When Sir Edward Coke, in 1645, was trying Mrs. Turner, the physician’s widow, as an accessory before the fact in the murder of Sir Thomas Overbury (the poor woman had a penchant for poisoning people,—but we have all our little _foibles_), he observed that she wore a hat, and he bade her take it off. “A woman,” said he, “may be covered in a church, but not when arraigned in a court of justice.” The lady tartly commented on the singularity that she might wear her hat in presence of God, and not in that of man. “For the reason,” said the judge, “that man with weak intellects cannot discover the secrets which are known to God; and therefore, in investigating truth, where human life is in peril, and one is charged with taking life from another, the court should see all obstacles removed. Besides,” he added, “the countenance is often an index to the mind, and accordingly it is fitting that the hat be removed, and therewith the shadow which it casts upon your face.” The hat was taken off; but the lady, although a murderess, was modest, and she covered her hair with a kerchief. Had good Mrs. Turner been like the ladies and gentlemen of Natal, she might have puzzled the chief justice. The Natal “fashionables” wear hats of from half a foot to a foot in height, made of the fat of oxen. They first gradually anoint the head with a purer grease; and this, mixing with the hair, fastens these _bonnets_ on during the lives of the wearers! Or the fashion of the Myantses would have done. These people carry on their heads a slight board, a foot long, and half of that broad; with this they cover their hair, and seal it with wax. They cannot lie down or lean without keeping the neck straight; and the country being very woody, it is not uncommon to find them with their head-dress entangled in the trees. Whenever they require to comb their hair, once or twice a year, they have to pass a preliminary hour in melting the wax, before they can get their hats off. Better keep them on than take them off to such poor purpose, as was once observed in the case of one of the celebrities of the Place Royale, Beautru, whose name was a mine of tinsel to the little punsters of Paris, in the reign of Louis XIII. Beautru was bold, haughty, and an inveterate gambler. He was a libertine both as to morals and religion, and the slanderer _par excellence_ of his age. Richelieu had a strong liking for him,—proof enough that he was not worth the affection of an honest man. His repartees were more spiced with wickedness than wit. One day, on passing in front of a crucifix in the public streets, he, with an air of humble reverence, raised his hat. “Ah!” exclaimed one who saw the unwonted action, “that is what I call setting a good example.” “Very good!” cried the scoffer, pushing his hat firm upon his brows, “but you will be pleased to observe that though we bow, we are not on speaking terms.”