Signs and Show-Cases in New York

OF all great cities in the civilized world, New York is, perhaps, the most destitute as regards public statues and works of monumental art in general. To be sure, it has its colossal equestrian Washington in Union Square, a work characterized by a certain amount of massive dignity, but lost for want of vista, its bronze contour looming against no patch of sky, and being confounded with, rather than relieved by, the sombre walls of the houses that form its background. As for the red-stone abomination in the City Hall Park, libellously stated to be a presentment of the Father of his Country, it is unworthy to figure even on the roll of “ signs,” and I here dismiss it without another word. Central Park is beginning to acquire works of sculpture. Schiller, intellectual in stove-metal, gazes out there upon the swans “floating double ” on the lake. By and by Ward’s Shakespeare will take up his position upon the Mall ; and a gigantic bust in bronze of William Cullen Bryant, intended for one of the lawns, has been executed by the sculptor Launt Thompson. But it will be some time before statues become a feature of New York and its parks ; and this paper is to deal only with the present of the Empire City, and with such art as is daily displayed in the emblematical devices of its bustling streets.

In default of sculptured monuments, then, and statues of distinguished persons, there is compensation for New York in the endless number and variety of signs and show-cases with which its streets are furnished. Just now a movement is on foot for the removal of many of the most obtrusive of these. The show-cases, especially, are deemed to be an obstruction to pedestrians, and a temptation to theft; but rent is paid to the city authorities, as I am told, for the spaces occupied by some of these, and such will probably be permitted to remain. It is likely, nevertheless, that a general sweep will be made, erelong, of the most remarkable emblems, devices, and show-cases hitherto set out by the several trades, and on this account some record of them will be interesting to such persons as may survive their loss.

The old traditional sign-boards, such as are yet to be seen in every country town and village of England, and swinging in front of the roadside inns, are now but rarely found in the city of New York. In the suburbs a few of them may be seen, and they are yet occasional features along the rural roads of Long Island, and elsewhere in the vicinity of the city. Not long since, indeed, there was, in the Bowery, a very fair version of the time-honored Pig and Whistle : an improved version, too, for the musical porker was not represented blowing upon a mere common whistle, as in the old tavern sign, but absolutely performing (that is the proper word) upon a very complete flageolet fitted with all the modern “ attachments.” But the premises to which this sign was affixed were some years ago destroyed by fire, and the musical porker became roast pig according to the original recipe of Charles Lamb.

Tradition being but little reverenced here, attempts to maintain the old-time sign-boards in New York have generally been unsuccessful. The man who would erect over his doorway a Green Man and Still, for instance, or a Bag o’ Nails Dancing, would be set down as an old fogy and very much behind the age. A ludicrous instance of failure to bring an old sign into favor occurred in the Bowery a few years since. There came a stout, red-faced Englishman, of the pot-companion type, who opened in that thoroughfare a small alehouse on the English plan. He adopted for his sign the Goose and Gridiron, an emblem often to be seen swinging from the sign-posts of English hostelries. Presently it got abroad among the alert youths of the Bowery that there was a covert sting in this,— that the perfidious British tapster, in fact, meant the sign for a satire upon the bird of Freedom and its ribbed shield. Convinced of this, and further nettled by a certain dogged, overbearing manner characteristic of the man, they mobbed his house one night, drank up his liquors, smashed his tumblers and decanters, and made a small bonfire of the obnoxious sign-board, in front of the tavern.

Until lately there was, in Fourth Avenue, an English alehouse kept by a member of the theatrical profession, over the doorway of which hung a picture of Sir John Falstaff, painted by the jovial host himself, who was something of an artist in more ways than one. The house was known as the Falstaff Inn. Another Fat Jack, well known to New-Yorkers for many years, was displayed at the door of an alehouse kept by a retired member of the English prize ring. He was a man of remarkable obesity, and the picture of the Fat Knight on the sign-board was a portrait of himself. Both of these characteristic signs are gone now, and I am not aware that there are any others like them existing in New York. The head of Shakespeare is a sign, however, to be seen here and there in the city.

