saying, ‘Will you be pleased to breakfast here? I have good bread, good wine, and good meat.’” “Le tavernier a plus de tort que moy; car, passant devant sa porte, et luy étant assiz (ainsy qu’ils sont ordinairement) il me cria, me disant: Vous plaist-il de dejeuner céans? Il y a de bon pain, de bon vin, et de bonne viande.” Other modes of advertising, of a less obtrusive nature, were, however, in use at the same time; as in Rome, written handbills were affixed in public places; and almost as soon as the art of printing was discovered, it was applied to the purpose of multiplying advertisements of this kind. We may fairly assume that one of the very first posters ever printed in England was that by which Caxton announced, circa 1480, the sale of the “Pyes of Salisbury use,”[18] at the Red Pole, in the Almonry, Westminster. Of this first of broadsides two copies are still extant, one in the Bodleian Library, at Oxford, the other in Earl Spencer’s library. Their dimensions are five inches by seven, and their contents as follows:-- ^If it please ony man spirituel or temporel to bye our pyes of two or thre comemoracio’s of Salisburi use, emprynted after the form of this prese’t letre, whiche ben wel and truly correct, late hym come to Westmonester, into the almonestrye at the reed pole and he shal haue them good and chepe:^ ^Supplico stet cedula.^ Foreigners appear to have appreciated the boon of this kind of advertising equally rapidly, although, from the fugitive nature of such productions, copies of their posters are rarely to be found. Still an interesting list of books, printed by Coburger at Nuremberg in the fifteenth century, is preserved in the British Museum, to which is attached the following heading: “Cupientes emere libros infra notatos venient ad hospitium subnotatum,” &c.--_i.e._, “Those who wish to buy the books hereunder mentioned, must come to the house now named,” &c. The Parisian printers soon went a step further. Long before the invention of the typographic art, the University had compelled the booksellers to advertise in their shop windows any new manuscripts they might obtain. But after the invention of printing they soon commenced to proclaim the wonderful cheapness of the works they produced. It did not strike them, however, that this might have been done effectually on a large scale, and they were content to extol the low price of the work in the book itself. Such notices as the following are common in early books. Ulric Gering, in his “Corpus Juris Canonici,” 1500, allays the fear of the public with a distich:--“Don’t run away on account of the price,” he says. “Come rich and poor; this excellent work is sold for a very small sum:”-- Ne fugite ob pretium: dives pauperque venite Hoc opus excellens venditur ære brevi. Berthold Remboldt subjoins to his edition of “S. Bruno on the Psalms,” 1509, the information that he does not lock away his wares (books) like a miser, but that anybody can carry them away for very little money. Istas Bertholdus merces non claudit avarus Exiguis nummis has studiose geres. And in his “Corpus Juris Canonici,” he boasts that this splendid volume is to be had for a trifling sum, after having, with considerable labour, been weeded of its misprints. Hoc tibi præclarum modico patet ære volumen Abstersum mendis non sine Marte suis. Thielman Kerver, Jean Petit, and various other printers, give similar intelligence to the purchasers of their works. Sometimes they even resort to the process of having a book puffed on account of its cheapness by editors or scholars of known eminence, who address the public on behalf of the printer. Thus in a work termed by the French savant Chevillier, “Les Opuscules du Docteur Almain,” printed by Chevalon and Gourmont, 1518, a certain dignified member of the University condescends to inform the public that they have to be grateful to the publishers for the beautiful and cheap book they have produced:--“Gratias agant Claudio Chevallon et Ægydio Gourmont, qui pulchris typis et characteribus impressum opus hoc vili dant pretio.” This, be it observed, is the earliest instance of the puff direct which has so far been discovered. Meanwhile, though the art of printing had become established, and was daily taking more and more work out of the hands of scribes, writing continued to be almost the only advertising media for wellnigh two centuries longer. Like the ancient advertisement already noticed, that of Venus about her runaway son, they commenced almost invariably with the words “If anybody,” or, if in Latin, _Si quis_; and from these last two words they obtained their name. They were posted in the most frequented parts of the towns, preferably near churches; and hence has survived the practice of attaching to church doors lists of voters and various other notifications, particularly in villages. In the metropolis one of the places used for this purpose may probably have been London Stone. In “Pasquil and Marforius,” 1589, we read, “Set up this bill at London Stone; let it be done solemnly with drum and trumpet;” and further on in the same pamphlet, “If it please them, these dark winter nights, to stick up these papers upon London Stone.” These two