The Works of Peter Pindar [i.e. John Wolcot] ... With a Copious Index. To which is prefixed Some Account of his Life. In Four Volumes |
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 | The Works of Peter Pindar [i.e. John Wolcot] |  |
HAIR POWDER;
A PLAINTIVE EPISTLE TO MR. PITT.
And, Herod-like, not little children spare;
Say (for methinks the land has much to dread)
How long in safety may we wear the head?
CHAPTER OF CONTENTS.
A sublime Exordium, containing a great Compliment
to Mr. Pitt.—The Poet sagely adviseth the
Minister—observeth to him the Effect of Time on
the Heads of Beaux and old Maids.—The hard
Fate of poor carotty-polled Phillis.—Lubin's
and Hodge's Disappointment, by Means of this
cruel Tax.—A great and œconomical Judge's
Mortification; and Exultation of his Fur-clad
Brother at the Tax on Hair Powder.—A melancholy
Picture of the Hair-dressers and Barbers.
The Poet's eye (as Shakespeare sayeth), ‘in a
fine phrensy rolling,’ beholdeth the Chase of a
powdered Poll; the Capture; the Redemption;
and Punishment of the Informers in London—
also Poll-chases in the Country, illustrated by
an apt Simile.—Peter exclaimeth at the Minister,
and compareth him to a hard-hearted Fellow
that lived upon Executions.—Peter praiseth
Mr. Pitt's Powers of Oratory.—He attacketh the
Pride of the Minister; wishing him to take a
To slake the golden thirst of kings and queens;
To gorge the cavern of each greedy chest
With all the wonders of the bleeding east;
To lull with opiate draughts a kingdom's groans,
Patch ragged crowns, and cobble crazy thrones;
The modest bard, for five short minutes, bear;
Nor may the Muse's wisdom wound thine ear!
Drags her last penny forth, and fears starvation;
Whose voice is loud, and daily waxing louder;
List to the serious sound, and damn the powder.
To thee, responsible for ev'ry blunder,
Her mildest murmurs should be claps of thunder.
Wide-grinning at the beau beyond his prime;
And many a maid, beyond life's blooming day,
Whose curls his wonted malice turn'd to grey!
Pines pennyless, and blushes for her locks!
Refus'd to fly to powder's friendly aid,
She bids them seek in caps the secret shade;
Phillis must hide the redd'ning shame, or shave!
At thee she flings her curses, Pitt, and cries—
At thee she darts the lightnings of her eyes;
And thinks that Love ne'er warm'd him who could vex,
With wanton strokes of cruelty, the sex.
Poor Lubin shook the dredge box o'er his hair;
Hodge dipp'd his caxon 'mid the sack of flour:
But now they execrate the arm of pow'r;
Lubin no longer dares the dredge-box shake,
Nor Hodge to dip his caxon in the sack.
The saving judge has felt a stunning blow:
His hawk-œconomy won't thank thee for't,
Which stops his pretty nipperkin of port .
Not so Judge Blood, who glories in deceit;
His life one murder, and his soul a cheat—
He loves a law, and hugs the man who made it,
To hang a culprit and himself evade it.
A melancholy, mute, and mournful band;
And barbers eke, who lift the crape-clad pole,
And round and round their eyes of horror roll;
Who told their sorrows 'mid the moony light.
But see! each hopeless wight with fury foams;
His curling-irons breaks, and snaps his combs;
Ah! doom'd to shut their mouths as well as shops;
For dead is custom, 'mid the world of crops .
I see th' informer polls of powder chase!
On this, on that, a footman, maid of mop,
Fierce as the tiger from his ambush, pop;
Now if his cruel clutches, sharp and strong,
To Bow-street drag his powder'd prey along:
And now I see the mob in mercy's cause,
Redeem the victim from his savage paws;
And now the tyrant to a horse-pond draw,
To quench the red-hot thunder-bolt of law.
Amidst our villages, in fancy's eye,
I see informers chase, and culprits fly—
Rude pikes so hungry, putting to the rout,
Voracious darting, a poor host of trout.
‘Your money, sirs—remove the mask, or pay,’
Is now thy language to a groaning nation!
Pitt, Pitt, thou hast no bowels of compassion.
How mean (for money such thy boundless rage)
Thus to expose the cruel pow'r of age!