Over the stalls of butchers a Black Bull or Red Cow may yet occasionally be seen. The Red Lion is apparently obsolete ; but at a lager-beer brewery in the neighborhood of the city a large golden lion is displayed upon the front of the wagon-sheds, and the establishment is called the Lion Brewery. The beehive is not uncommon as a sign, in New York, and sometimes the Dog and Partridge, or some similar design, gives inkling of an alehouse to which sportsmen resort. Not far from the city the good old sign of the Three Pigeons is to be seen in front of a roadside house of entertainment. On first entering this house, I was surprised to find it kept by a German, who informed me, however, that it had originally been established by an Englishman, several years before. Occasionally an old weather-beaten sign-board may be seen, with what might have been intended as a likeness of George Washington dimly discernible upon its time-worn surface. It is very rare, though, to find signboards displaying the portraits of contemporary public characters. There may be a reason for this in the frequent changes of all public officials, which would involve a corresponding change in sign-boards of the portrait kind at inconveniently short intervals.

Blacksmiths in New York, as elsewhere, generally hang out over their forge - doors boards with improbable horses painted on them. To this signboard not unfrequcntly an immense gilt horseshoe is appended, and, in two or three instances that I know of, an old rusty horseshoe is nailed to a corner of the board, “for luck.” The poetry of the forge — and surely the blacksmith, with his anvil, bellows, and other accessories, has a strange, weird poetry of his own — is none the weaker for this bit of old-time superstition. It is curious, by the way, how frequently the horseshoe, as a talisman, or protection against the “ evil eye,” is adopted in New York. A day or two since I noticed a cluster of four or five old rusty shoes suspended from a newspaper table kept in Broadway by a deaf old man. They are often nailed over the doors or bar counters of public houses, as though with some vague idea of exorcising the blue devils that are plausibly supposed to lurk in the questionable liquors dispensed at these places.

Of traditional signs, one very often to be seen in New York is that of the pawnbroker,-—the Three Golden Balls. In some cases this sign is painted in black on a white board fixed to the window or door-post, while the three golden balls hang out higher up the wall. I have noticed one pawnbroker, in a by-street, who displays no fewer than three sets of these emblems on the front of his house.

Another traditional emblem, and one yet more common than the pawnbrokers’ sign, is the pestle and mortar of the druggist, which is to be seen conspicuously perched upon gilded ledges everywhere, and most frequently at corners.

In the German quarters of the city, sign-boards are of frequent occurrence. The most striking of these, and one not uncommon, is a representation of St. Gambrinus, the fabulous, not to say bibulous, personage supposed to preside over lager-beer. Sometimes he is presented life size, bearded and crowned, and holding in one hand a stupendous beaker of the national beverage, the froth of which bulges from the rim like a prize cauliflower. Another lager-beer sign very often to be seen is that of a frolicsome goat, who appears to be rather the worse for what he has imbibed. Sometimes he is depicted rolling in sportive mood a keg of beer. Sometimes the artist presents him eying with drunken gravity a full mug of the ruddy malt. The strongest kind of lager-beer, brewed at a particular season, and to be had for a short time only, is known among the Germans as “ bock - bier,” and the announcement of it in beer-houses is invariably accompanied with a picture or sign of the frolicsome buck-goat with his beer cask or mug.

Over the doorway of a German tenement-house in the eastern district of the city, where Germans greatly abound, there is a sign-board that exhibits an appearance of some antiquity, and which was probably brought from Germany as a memento of the Voterland. It is somewhat like a shield in form, and was once richly gilt, with an inscription on it in gilt letters. Upon these, however, a more modern announcement has been painted, in the manner of a palimpsest, leaving the original lettering undecipherable. The present inscription displays a German name. In the centre of the board is painted a blue pail with a brush in it, and the word “whitewashing” beneath this gives a clew to the owner’s occupation. In New York the business of whitewashing houses, as that of carpetshaking, is almost exclusively in the hands of the colored people, and this is the only exception to the contrary with which I remember to have met.

