I AM no alarmist, nor do I exercise prophetic powers, yet were I not to raise a warning voice at this momentous crisis, I should deem myself criminally negligent in discharging my duty to my fellow men. Sir, a straw will show in which direction the wind sets: so will a single hair. It is a remarkable fact that the desire for female enfranchisement, which is now so widely prevalent, dates from the introduction of the chignon. Ver. Sap. Beauty and fashion are reciprocally bound by capillary ties. They have formed a League, whose motto is “United we conquer.”

Sir, I cannot help feeling—call it, if you please, a pardonable weakness—overshadowed by the mystic symbol above alluded to. It seems by its appalling magnitude, deliberately designed to make those who are shut out from its lofty privileges, painfully conscious of their manly insignificance. In plain language, it tells us miserable male creatures—to hide our diminished heads. Here then is a casus belli, and on behalf of the weaker sex I claim belligerent rights. It is terrible to think of reverting to the perukes of our ancestors, but, Sir, this is a matter affecting the supremacy of the crown. If one section of society will persist in throwing out bastions and horn-works, another section (forming the complement of the fashionable circle) is justified in restoring the round towers to which our great grandsires so tena ciously clung. Sooner or later, Sir, up to the citadel of Thought we shall be compelled in self-defence to drag that monster artillery which the historical Wigs of Louis QUATORZE are so well adapted to supply. I am not a peace man at any price, and therefore should not hesitate, if put on my mettle, to employ even powder to render our common dignity unapproachable and secure.

Sir, these are my sentiments, and in taking up this hostile position, I look with confidence to your powerful columns for support. Nobsworth.

Guy Frizzle.

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Last modified 30 May 2020