those horrid Bow-Street people (for Rodney)

Sir,

I am a lady who, no matter whether from illness or age, have lost the flowing ringlets that once played in graceful negligence around my neck. I have lost them in reality, but only in reality – for, thanks to the perfection to which our peruke-makers have carried their delightful art, I can still in appearance, vie with the flaunting misses who have not yet met so unkind a fortune in this respect as myself. I intreat your permission to ask, through the medium of the Morning Chronicle, the advice of some of your correspondents, on the dilemma in which a late circumstance has placed us. You are to know, sir, that I am come to town but for a few days, and am dying to see the inside of Covent Garden Theatre; but, before I venture there, I must beg to be informed, in wigs of what colours, how many curls, &c. a lady may risk her presence at that place, without danger of being taken out by these horrid Bow-Street people. That I may not be in such jeopardy, from wearing an illegal wig, or be debarred the pleasure of giving my friends in the country a description of the splendid edifice, I intreat an early answer from some of your polite correspondents; and trust that you will excuse the intrusion, which proceeds from the extreme anxiety of

Your obedient servant,
Kate Caxon

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