One of the commonest signs in the German streets of New York is that of the shoemaker, — a small board displaying a male boot, usually painted yellow, resting on the ground, from the intensely blue sky over which the female boot — smaller than the male, but quite as yellow — is seen descending like a skylark to its nest. German bakers often hang out a dingy little sign-board with a sheaf of wheat painted on it. In the same quarters the costumer is frequently represented by his sign. These emblems are very various : sometimes a grotesque head, with cap and bells ; sometimes a female personage of half life size, extremely full-blown, — in accordance with the German idea of all that is lovely in woman, — and dressed in a sort of hybrid costume between that of a contadina and a débardeuse, but always with a black mask over her mysterious brow. Very often the only sign hung out by the provider of carnival costumes is a huge and hideous mask, or a false nose of awful proportions and monstrous form ; and variations of these in all possible degrees of deformity are to be seen in the shop window.

Far more characteristic of New York, however, than any of the signs above enumerated are those that abound along Broadway almost in its entire length, as well as in the Bowery and main avenues of the city generally. Among these the tobacconists’ signs are the most frequent and conspicuous ; for there are few cities in which the tobacco business flourishes more extensively than it does in New York. For the most part these signs are carved out of wood, and they vary from life size, or even “heroic proportions,” to those of puppets or toy dolls. Of all these images, by far the commonest is the Indian,— a very characteristic and appropriate emblem of the nicotine weed in most of its forms. Both sexes of the red aboriginal peoples are here represented, and if you greet the grim Powhatan at this doorway, you shall certainly meet with Pocahontas or Minnehaha before you have gone many steps farther. Sometimes the smiling, slender-limbed Indian maiden, clad lightly as any nymph of modern ballet or burlesque, and poised in a graceful attitude, holds aloft in one hand a bunch of the green tobacco leaves, while with the other she proffers a bundle of prime wooden cigars. Quite the reverse of her is the painted sachem, who is generally represented as a muscular savage with a very discontented expression of countenance, the corners of his mouth drawn down to an angle that suggests nothing but tomahawk and torture. Less frequent as a tobacconist’s sign than the Indian is the negro, but he, too, does duty in that capacity. The tobacconist’s wooden negro is invariably sculptured after the most extravagant Ethiopian-minstrel pattern. He is generally dressed in a light blue coat of the swallow-tail cut, yellow breeches, and topboots,— a style not usually affected by the colored gentleman of real life. His head is dignified with a tall, steeple-crowned hat; and as for shirt-collar, nothing so outrageous as his could ever have really been manufactured to meet an existing demand. A very curious specimen of the negro as a sign is to be seen at the door of a drinkingsaloon in Broadway. It is a life-size carving of “ Jim Crow,” in a sadly shattered condition, and a card suspended upon it sets forth that it was executed by the late T D. Rice, — better known as “Daddy” Rice, — the originator of the Jim Crow style of song and dance. A tobacco sign often to be met with is the figure of a magnificent cavalier, also carved from wood, and meant, doubtless, to represent Raleigh. He is plumed and slashed extravagantly, but anachronism is perceptible in the cigar so gingerly held between his finger and thumb. Of course the wooden Turk is often to be seen as a symbol of the tobacconist’s trade, turbaned and slippered, and touching the tip of a very long pipe to his lips. Another figure-head often to be observed on the doorsteps of the tobacconist is a very obtrusive one of “ Punch.” who is invariably presented of most obese proportions, and with a malignant, lobsterclaw-like leer upon his hideous face. All of these signs, nearly, are mounted upon little platforms that run on rollers, so as to be readily moved when required, and they are for the most part more or less obstructive to persons passing along the sidewalks. That they are objects of derision for boys is obvious from the way in which many of them are mutilated. I know of a lovely Pocahontas in a by-street who wants her right arm, which has been rudely snapped off at the elbow by some scurrilous child of the palefaces. The stern Indian sachem is often to be seen without a nose, his features adorned with a coating of surreptitious war-paint composed of street mud. Like his prototype of the woods and plains, however, he shall erelong have passed away to other hunting-grounds, haply in some lumber-loft or back yard, and then there will be “ none left to care for Logan, no, not one.”