Much like the man art thou, and hard as he,
Who let his scaffold out at Tyburn tree;
Where, as the great and pious Doctor Dodd
Gave by a rope his sinful soul to God,
Thus on his boards aloft, amid the crowd,
Th' unfeeling wretch of wretches bawl'd aloud,
‘Up, up—who mounts here?—all alive, and kicking.’
But Truth should bear it company, I trow—
Hypocrisy, the knave, to keep his place,
Too often borrows Virtue's honest face.
The tow'ring column often rais'd a rat.
Though toss'd aloft by stone-blind Fortune's pow'r,
Awake thy mem'ry to thy humbler hour:
Though now a kite—ah! once a bat, how small!
Flick'ring around for flies in yonder hall !
But, drunk with honours, ‘No,’ thou criest, ‘no;
I thank thee, but I cannot look so low.’
Thus a poor country boy to India goes;
A small portmanteau all the wealth he knows;
Arrives, with awkward legs and arm and mien;
But, ere a twelvemonth pass, how chang'd the scene!
He mounts his elephant, treats, wh---s, gets drunk,
And, ah! forgets his friend the little trunk.
Lo, generous m---y prepar'd to grant.
Hark to a voice divine!—‘Pitt, Pitt, hæ, Pitt;
‘No more, no more for taxes whet thy wit;
I'll pay, I'll pay the soldier and the tar—
My millions, Pitt, shall pay the glorious war;
I'll give sheep, lamb, ram, turkey, duck, boar, sow,
Goose, gosling, cock, hen, heifer, bull, calf, cow;
And, Pitt, hæ, hæ at Smithfield Pitt, I shine—
Mine's the best beef—yes, mine—what, what?—yes, mine:
I'll empty every guinea-chest, and sack;
Yes, yes, the people ought to have it back:
Yes, yes, I'll give my all, my all away;
Yes, yes, I know, I know the hounds are howling—
God, Pitt, I don't, I don't much like their growling:
Hæ, hæ, growl, growl—what, what? things don't go right;
Why quickly, quickly, Pitt, the dogs may bite—
That would be bad, bad, bad,—a sad mishap—
Hæ, Pitt—hæ, hæ? I should not like a snap.’
Where truth and speed and oratory shine.
‘I geef my chewells to de peepel's sighs—
All tings from Mistress Hastings as I gote;
I geef de fine pig di'mond of Arcote ;
Iss, dat vich Rhumbold geef, I geef again,
Rader dan see de peeples suffer pain.
De emp'ror presents, Lord! I vil not tush,
Although de duty coss so very mush .
I turn off Mister Wyat , dat I sal;
And geef up Frogmore—Iss, I geef up all;
Geef up mine di'mond stomacher indeed;
All, all, mush rader dan de peepels bleed:
Iss, iss, I geef up all, shust like de k---,
For bankrup nation be quite deflish ting.
Vat signifies de millions in our purses,
If money do profoke de peepels curses?
Mine Gote! half loaf be better dan no bread.
Peety to make de Englis peepels groan;
So goote as poote de prences 'pon de trone;
Who soon, mine Gote! may take it in der brain,
Vat dey poote up, dey may pull down again.’
Beware!—thou stand'st on danger's giddy brink:
Know, that a single grain, or half grain more,
May turn the balance, man, and heave thee o'er:
And shouldst thou tumble down the rock of fate,
No seas of tears will wail thy shorten'd date.
Go, copy the good pair whom all adore,
Who spurn the proud , and hug the humble poor.
That beggars and insults a generous nation;
Too from my soul the avarice I hate,
That, thirsty, squeezes like a spunge the state:
Wishing from trees (so keen the gold it grapples)
To shake down guineas just like pears and apples.
And wish a mob's wild arm the sword of pow'r:
No! let a Titus, let an Alfred rule;
Who sighs not for a king, I deem a fool.
Like those were Europe's monarchs! in thy ear,
What from a people had such forms to fear?
Safe 'mid the ardour of a realm's embrace!
Kings never fall but by their own disgrace.
I murmur not at kings, if good for aught;
I only quarrel when they're good for nought.
Granted—I never worship stocks nor stones;
Nor look I for wise emp'rors, nor wise kings—
'Tis expectation's madness—Quixote things.
