“The three Mr. Wiggins’s”—The “Crops”—Hair-powdering—The
powdering closet—Cost of clothes—Economy in hats—Taxing
hats—Eye-glasses—“The Green Man” at Brighton—Eccentricities in
dress.
“THE THREE Mr. Wiggins’s” are _real_ “Bond Street Loungers,” and are
portraits of Lord Llandaff and his brothers, the Hon. Montagu, and
George, Matthews. They were dandies of the purest water, with their
white waistcoats and white satin knee-ribbons. The title is taken from
a farce by Allingham, called “Mrs. Wiggins,” played at the Haymarket,
May 27, 1803. It is very laughable, and turns upon the adventures of an
old man named Wiggins, and three Mrs. Wiggins’s. It was very popular,
and gave the title to another caricature of Gillray’s.
[Illustration: THE THREE MR. WIGGINS’S.]
As will be seen, they wore powder, but this curious fashion was on its
last legs—the _Crops_, or advanced Whigs, having given it its death
blow; still, it struggled on for some years yet. There is a little
story told in the _Morning Herald_ of the 20th of June, 1804, which
will bear reproduction: “The following conversation occurred on Monday
last, in the Gallery of the House of Commons. A gentleman, very much
powdered, happened to sit before another who did not wear any. During
the course of the debate the son of _powder_ in front, frequently
annoyed, by his nodding, or rather his _noddle_, his neighbour in the
rear, for which he apologized, as often as any notice was taken of
it. At last, the influence of Morpheus became so powerful, that the
rear rank man found his arm perfectly painted with _powder_, in such
a manner as to produce some _ignition_ in his temper, and repel his
annoyer with a little more _spunk_[47] than he showed on any of the
former occasions. This being resented, the other presented his arm,
and said, ‘Sir, you should not be angry; for, if I wished for such an
ornament as this, I should, this morning, have left that office to
my hair-dresser. I am a man of such independence that I would not,
willingly, be indebted to you for a single _meal_, and here you have
forced on me a bushel. If I had been your greatest enemy, you could do
nothing more severe, than to _pulverize_ me; and, as I have given you
no intentional offence, I must beg of you, in future, not to _dust my
jacket_.’ This sally had all the effect for which it was intended, and,
instead of exchanging cards, the affair ended, like some senatorial
speeches, in a _laugh_.”
As all the members of the family, including the domestics had to be
powdered, most houses of any pretension had a small room set apart for
the performance, called “the powdering room,” or closet, where the
person to be operated upon went behind two curtains, and, by putting
the head between the two, the body was screened from the powder, and
the head received its due quantity, without injury to the clothes.
Still, all the world was not rich, and, therefore, with some, economy
in clothing was a necessity. As is usual, when a want appears,
it is met; and in this case it certainly was, in a (to us) novel
manner—_Morning Post_ January 12, 1805: “INTERESTING to the PUBLIC.
W Welsford, Tailor, No. 142, Bishopsgate Street, respectfully informs
the Public, that he continues to pursue the plan, originally adopted by
him, six years since, of SUPPLYING CLOTHES, on the following terms:—
Four Suits of Superfine Clothes, the old
Suits to be returned, in one year £16 0 0
Five Suits 18 18 0
Six Suits 21 10 0
“Those Gentlemen who should not prefer the above Contract, may be
supplied at the undermentioned reduced price:
A Coat of the best Superfine Cloth, complete £2 12 0
A Fine Fancy Waistcoat 0 14 0
Superfine double-milled Cassimere Breeches 1 4 0
Superfine Pantaloons 1 0 0.”
Nor was this the only practical economy in dress in that age. Hats,
which were then, as a rule, made of Beaver, were somewhat expensive
articles; and, in looking diligently over the newspapers of the times,
I found that here, again, a want arose, and was met. These Beaver hats
got shabby, and could be repaired; a firm advertising that “after
several years’ practice they have brought the Art of Rebeavering Old
Hats to greater perfection than it is possible to conceive; indeed,
they are the only persons that have brought it to perfection; for, by
their method, they can make a gentleman’s old hat (apparently not worth
a shilling) as good as it was when new.... Gentlemen who prefer Silk
hats, may have them silked, and made waterproof.”