More common than any of these emblems are the traditional wooden Highlanders, so often to be seen in front of tobacconists’ shops. They are generally of large proportions, and clad in the uniform of some British Highland regiment, and their mission appears to be connected with snuff more than with tobacco in any other form, as they are always furnished with the “mull” or Scotch snuff-box. A figure that has lately become common in New York as a sign is the carved, life-size image of an English “swell” of the Dundreary type, with immense auburn whiskers, and an imbecile smile on its florid face. Sometimes it does duty at a tobacconist’s door ; sometimes it holds over its head an umbrella; sometimes carries a patent travelling-bag in its sulphur-colored hand ; but to whatever use it maybe put, it always wears upon its features the same conventional, selfcomplacent smile.

Sometimes tobacco signs are painted on boards, and of such a curious example is to be seen at the door of a small establishment bearing the sonorous name of the “ Mephisto cigar store,” in a western street of the city. It is a representation of the typical stage demon, dressed in crimson tights, and furnished with the regulation bat-like wings.

Along Broadway, as well as in many of the streets that branch from it in the lower part of the city, various characteristic trade - signs are to be seen. Some of these are of immense size, and very conspicuously placed. High up on the cornice of some five-story building, for instance, may be seen an immense eagle with outspread wings, all glittering with gold-leaf, and holding in its beak a big umbrella or basket or whatever else may be emblematical of the trade to which attention is directed. Cutting sharply against the sky on the roof of a building not far from the City Hall, there looms a titanic skeleton skirt. It might serve as a cage for a rhinoceros ; and if its removal should ever be ordered by the police, the zoological committee of Central Park would do well to acquire it. Here an immense double-barrelled gun —wooden, of course, and gilt — is fixed perpendicularly to the wall of a store ; and yonder you may see a pipe-bowl of proportionate size, quite as wooden as the gun, and quite as much gilt. Lately an enormous gilt chandelier has been hung out by a manufacturer of gasfittings near Central Broadway. It looks as though suspended by a thread, and people who pass under it may often be observed to hasten their steps, as though apprehensive of a crash.

Stuffed animals are frequently set out by furriers as signs. A very common sign of this kind is the black bear, which is sometimes reared upon its hind legs, and supported by a rough pole. Not so often is the grizzly bear to be seen at the furrier’s door; but in a large show-case near Washington Market there is a very fine specimen of the kind,—a female with her cub. For a long time in Broadway a stuffed bison did duty as a sign, wearing on its shaggy brow a placard inscribed with the warning “Hands off!” Of late years some of the German tradespeople of New York have taken the fancy of maintaining enormous bloodhounds of the Siberian breed. One of these, deceased, has been utilized by its owner, a German shoemaker in an eastern street of the city, who has placed it, stuffed, in his window for a sign, its head and body hung ail over with feminine boots and shoes of the most fanciful patterns and gaudy colors.

Affixed to the door-posts of restaurants, shells of the green turtle are often used as signs, with the inscription on them, in gilt letters, “Turtle soup and steaks every day.” Indeed, the living turtle itself may fairly be reckoned among the signs, large ones being frequently exposed on the doorsteps or floors of restaurants, with slips of paper on their heaving bosoms announcing that they are to be served up at some stated time. It is touching to observe the solicitude manifested by the restaurant - keepers for the poor turtle, under whose bewildered head it is customary to place an old cigar-box by way of pillow.