allusions are, however, not particularly conclusive. In the sixteenth and seventeenth centuries the principal place for affixing a _siquis_ was in the middle aisle of St Paul’s. From the era of the Reformation to the Restoration, all sorts of disorderly conduct was practised in the old cathedral. A lengthy catalogue of improper customs and disgusting practices might be collected from the works of the period, and bills were stuck up in various parts to restrain the grossest abuses. “At every door of this church,” says Weever, “was anciently this vers depicted; and in my time [he died in 1632] it might be perfectly read at the great south door, _Hic Locus sacer est, hic nulli mingere fas est_.” There were also within the sacred edifice tobacco, book, and sempstress’ shops; there was a pillar at which serving-men stood for hire, and another place where lawyers had their regular stands, like merchants on ’Change. At the period when Decker wrote his curious “Gull’s Horn-Book” (1609), and for many years after, the cathedral was the lounging place for all idlers and hunters after news, as well as of men of almost every profession, cheats, usurers, and knights of the post. The cathedral was likewise a seat of traffic and negotiation, even pimps and procuresses had their stations there; and the font itself, if credit may be given to a black-letter tract on the “Detestable Use of Dice-play,” printed early in Elizabeth’s reign, was made a place for the advance and payment of loans, and the sealing of indentures and obligations for the security of the moneys borrowed. Such a busy haunt was, of course, the very best place for bills and advertisements to be posted. No bonâ fide _siquis_ has come down to us, but it appears that among them the applications for ecclesiastics were very common, as Bishop Earle in his “Microcosmographia,” published in 1629, describes “Paul’s Walke” as the “market of young lecturers, whom you may cheapen here at all rates and sizes;” and this allusion is confirmed by a passage in Bishop Hall’s “Satires” (B. ii. s. 5), in which also the custom of affixing advertisements to a particular door is distinctly noticed:-- Saw’st thou ere _siquis_ patch’d on Paul’s church door To seek some vacant vicarage before? Who wants a churchman that can service say, Read fast and fair his monthly homily, And wed, and bury, and make cristen souls, Come to the _left side alley_ of St Poule’s. But the _siquis_ door was not confined to notices of ecclesiastical matters; it was appropriated generally to the variety of applications that is now to be found in the columns of a newspaper or the books of a registry office. Though no authentic specimens of the _siquis_ remain, we are possessed of several imitations, as the old dramatists delighted in reproducing the inflated language of these documents. Thus, in Holiday’s “Technogamia” (1618), Act i. scene 7, Geographus sets up the following notice:-- If there be any gentleman that, for the accomplishing of his natural endowment, intertaynes a desire of learning the languages; especially the nimble French, maiestik Spanish, courtly Italian, masculine Dutch, happily compounding Greek, mysticall Hebrew, and physicall Arabicke; or that is otherwise transported with the admirable knowledge of forraine policies, complimentall behaviour, naturall dispositions, or whatsoever else belongs to any people or country under heaven; he shall, to his abundant satisfaction, be made happy in his expectation and successe if he please to repair to the signe of the Globe. Again, Ben Jonson’s “Every Man out of his Humour” introduces Shift, “a threadbare shark,” whose “profession is skeldring and odling, his bank Paul’s.” Speaking of Shift in the opening scene of the third act, which the dramatist has laid in “the middle aisle of Paules,” Cordatus says that Shift is at that moment in Paules “for the advancement of a _siquis_ or two, wherein he hath so varied himselfe, that if any one of them take, he may hull up and doune in the humorous world a little longer.” Shift’s productions deserved to succeed, as they were masterpieces of their kind, and might even now, though the world is so much older, and professes to be so much wiser, be studied with advantage by gentlemen who cultivate the literature of advertisements in the interest of certain firms. Here are some of his compositions, which would certainly shine among the examples of the present day:-- If there be any lady or gentlewoman of good carriage that is desirous to entertain to her private uses a young, straight, and upright gentleman, of the age of five or six and twenty at the most; who can serve in the nature of a gentleman usher, and hath little legs of purpose,[19] and a black satin suit of his own to go before her in; which suit, for the more sweetening, now lies in lavender;[20] and can hide his face with her fan if need require, or sit in the cold at the stair foot for her, as well as another gentleman; let her subscribe her name and place, and diligent respect shall be given. The following is even an improvement:-- If this city, or the suburbs of the same, do afford any young gentleman of the first, second, or third head, more or less, whose friends