His snuff-box, too, was an object of his solicitude, though, as the habit of taking snuff had but just come into vogue, there were no collections of them, and no beau had ever dreamed of criticising a box as did Lord Petersham, as 'a nice Summer box.' So many of them have come down to us that they need no description, and I may merely say that those of the middle classes were chiefly of silver, or tortoise-shell, or mother-of-pearl; sometimes of 'Aggat'—or with a 'Moco Stone' in the lid. A beau would sometimes either have a looking-glass, or the portrait of a lady inside the lid.
We have seen how proud the beau was of his watch, which he wore in a fob, or pocket, in his breeches. A seal or two, generally of small value, and a watch key, were attached to it by a ribbon; chains, either of gold, silver, or steel, being sparingly used. The seals, of course, were then necessary, as, there being no gummed envelopes, every letter had to be properly sealed, either by wax or wafer. Tompion was the great watch-maker, and he lived at the Three Crowns, at the corner of Water Lane in Fleet Street, where he was afterwards succeeded by George Graham. The value of Tompion's watches may be gathered from the fact that from seven to ten guineas were generally offered for their recovery when lost, or from eighteen to twenty-five guineas of our money.
A WATCH RIBAND.
The watch of that day, and indeed of the whole Georgian era, consisted of the watch proper, and an outer ornamental case, which was lined with a pad of coloured velvet or satin, to make it fit tight to the watch. We now never see watch-cases made of other materials than the precious metals, or imitations thereof; but then, beautiful cases were made of shagreen of various colours, or tortoiseshell inlaid, or studded, with gold. Some beautiful specimens may be seen in the library of the Corporation of the City of London, in the Clockmakers' Company's collection.
As umbrellas were not used by men, as being too effeminate, and india-rubber waterproofing was only to be discovered more than a century later, men, in Anne's reign, had to put their trust in good broadcloth coats or cloaks.
Nor should it prove thy less important Care,
To Chuse a proper Coat for Winter's Wear.
Now in thy Trunk thy Doily Habit fold,
The silken Drugget ill can fence the cold;
The Frieze's spongy Nap is soak'd with Rain,
And Show'rs soon drench the Camlet's cockled Grain.
True Witney Broad Cloth with its Shag unshorn,
Unpierc'd is in the lasting Tempest worn:
Be this the Horse man's Fence; for who would wear
Amid the Town the Spoils of Russia's Bear?
Within the Roquelaure's Clasp thy Hands are pent,
Hands, that stretch'd forth invading Harms prevent.
Let the looped Bavaroy the Fop embrace,
Or his deep Cloak be spatter'd o'er with Lace.
That Garment best the Winter's Rage defends,
Whose shapeless Form in ample Plaits depends;
By various Names[211] in various Counties known,
Yet held in all the true Surtout alone:
Be thine of Kersey firm, though small the Cost,
Then brave unwet the Rain, unchill'd the Frost.[212]
Scarlet seems to have been the favourite colour for the roquelaure or cloak, and some must have been 'exceeding magnifical, scarlet rocklows and rocliers, with gold buttons and loops, being advertised as lost. Ah! the men of that time! they were always losing something.
In doors, in their hours of ease, the precious furbelow wig was discarded, and their closely cropped or shaved heads were clad in handsomely worked caps—called night caps, although only worn in the daytime; some kind of night cap having been an article of dress ever since the time of Elizabeth. They were as common presents from ladies to gentlemen, as a pair of slippers, or a smoking-cap would be now. Says Swift, 'Your fine Cap, Madam Dingley, is too little, and too hot. I will have that fur taken off; I wish it were far enough; and my old Velvet cap is good for nothing. Is it velvet under the fur? I was feeling but cannot find; if it be, it will do without it, else I will face it; but then I must buy new velvet: but may be I may beg a piece. What shall I do?'[213]