Among the miscellaneous signs that may be noted during a ramble through the highways and byways of New York, some are of a patriotic character. Such, for instance, is one displayed over the entrance to an oyster-house in an eastern ward, which appears, with variations, in other quarters of the city. The design on the board is composed of the American, German, and Irish flags grouped together, with the motto “In unity there is strength.” The eagle with the shield is also to be observed on the sign-boards of various trades; and I know of one tavern, at least, — a very old wooden one, formerly much frequented by theatrical supernumeraries,—over the door of which is a life-sized eagle with outspread wings, cleverly carved out of wood and gilt. The Golden Swan is also a sign occasionally to be seen over the doors of public houses in the city and environs. Signs carved in relief are rather exceptional; but an example of these is displayed over the entrance to a basement restaurant in Fourth Street. It is a large panel carved with figures of deer and game-birds, and richly gilt.

Versified mottoes are not often inscribed on the sign-boards of New York, though some instances of them occur. One of these poetical effusions hangs from the awning-rafters in front of a small hardware shop near one of the eastern ferries, — a very rustic “ old wooden corner,” which, in summer, is made to look fresh and pleasant with festoons of climbing plants. On one side of the board appears, painted in rude letters, the query “ Boys, how are you off for kite twine ?” while, on the obverse, the following lines are legible : —

The name over the door of this establishment is not a German one, and, from a certain thrift by which its arrangements are marked, as well as by the miscellaneous nature of the wares displayed in it, not to mention the affectionate appeal made by the proprietor to the juvenile element of the population, one might readily guess it to be an ambitious offshoot from some New England country town.

In a city like New York, the mixed population of which is so much given to carnivals and processions, social as well as political, the banner, of course, holds a conspicuous place, and may be classed among the signs. Makers of awnings frequently run up a large banner to a mast in front of their premises, by way of sign. Banners are chiefly used in this way, however, by the banner-painters themselves, whose occupation is a remunerative one in New York. In front of the places where they work, large banners may often be seen swung across the street, painted, in general, with subjects of popular interest, to invite custom. Then there are the curious emblems displayed by the artificers who deal in cut and turned devices of all sorts. One of these establishments is very conspicuous in Broadway, — a small building, the front of which is constellated with gilt knickknacks in great variety. Stars, globes, horses, deer, hats, boots, capital letters, and sundry other things cut out from wood or metal and gilt, attest here the versatility of the artist, and attract the notice of passers.

The projecting clock is a frequent sign in New York, and a convenience in some sense to the public. Some of these, instead of being affixed to the houses, are mounted upon high columns that spring from the outer edge of the sidewalk.

Coal-yards have their signs, too. For a long while, as I remember, one of these had for its appropriate emblem a gayly painted coal-scuttle that hung from a branch of an old tree in front of the premises. A sign often to be seen at the doors or in the windows of coal-offices is a figure of some kind — often resembling a Hindoo idol — carved from a block of coal. One of these that I have seen was sculptured with considerable skill, and a label pasted on its combustible bosom informed the gazer that it was a veritable statue of “ Old King Cole.”

Show-boards painted of a flaming red color, and with Chinese characters inscribed on them, are often set out in front of tea-stores in New York; and it is a peculiarity of most of these concerns that all their wood-work is painted red, sometimes contrasted with pickings-out in black or green. Now and then an old tea-box may be seen affixed to the wall of a house, high up, with a painted wooden sugar-loaf in it, by way of a sign.

There are night signs to be observed here and there in the city. Among these may be counted illuminated clocks, and the brilliant star arrangements of gas-jets and glass to be seen over the entrances to some of the theatres. A sign got up with effects such as these shines luminously after dark over the door of a shirt-maker in Broadway. It is a veritable “ magic shirt,” all woven of gas-jets and glass prisms, and as gracefully posed as it is possible for an unoccupied shirt to be, with one sleeve raised as in the act of attaching a shirt-collar to the star-spangled neck. But the most brilliant device of this kind to be seen in Broadway is the coruscating mortar set up by an advertising druggist in front of his shop.