are but lately deceased, and whose lands are but new come into his hands, that, to be as exactly qualified as the best of our ordinary gallants are, is affected to entertain the most gentlemanlike use of tobacco; as first to give it the most exquisite perfume; then to know all the delicate, sweet forms for the assumption of it; as also the rare corollary and practice of the Cuban ebolition, euripus and whiff,[21] which we shall receive or take in here at London, and evaporate at Uxbridge, or farther, if it please him. If there be any such generous spirit, that is truly enamour’d of these good faculties; may it please him but by a note of his hand to specify the place or ordinary where he uses to eat and lie; and most sweet attendance with tobacco and pipes of the best sort, shall be ministered. _Stet quæso, candide lector._ It is noticeable that most of these advertisements commence with the English equivalent for the Latin _si quis_, and furthermore that Ben Jonson concludes with the same formula as Caxton, _stet quæso_, imploring the “candid reader” not to tear off the bill. The word _siquis_ is of frequent occurrence in the old writers. Green, for instance, in his “Tu Quoque,” says of certain women that “they stand like the devil’s _siquis_ at a tavern or alehouse door.” At present the term has more particular reference to ecclesiastical matters. A candidate for holy orders who has not been educated at the University, or has been absent some time from thence, is still obliged to have his intention proclaimed, by having a notice to that effect hung up in the church of the place where he has recently resided. If, after a certain time, no objection is made, a certificate of his _siquis_, signed by the churchwardens, is given to him to be presented to the bishop when he seeks ordination. At the time when the _siquis_ was the most common form of advertisement, other methods were used in order to give publicity to certain events. There were the proclamations of the will of the King, and of the Lord Mayor, whose edicts were proclaimed by the common trumpeter. There were also two richly carved and gilt posts at the door of the Sheriff’s office,[22] on which (some annotators of old plays say) it was customary to stick enactments of the Town Council. The common crier further made known matters of minor and commercial importance, and every shopkeeper still kept an apprentice at his door to attract the attention of the passers-by with a continuous “What do you lack, master?” or “mistress,” followed by a voluble enumeration of the wares vended by his master. The bookseller, as in ancient Rome, still advertised his new works by placards posted against his shop, or fixed in cleft sticks. This we gather from an epigram of Ben Jonson to his bookseller, in which he enjoins him rather to sell his works to Bucklersbury, to be used for wrappers and bags, than to force their sale by the usual means:-- Nor have my little leaf on post or walls, Or in cleft sticks advancèd to make calls For termers or some clerk-like serving-man. Announcements of shows were given in the manner still followed by the equestrian circus troops in provincial towns, viz., by means of bills and processions. Thus notice of bearbaitings was given by the bears being led about the town, preceded by a flag and some noisy instruments. In the Duke of Newcastle’s play of “The Humorous Lovers” (1677), the sham bearward says, “I’ll set up my bills, that the gamesters of London, Horseleydown, Southwark, and Newmarket, may come in and bait him before the ladies. But first, boy, go, fetch me a bagpipe; we will walk the streets in triumph, and give the people notice of our sport.” Such a procession was, of course, a noisy one, and for that reason it was one of the plagues the mischievous page sent to torment Morose, “the gentleman that loves no noise,” in Ben Jonson’s “Silent Woman.” “I entreated a bearward one day,” says the page, “to come down with the dogs of some four parishes that way, and I thank him he did, and cried his game under Master Morose’s window.” And in Howard’s “English Monsieur” (1674), William, a country youth, says, “I saw two rough-haired things led by the nose with two strings, and a bull like ours in the country, with a brave garland about his head, and an horse, and the least gentleman upon him that ever I saw in my life, and brave bagpipes playing before ’um;” which is explained by Comely as occasioned by its being “bearbaiting day, and he has met with the bull, and the bears, and the jack-an-apes on horseback.” Trials of skill in the noble art of self-defence were announced in a similar manner, by the combatants promenading the streets divested of their upper garments, with their sleeves tucked up, sword or cudgel in hand, and preceded by a drum. Finally, for the use of the community at large, there was the bellman or town crier, a character which occupies a prominent place in all the old sets of “Cries of London.” In one of the earliest collections of that kind,[23] engraved early in the seventeenth century, we see him represented with a bunch of keys in his hand, which he no doubt proclaims as “found.” Underneath is the following “notice:”-- O