The man to titles, and to riches born,
Amid the world of science, how forlorn!
To speak to think, unable, mark his air!
Heav'ns! what an idiot gape, and idiot stare?
Though lord of millions, gilt with titles o'er—
A statue 'midst a library!—no more!
He deems the butterflies of folly, treasure;
And shuns chaste Wisdom, for the strumpet Pleasure.
'Tis true, gay Pleasure courts us to the joy,
While Wisdom to her swains is always coy.
The brain must labour, or it proves the sport
Of Wisdom's circle, though it charm a court.
Seek we corporeal strength? the mine, the plough,
Of strong examples, furnish us enow.
Search we the spot which mental power contains?
Go where man gets his living by his brains.
Had Charles first popp'd into the world I ween,
That world a very diff'rent Charles had seen.
‘What had Charles been?’ is ask'd with wonder—even
That good, fat, honest, sleepy fellow—Stephen
Such doves, such harmless doves as now we feed;
Not eagles, screaming with insatiate maw,
Wild in our hearts to plunge the beak and claw?
And yet too oft, to damn the coward age,
Our isle has trembled at a tyrant's rage.
Thus 'mid the smiles of Nature's fair domain,
Where blooming Health and Plenty lead their train;
Where, rob'd with verdure, wind the rills along,
And ev'ry vale resounds with cheerful song;
See o'er th' Elysian scene, with lofty head,
The blood-stain'd gibbet dash the soul with dread!
Too oft for England's welfare periods flow:
A truce to all such metaphoric breath:
So soft, they drop into our ears with death.
How like the snows, wide-ermining the air,
So gently sinking, kissing, all so fair;
Falling on simple sheep, and soon, alas!
O'erwhelming, killing, with the courteous mass.
Thy busy fingers have forc'd milk enow:
Though frequent rushing the lank teats to teaze,
How patiently the beast has borne thy squeeze!
Just shak'd her head, and wincing whisk'd her tail,
When oft thou fill'dst a puncheon for a pail:
But now she bushing roars, and makes a pudder,
Afraid thy harden'd hands may steal her udder.
Think on America, our cow of yore,
Which oft the hand with Job-like patience bore;
Who, pinch'd, and yet denied a lock of hay,
Kick'd the hard milkman off, and march'd away.
In vain he try'd by ev'ry art to catch her;
To wound, to hamstring, nay, knock down, dispatch her;
Mocking the fruitless rage of rogues and fools.
Why from thy tax exempt a royal skull?
Why free each creeping thing about a court?
The grumbling nation will not thank thee for't.
Let Hawk'sb'ry frown, and bull-face Brudenell roar;
They well may club, to ease the nation's score:
Their purse-strings, nay, let all thy colleagues draw,
Disgorging a poor guinea from each maw.
Let Queensb'ry nobly pinch his Cyprian sinnings,
And stately Cumberland her faro winnings;
Let Madam S---g make up wry faces,
Something should come in troth from sales of places.
Say, what the tax thy brain will next provide?
Alas! why not attack the human hide?
Lord, Lord! how much it must the nation aid!
Folks may be scalp'd with safety—why not flay'd?
'Tis verily a shame—a crying sin,
The world should bear about a useless skin;
What's worse, that skins should in the grave be laid,
So beautiful an article of trade.
Think of the spatterdashes, boots and shoes;
And think thou of the millions people use:
Such, form'd from human hides, would brave the weather,
And save such quantities of foreign leather.
And rival all the cows and calves of Spain.
Ask'st thou what other use our hides could boast?
Books may be bound, my friend—the letter'd host:
Cases of conscience, Buller's skin should bind;
Good folios upon mercy to mankind:
Glo'ster's, a book on wedlock's sweet tranquillity;
His sister Cumberland's, upon humility:
Brudenell's, on beauty, witty conversation,
On manners, music, ratiocination:
Hawk'sb'ry, on fair, disinterested deeds:
Essays on manliness, the skin of Leeds:
Richmond's on courage; modesty, Dundas's;
State-sycophants, a volume upon asses:
The ---'s, on elocution, hay and hogs,
Corn, politics, tithes, civil-list, and logs:
The ---'s, on di'monds, pearls, and custom-dues,
Old gowns, old petticoats, old hose, old shoes;
Good nature, state-extravagancy-lopping,
Pins, mantua-makers, milliners, and shopping:
To close th' illustrious list, and sounding line,
On delegates, reform, and powder, thine.