Greater obstacles to pedestrian movements than what may properly be termed signs, and equally characteristic of the miscellaneous tastes and habits of social New York, are the innumerable show-cases of all sorts and sizes that stand out on the sidewalks beside the doors of shops. Most attractive to the fairer sex are the tempting arrangements of this kind wherein milliners display examples of their wondrous art. Broadway has many brilliant displays of this sort, and even into Fifth Avenue has the show-case of the milliner worked its insinuating way. But by far the most characteristic show in the city is to be seen in Division Street, a narrow and somewhat dirty way branching from the Bowery eastward. One side of this street, for a good distance, is exclusively occupied by milliners, much of whose gay work may be recognized at all times on the heads of the female population of that side of the city. Here the 24th of March, recognized as “opening day” by all the leading modistes of New York, is very conscientiously observed. On and after that day, the show-cases that stand alongside of every threshold are set out with a show of colors and form that would make a bed of tulips sigh for its shortcomings, or a white camellia turn to a blush-rose in despair. Botany and ornithology have been laid under contribution to furnish the wonderful devices in the way of female head-gear here exhibited. Not one item of the productions exposed to view on this side of Division Street seems to have been made with the slightest reference to use. All is for show ; all is gauzy and zephyrine, and gay with bird of paradise feathers, and with artificial flowers that would madden with fear and wonder the monkey denizens of a South American jungle. And at eve, as the crowds of work-girls pass through this bazaar of tinsel and trash, on their way to the eastern ferries, knots of them pause before the fascinating glass cases, gazing with longing eyes at the lovely devices of the milliners’ taste displayed in them. When you have got about half-way along the show-case block, cast a look over to the other side of the narrow street. There, staring with hollow eyes from a window, is an emblem very significant of the gay temptations of the place and their possible results. The window is that of a toy-dealer or costumer, and the most prominent object on view in it is a large mask, representing the traditional Author of Sin, recalling Pandemonium with his demon leer, and Pan with the short, stubby horns that sprout from his villanous brow.

Dentistry is very largely represented in the show-cases of New York. Many of these are fitted with revolving cushions, which, as they go slowly round and round, reveal to the wrapt gazer inventions of various kinds for the reconstruction of the human mouth. Here are entire palates, wrought out of some roseate material, ribbed and clasped with gold, and appearing to be, in every essential respect, far more reliable articles than the natural ones with which human beings are apt to have so much trouble. Along with these are sets of beautiful gums, fitted with teeth that may haply make those of the beholder ache with envy. In the centre of the cushion there is often an immense emblematical tooth, gilt all over, and in size and shape much resembling a vertebra from the spinal column of a sixty-foot whale. Around these are arranged natural teeth of provoking brilliancy and soundness, some of them, with their digital prongs, looking like delicate fairy hands carved in ivory. Hideous waxen faces of men and women glare at one from the backs of some of these show-cases. These horrible things have their mouths open ; one set of them exemplifying ladies and gentlemen whose teeth had gone prematurely to ruin and decay, and another showing them as they appeared when fitted out with new gums and teeth by the cunning hand of the dentist.

A branch of mechanical art, to which the war gave a great impetus, is the manufacture of artificial limbs, specimens of which, in every variety, are displayed in show-cases and painted upon sign-boards. Like the artificial work of the dentist, so with these. Their symmetry and convenient arrangements, freedom from gout, rheumatism, and other ailments, added to numerous other advantages possessed by them, make one feel dreadfully natural and imperfect; and set one to pondering upon the superiority of guttapercha and vulcanized india-rubber over mere flesh and bone.