yes. Any man or woman that Can tell any tidings of a little Mayden-childe of the age of 24 Yeares. Bring word to the cryar And you shall be pleased for your labour And God’s blessing. This was an old joke, which, more or less varied, occurs always under the print of the town crier. The prototype of this venerable witticism may be found in the tragedy of “Soliman and Perseda” (1599), where one of the characters says that he ------ had but sixpence For crying a little wench of thirty yeeres old and upwardes, That had lost herself betwixt a taverne and a b----y house. Notwithstanding the immense development of advertising since the spread of newspapers, the services of the bellman are still used in most of the country towns of the United Kingdom, and even in London there are still bellmen and parish criers, though their offices would appear to be sinecures. The provincial crier’s duties are of the most various description, and relate to objects lost or found, sales by public auction or private contract, weddings, christenings, and funerals. Not much more than a century ago the burgh of Lanark was so poor that there was in it only one butcher, and even he dared never venture on killing a sheep till every part of the animal was ordered beforehand. When he felt disposed to engage in such an enterprise, he usually prevailed upon the minister, the provost, and the members of the town council to take a joint each; but when shares were not subscribed for readily, the sheep received a respite. On such occasion the services of the bellman, or “skelligman,” as he was there named, were called into request, and that official used to perambulate the streets of Lanark acquainting the lieges with the butcher’s intentions in the following rhyme:-- Bell-ell-ell! There’s a fat sheep to kill! A leg for the provost, Another for the priest, The bailies and the deacons They’ll tak’ the neist; And if the fourth leg we canna sell, The sheep it maun leeve, and gae back to the hill! Sir Walter Scott, in one of his notes, gives a quaint specimen of vocal advertising. In the old days of Scotland, when persons of property (unless they happened to be nonjurors) were as regular as their inferiors in attendance on parochial worship, there was a kind of etiquette in waiting till the patron, or acknowledged great man of the parish, should make his appearance. This ceremonial was so sacred in the eyes of a parish beadle in the Isle of Bute, that the kirk bell being out of order, he is said to have mounted the steeple every Sunday to imitate with his voice the successive summonses which its mouth of metal used to send forth. The first part of this imitative harmony was simply the repetition of the words, “Bell, bell, bell, bell!” two or three times, in a manner as much resembling the sound as throat of flesh could imitate throat of iron. “Bellùm, Bellùm!” was sounded forth in a more urgent manner; but he never sent forth the third and conclusive peal, the varied tone of which is called in Scotland the “ringing-in,” until the two principal heritors of the parish approached, when the chime ran thus-- Bellùm Bellèllum, Bernera and Knockdow’s coming! Bellùm Bellèllum, Bernera and Knockdow’s coming! A story is also told of an old Welsh beadle, who, having no bell to his church, or the bell being out of order, used to mount the tower before the service on Sundays, and advertise the fact that they were just about to begin, in imitation of the chimes, and in compliment to the most conspicuous patronymics in the congregation list, thus-- Shon Morgan, Shon Shones, Shon Morgan, Shon Shones, Shon Shenkin, Shon Morgan, Shon Shenkin, Shon Shones! Continued _à discretion_. And with this most singular form of vocal advertising we will conclude the chapter. [14] Glossary, cap. xxvii. “Wine-criers cry with open mouth the wine which is for sale in the taverns at four farthings.” [15] Chronicles of the Monk Alberic des Trois Fontaines, under the year 1235. [16] All around here they cry wine at the rate Of thirty-two, sixteen, twelve, six, and eight. [17] To name the other cries our time would waste-- They cry old wine and new, and bid you taste. [18] No savoury meat-pies, as some gastronomic reader might think, since they came from the county of sausage celebrity, but a collection of rules, as practised in the diocese of Salisbury, to show the priests how to deal, under every possible variation in Easter, with the concurrence of more than one office on the same day. These rules varied in the different dioceses. [19] Small calveless legs are mentioned as characteristic of a gentleman in many of our old plays, and will be observed in most full-length portraits of the sixteenth and seventeenth century. [20] To “lie in lavender” was a cant term for being in pawn. [21] Tricks performed with tobacco smoke were fashionable amongst the gallants of the period, and are recommended in Decker’s “Gull’s Horn-Book,” and commended in many old plays. Making rings of smoke was a favourite amusement in those days. [22] See prints in “Archæologia,” xix. p. 383. [23] _Vide_ Decker’s “Belman of London: Bringing to Light the most notorious Villanies that are now practised in the Kingdome.” London, 1608.