In France the stage, no doubt, partly fills the place of the departed court in presenting new fashions to the public eye, doing it with the graceful aplomb that
has carried many a doubtful innovation on to sure success. Those beautiful and trained artists take pleasure in first presenting the style other women are to follow, and yet they share the honour (?) with another class, whose most audacious follies in dress, while studied from the corner of a downcast eye, are nevertheless often slavishly followed.
How many of the thousands of women, who years ago wore the large, flaring back, felt hat, knew they were following the whim of a woman known to the half-world as Cora Pearl? Not pretty, but of a very beautiful figure, and English by birth, she was, one might say, of course, a good horse-woman. She banqueted late one night—so late that dawn was greying the windows and the sodden faces of her guests when they began to take leave. She had indulged in too much wine for comfort; her head was hot. She was seized with one of the wild whims of her lawless class—she
would mount then and there and ride in the Bois. Remonstrances chilled her whim to iron will. Horses were sent for, her maid aroused. She flung on her habit, and held her hand out for her chapeau. There was none.
"Mademoiselle should recall the new riding hat had been too small, had been returned for blocking."
"Tres bien, le vieux donc, vite!"
"Oh, mon Dieu, il fut donné." A quick blow stopped further explanation.
"Quelle que cruche, que cette fille," then a moment's silence, a roving about of the small hot eyes, and with a bound she tore from an American artist's hand his big soft felt hat. Turning the flapping brim up, she fastened it to the crown in three places with jewelled pins, tore a bunch of velvet from her dinner corsage, secured it directly in front, and clapping the hat on the back of her head, dashed downstairs and was in the saddle with a scrabble
and a bound, and away like mad, followed by two men, who were her unwilling companions. Riding longer than she had intended, she returned in broad daylight. All Paris was agog over her odd head gear. Her impudent, laughing face caught their fancy yet again, and she trotted down from the Arc de Triomphe between two rippling little streams of comment and admiration, with, "Comme elle est belle!" "Quelle aplomb!" "Matin, quelle chic!" "Elle est forte gentille!" "C'est le coup de grace!" "Le chapeau! le chapeau!" "La belle Pearl! la belle Pearl!" reaching her distinctly at every other moment.
And that was the origin of the back-turned, broad-brimmed hat that had such vogue before the arrival of the Gainsborough or picture hat.