The Quaker loves an ample brim, A hat that bows to no Salaam; And dear the beaver is to him As if it never made a dam.

I know it is a sin For me to sit and grin At him here; But the old three-cornered hat And the breeches and all that Are so queer.

The hat is the ultimatum moriens of respectability.

I never saw so many shocking bad hats in my life.

He wears his faith but as the fashion of his hat; it ever changes with the next block.

A sermon on a hat: "'The hat, my boy, the hat, whatever it may be, is in itself nothing--makes nothing, goes for nothing; but, be sure of it, everything is life depends upon the cock of the hat.' For how many men--we put it to your own experience, reader--have made their way through the thronging crowds that beset fortune, not by the innate worth and excellence of their hats, but simply, as Sampson Piebald has it, by 'the cock of their hats'? The cock's all."