At Wimbledon arose the golden dream;
Where thou, and honest Rumbold-hunting Harry,
Project, and re-project, and oft miscarry?
Two graziers, cheap'ning hogs to fill your styes;
Two spiders, weaving lines for simple flies.
Rich spot! whence millions take their easy wing,
To bribe an emp'ror, and refresh a king ;
Where, blest, ye bumper it in England's cause,
Belch Opposition's fall, and hiccup laws;
With equal spirit, where each work succeeds,
A bottle now, and now a nation bleeds.
The spring-tide of thy fortune ebbs apace.
When reputation sickens, toil is vain—
No nostrum gives the bloom of health again!
No more (so grateful to the sense) a rose,
It drops, a putrid carcass, to the crows.
I mark the pompous column of thy fame,
Fast crumbling to the dust from whence it came;
And see thy thund'ring day in silence close,
While Wisdom triumphs o'er the pale repose.
Too much thou courtest Danger's dizzy height;
The treach'rous sands may sink beneath thy feet—
Thy kite, that reeling, shifting, mounts the storm,
May force Heav'n's flash upon thy feeble form!
Think not I wish with Satire's blade to play,
And, charm'd with man's disgraces, selfish say,
‘Let folly root in ministers and kings—
While rank and thick like aconite it springs,
Delighted on the precious load I look,
And hail a harvest for the muse's hook.’
Let Mercy melt the mill-stone of thy heart .
And change a kingdom's curses for a smile!
Yet, if resolv'd to worry wigs and hair,
And, Herod-like, not little children spare,
Say (for methinks the land has much to dread)
How long in safety may we wear the head?
Enough our necks have bow'd beneath the yoke;
Enough our sides have felt the goad and stroke;
Then cease to make, by further irritation,
Our patience the sole rock of thy salvation.
Poor Public Credit founder'd!—lame, quite lame—
Rapacity too oft extends her jaw,
Fresh whets her fang, and points her iron claw!
The arm of Vengeance drops not lightly down;
Not quite a feather on a culprit's crown—
Profusion vilely foster'd—Honour dead;
Resentment's eye looks dangerously red.
Believe me, Pitt, not yet is thine the realm,
Not thine the ship, because thou hold'st the helm:
Such is the voice of Truth!—perhaps it wounds—
Friend to thyself and England, heed the sounds;
Sounds to alarm—and let not, though severe,
The breath of Folly brush them from thine ear.
Vain is rough bluster—vainly dar'st thou say,
‘Poh! danger ! I have met its trying day’—
For, ah! too often, boastful of his wars,
Rank Cowardice assumes the mien of Mars.
Beholds a tempest in the distant sky;
Dull though thy tympanum, her nicer ear
Catches a thunder-growl from yonder sphere;
A cloud of vengeance, black with mortal doom;
But dares not name the melancholy form,
Whom Guilt has mark'd the victim of the storm.
The meagre spectre, on a S---'s eyes,
And should the groan of Britain's bleeding wound
Press on the shrinking ear—a killing sound;
Be whistles blown, and bells of children rung;
The fav'rite little farthing rush-light sung;
Let dancing-dogs, delighting, form their ball,
Whips crash, and grinding hurdy-gurdies squall;
While crown'd with chimney-sweepers on their way,
In deep-ton'd unisons the asses bray;
Such as at Frogmore , form'd to please a pair,
The true sublime of monarchs, a Dutch fair!
And as again, on Frogmore's happy green,
More shows shall gladden our good king and queen ;
Suppose Dundas and thou (a princely sport)
Play some farce character to charm the court,
And boldly run the gauntlope through a mob,
That execrates, that damns the powder job;
Where barbers, hair-dressers, perfumers, throng,
To hoot and hustle as ye course along;
Dash with their powder-bags your brains about,
With many a kick, and scoff, and grunt, and shout;
Each face with tallow and with dripping smear;
And with hot pincers tweak each nose and ear!
Lo! should it miss the royal approbation,
I'll answer for the plaudit of the nation.