It would take much space to enumerate the fancy manufactures of all sorts that are set forth by sample in the show-cases throughout the city. In some of them, watches and jewelry, mostly of a cheap description, are arranged with attractive art. Others contain fancy pipes in various material. Here is one in which a prize pumpkin of ridiculous obesity is displayed: while early strawberries and extravagant peaches, in their proper seasons, are frequently to be observed in the show-cases that fruiterers cunningly arrange. The toy-dealers are very extensive and miscellaneous with their show of goods Before the door of one of these, in the lower part of the city, there stands an image of Santa Claus, holding up a placard that announces, “ Marbles by the cask.” All the latest devices in india-rubber and other material, all the newest inventions contrived for the pastime of young people, are displayed here in endless variety. Other cases contain violins, guitars, accordions, and brass and silver wind instruments of the most approved patterns. Patent lamps, with colored glass shades, are attractively displayed in many of them ; and then there are specimens without limit of bronzes, clocks, opera-glasses, military accoutrements, walking-canes, umbrellas, gold pens, fishing-tackle, cutlery, and everything else that one can possibly think of, whether for use or show. The least ostentatious show-case that I remember to have seen was one containing a bushel or so of corks, and in the upper part of it was displayed a wondrous landscape cut out from cork with a tumble-down cork church and dreadfully formal cork trees ranged all in a row like the bottles that appear to be the natural destination of the buoyant material in question.

From the list of signs in New York it would be remissness to omit a very peculiar one that hangs over the door of a cellar near Broadway, in which liquors are dispersed. It is a life-size painting of a rather gentlemanly looking man, who, being somewhat out of his head, perhaps, has taken the fancy to hold it in his hand. Inscribed on the board is the legend, “ The honest lawyer ” ; but this gives no clew to the subtle meaning hidden in the artist’s work. On inquiring of a soiled youth who lounged on the cellar steps, however, we learned that “ honest when his head is off” is the idea; in which there lurks a suggestion that the landlord of the tavern may have been a sufferer, in his time, from the wiles and exactions of the legal profession.

Another tavern sign of the old-fashioned sort marks the location of a restaurant west of Broadway, much frequented by the members of the French operatic and theatrical troupes. It is a picture intended to represent Mademoiselle Tostée of the opéra bouffe, in her well-known character of “ The Grand Duchess of Gérolstein ” ; or it may haply be the presentment of Schneider, the original sustainer of that rôle in Paris. At any rate it has an attractive look about it, especially to the poor exiles from celestial Paris who nightly crowd the well-kept French hostelry over the door of which it hangs.

A homœopathic druggist in Broadway sets up on the front of his establishment an immense sign, representing a lady reclining upon a lion, who submits with great complacency to the twitchings that she inflicts on his beard. The motto here is, “ The mild power subdues”; under which is inscribed the similia similibus curantur with which that branch of the medical profession proclaims its method and belief. Another somewhat conspicuous sign-board on the same thoroughfare is that hoisted by the American Society for the Prevention of Cruelty to Animals. The subject of this work of symbolic art is a carter belaboring with a club the head of his prostrate horse, to the defence of which unhappy animal there comes an Angel of Mercy with a drawn sword.

If stuffed animals are sometimes made use of by manufacturers and dealers as emblems of their respective callings, so also in cosmopolitan New York are live men. Queer characters, dressed up in fantastic costumes to represent some article of manufacture, go to and fro in the principal business streets, handing printed descriptions of the wares advertised by them to the passers-by. One of these lazy obstructors of the sidewalk is dressed in striped stuff to represent window - shades. Another bears on his seedy old hat a placard setting forth the accomplishments of an “ inimitable barber.” There is one whose long white gaberdine is stuck all over with patent springs for hoop-skirts. Yet another perambulates with a blue and red fools-cap upon his frowzy head, a make-up from which it is not easy to guess at the wares which he is intended to advertise. Not long since there was opened, near Broadway, a show of Alaskan curiosities, such as costumes, weapons, and other such articles of savage life. In front of the door of the place in which these were exhibited there stood a wild man of alarming mien, dressed up in some kind of Indian costume, and with his long, tangled locks hanging about him in confusion. On being interrogated he would state, in an accent that might have been that of Cork, though it had a suggestion of Limerick about it, that he was the sign of the concern within, catalogues of the curiosities displayed in which he was employed to distribute.

Theatrical managers are accustomed to set out large, flaring placards, as signs, in front of their houses ; but the only regular sign to be seen at the vestibule of a New York theatre is the carved, life-size image of a celebrated pantomime clown, which stands at the entrance of the theatre on Broadway in which he is performing.