Hats were rendered dearer than they would, otherwise, have been, by
their having to pay a tax—the only portion of personal clothing
which did so. This tax, of course, was evaded; so we find, in the
_Morning Post_, May 20, 1810, the following “CAUTION TO HATTERS. A
Custom prevailing among hatters, of pasting the stamp upon the lining,
by which the same stamp may frequently be sold with different hats
successively, they are required by the Commissioners of the Stamp
Duties, to conform, in selling hats, to the provisions of the Act of
the 36th of George III., cap. 125, secs. 3, 4, 7, 9, which directs
that the lining, or inside covering of every hat shall, itself, be
stamped; and it is the intention of the Commissioners to prosecute for
the penalties of that Act, inflicted on all persons guilty of violating
its regulations. Persons purchasing hats are requested to be careful
in seeing that they are duly stamped upon the lining itself, and not
by a separate piece of linen affixed to it; and reminded that the
Act above-mentioned (sec. 10) inflicts a penalty of £10 upon persons
buying, or wearing, hats not legally stamped.”
[Illustration: ORIGINALS. A HINT TO THE BON TON.]
We have seen it recommended to the Bond Street Lounger that it was
absolutely necessary for him to have an eye-glass suspended from his
button-hole; and the same fashion is mentioned in the _Morning Post_,
August 28, 1806: “The town has been long amused with the _quizzing
glasses_ of our modern fops, happily ridiculed by a door-key in
O’Keefe’s whimsical farce of _The Farmer_. A Buck has lately made his
appearance in Bond Street, daily, between two and four o’clock, with
_a Telescope_, which he occasionally applies to his eye, as he has a
glimpse of some object passing on the other side of the street, worth
_peeping_ at. At the present season, we cannot but recommend this
practice to our fashionable readers, who remain in the Metropolis. It
indicates friendship, as it shows a disposition to _regard_ those who
are at a _distance_.”
[Illustration: ORIGINALS. A HINT TO THE BON TON.]
There have been, in all ages of fashion, some who outvied the common
herd in eccentricity of costume; and the early nineteenth century was
no exception to the rule. It is true that it had not, in the time of
which I write, arisen to the dignity of a “pea-green Haines;” but
still, it could show its “Green Man.” “BRIGHTON, September 25, 1806.
Among the personages attracting, here, public notice, is an original,
or _would-be_ original, generally known by the appellation of ‘the
Green Man.’ He is dressed in green pantaloons, green waistcoat,
green frock, green cravat; and his ears, whiskers, eyebrows, and
chin, are better powdered than his head, which is, however, covered
with flour. He eats nothing but green fruits and vegetables; has his
rooms painted green, and furnished with a green sofa, green chairs,
green tables, green bed, and green curtains. His gig, his livery, his
portmanteau, his gloves, and his whip, are all green. With a green
silk handkerchief in his hand and a large watch chain, with green seals
fastened to the green buttons of his green waistcoat, he parades every
day on the Steyne, and in the libraries, erect like a statue, walking,
or, rather, moving to music, smiling and singing, as well contented
with his own dear self, as well as all those round him, who are not
few.” That he had money was evident, for his green food, including,
as it did, choice fruit, would sometimes cost him a guinea a day;
besides which, he was seen at every place of amusement, and spent his
money lavishly. Eventually, he turned out to be a lunatic, and, after
throwing himself out of windows, and off a cliff, he was taken care of.
The two preceding illustrations are manifest exaggerations of costume;
but the germ of truth which supplies the satire is there; and, with
them, the men’s dress of this period is closed.
[Illustration]
[Illustration]