With treason, treason, fill a royal ear.
Are pleasant, taking, nay, instructive things:
Yet some there are, who relish not the sport,
That flutter in the sunshine of a court;
Who, fearful song might mar their high ambition,
Loose the gaunt dogs of state, and bawl ‘Sedition!’
Such is the laudable moderation of this second Sir John Cutler, or Mr. Elwes, that he allows himself and lady at and after dinner no more than this little measure of wine! A fine example for the sons of dissipation! It has been supposed that the œconomical Judge has surpassed the famous miracle of the loaves and fishes, by making one bottle of wine serve for double the number of souls, or rather bodies, that have come with open mouths to Lincoln's-Inn-Fields. I do not think they have gone away so well satisfied.
Such is the univeral disgust at the powder-tax, that many thousands of the male sex have already sacrificed their favourite curls, to disappoint the rapacity of a minister.
Here I must candidly condemn a part of the people, whose cause, in the affair of hair-powder, I am so pathetically pleading. ‘Such (says the Windsor Chronicle) was the unparalleled effrontery of the inhabitants of Brentford, during the late unexampled frost, when they should have thought of nothing but dying, that those very people, not worth a groat, starving, shivering, and in rags, dared to proceed in a body, amidst the dead silence of the night, with their unhallowed feet, into the sacred gardens of Richmond and Kew; where they wickedly, inhumanly, and feloniously, cut down and maimed a number of trees, many of which they had the impudence to carry away to their own scrub chimneys, to warm their own vile bones, because, forsooth, certain great people happened fortunately to be in possession of enormous quantities of wood, during the great scarcity, and chose not to give it away in idle charity, nor sell it at the then current price, which had every probability of mounting higher: as though they had not an equal right to turn a penny in an honest way, with any coal-shed man in the village of Brentford. But behold how they behaved on this insulting, provoking, stealing, and trying occasion! So far from advertising handsome rewards for discovering the rogues, and bringing them to justice; such was their clemency, that they ordered the affair to be hushed up, and buried in perpetual oblivion!!!’
The famous diamond, so infamously obtained by Mr. R.; constituting a curious piece of Asiatic history.
I am really afraid to touch upon this ticklish topic. The late procession of imperial presents from the India-House to ------ was attended by a dirty Custom-House-officer; but for what reason the L--- of the T--- can best explain. It has been rumoured, and believed, that a small order from a certain quarter can overpower an act of Parliament; which, if true, maketh a second edition of little David knocking down the great Giant of Gath.
Notwithstanding her m---'s immense property, in one thing and another, she possesses the most œconomical circumspection: witness the following pretty tale.— A Miss J*n*r, of Gloucestershire, with her mother, viewing the Palace of St. James's, and entering her M---'s dressing-room, where a cushion full of pins lay on her toilette, the young lady expressed a strong desire for having one of the q---'s pins to carry into the country, and was reaching out her hand to take one; when the attendant, struck with a sudden horror, caught her arm, and told her it was impossible to be granted, as her M--- would certainly find it out.— ‘D'ye think I might change a pin?’ sighed the young lady, with anxiety. ‘Miss,’ replied the attendant, after some consideration, ‘it is probable her M--- may not find that out, but I'll run the risk.’
As one of the great supporters of morality, for such every muse should be, I have several times had it in contemplation to give this dame a public rap on the knuckles for certain parsimony to some of the poor disbanded and faithful servants of her household, after the death of her simple duke. The tale however is too full of matter for a solitary note, and may, some time or other, give importance to an ode.
His most honourable majesty, our late good and firm ally, the King of Prussia, like the gentlemen of the bar, requires very often a refresher before his cannon can plead.
To avoid an ambiguity here (for I have been questioned about it), I mean the sweet-smelling rose of the fields, not Mr. George Rose, of the Treasury.
I principally allude in this place to the political character of this statesman, which is rather marked with severity. As for the domestic, it possesses some traits belonging to the Jolly God. Even Parliament last year saw him enter the walls of St. Stephen, arm in arm with his dear colleague and constant companion honest Harry Dundas; both fortunately conducted to the Treasury Bench without a fall, by the boozing reeling deity, where ‘Palinurus nodded at the helm.’
| The Works of Peter Pindar [i.e. John Wolcot] | |