Such was a hat on the English stage; here is one on that of America. Mr. Charles Kean, when once playing Richard, at New Orleans, observed, as he was seated on the throne, and the curtain was rising, that his noble peers wore their hats or caps in his presence. With his truncheon to his lips he contrived a stage whisper, which said, “Take off your hats; you are in the presence of the king.” “And what of that?” roared high-reaching Buckingham, looking round at the audience, and smacking his own cap tighter on his circumspect head; “what of that? I guess we know nothing of kings in this country.” The New Orleaners were in raptures, and the king sat corrected.
In old days there was not only a fashion in the hat, but also in the cock of it. The famous battle of Ramilies introduced the Ramilies cock of the hat. In No. 526 of the ‘Spectator,’ “John Sly, a haberdasher of hats, and tobacconist,” is directed to take down the names of such country gentlemen as have left the hunting for the military cock, before the approach of peace. In a subsequent number is told how the same John Sly is preparing hats for the several kinds of heads that make figures in the realm of Great Britain, with cocks significant of their powers and faculties. His hats for men of the faculties of law and physic do but just turn up to give a little life to their sagacity. His military hats glare full in the face; and he has prepared a familiar easy cock for all good companions between the above-mentioned extremes.
Admiring mothers would sooner have followed their sons to the grave than see them walk about with hats uncocked,—whether the form took that of a spout or the point of a mince-pie. The German Kevenhüller came on about the accession of George III. They were as tasteless as those French chapeaux à cornes, of whom Mr. Bob Fudge says that he
“would back Mrs. Draper
To cut better weather-boards out of brown paper.”
At this time, we are told, there was the military cock and the mercantile cock; and while the beaux of St. James’s wore their hats under their arms, the beaux of Moorfields Mall wore them diagonally over their left or right eye. Some wore their hats with the corners which should come over their foreheads, in a direct line, pointed into the air. These were the Gawkies. Others did not above half cover their heads, which was indeed owing to the shallowness of their crowns. A hat with gold binding bespoke a man given to the pleasures of the turf. The tiny Nivernois hat came into fashion early in the reign of the third George; and it is said that gold-laced cocked hats used to be worn in the year ’78, because they had a military look with them, and would therefore protect the wearer against the press-gangs that were then more than usually active.
When round hats came in, at first merely for morning or undress wear, but finally became a fait accompli, like that other little matter, the French Revolution, all the young wearers of them (and there were, at first, no others) were denounced as “blackguards” and “highwaymen.” The youthful votaries of fashion retorted by nicknaming the three-cornered hats, as “Egham, Staines, and Windsor,” in allusion to the three-fingered road-post pointing in that tripartite direction. The flat, folding, crescent-shaped beaver, called a cocked or an opera hat, was still to be seen as late as 1818; and a party of gentlemen returning on foot from Almack’s on a summer’s morning, with pantaloons tight as the Venetian standard-bearer’s, and hats cocked according to the mode, presented a rather martial look. Since that time, the round hat has gained headway; even coachmen only wear the old cocked covering on state occasions; and the ugliest article that ever could be devised for the purpose seems to be planted upon our unwilling brows for ever.
In New, as formerly in Old, England, Quakers objected to take off their hats. A judge in the former locality once remarked thereon, that if he thought there was any religion in a hat, he would have the largest he could purchase for money. Poor Essex, at his mock trial before his enemies in Elizabeth’s palace, was compelled to stand uncovered. He was so embarrassed with his hat and the papers in it, that he forgot something of what he had to say; and perhaps too much care for his hat helped him to lose his head.
Finally, do my readers know why “beaver” was the originally favourite material for a hat? Dr. Marius was told by a Jew physician of Ulm, that it was because by wearing a cap of beaver’s fur, anointing the head once a month with oil of castor, and taking two or three ounces of it in a year, a man’s memory may be so strengthened that he will remember everything he reads. I would eschew French velvet, and would stick to beaver, if I thought that.
And now as hats were put upon heads, the next fashion that will naturally come under our notice is the fashion of Wigs and their Wearers. Previous to turning to which, I may mention, by way of being useful, that “beaver” is not beaver in our days; and that perhaps is why we are all so forgetful of our duties. English beaver is a mixture of lamb’s wool and rabbit’s fur. Silk, satin, and velvet hats are made of plush, woven for the most part in the north of England. Paris hats are made in London from French plush, of which we import annually about 150,000 lbs. We export few hats except to our own colonies. They are chiefly made, like our wigs, for native wear.