Fun: a parodi-tragi-comical satire: As it was to have been perform'd at the Castle-Tavern, Pater-Noster-Row, on Thursday, February 13, 1752, but suppressed, by a special order from the Lord-Mayor ...

Table of contents

- [titlepage]

- ADVERTISEMENT.

- PREFACE.

- PROLOGUE.

- Persons of the DRAMA.

- SCENE I. Discovers Three Witches.

- SCENE II. A Coffee-House, Covent-Garden.

- SCENE III. Doctor Mountain, reading a Paper.

- SCENE IV. The Brazen Heap. A Specimen of TRUE ORATORY.

- SCENE V.

- SCENE VI.

- SCENE VII.

- SCENE VIII. Drawcansir soulus—reading at a Table.

FUN.

FINIS.

FUN: A Parodi-tragi-comical SATIRE.

As it was to have been perform'd at the Castle-Tavern, Pater-noster-Row, ON THURSDAY, FEBRUARY 13, 1752, BUT Suppressed, BY A Special ORDER from the LORD-MAYOR and COURT of ALDERMEN.

LONDON: Sold by F. STAMPER in Pope's-head Alley, Cornhill; and by all other Booksellers.

MDCCLII.

[Price One Shilling.]

ADVERTISEMENT.

THE Publication of this Piece would not have been so long delay'd, but for the Expectation of performing it, as at first intended; which however, by the same indefatigable Opposition, was still frustrated.

PREFACE.

THE Father of the following little Offspring, being very well convinc'd of the natural Weakness of this his puny Child, did never intend to trust it abroad without the LEADING STRINGS of Action; had not the Fear of those, who, like Cowards, are afraid of their own Shadows, assiduously oppos'd the Representation; being terribly apprehensive that the Strength of a poor Baby Monosyllable might affect the Magnanimity of a Drawcansir.—Such is the Force of Self-Conviction!—But as this Infant is oblig'd to walk alone, by many who are resolv'd on it's Appearance, it's Father most humbly desires the good-natur'd Town will not tumble the little Creature into the Dirt; but that they will help it forward over the Kennels of Detraction; and, in Compassion to the Tenderness of it's Age, keep the barking Curs, the Critics, at a Distance.— And to excite them to this Benevolence, here follow the Memoirs of the cruel and affecting Period of its Birth, &c.

This Piece of Fun, Son to the Father, and Grandson to the Grandfather of the same Name, was conceiv'd, in a Fit of Laughter, about the 8th of February, in the Year 1752. —His Mother advanc'd happily in her Pregnancy, and there were great Hopes of a fine Offspring; but, unhappily, just before the Time of her Delivery, Measures were taken, by a certain great Man, to make her miscarry; excited, as some say, to this Piece of Barbarity, by an old Woman's Prophesy which he keeps by him (cast in leaden Characters) in a Chest of Brass secured, like the fortunate Tickets of a Lottery, by seven Locks: And of which Prophesy the following is a Transcript:

When Fun

Has a Son

Then Drawcansir's Race is run.

However childish and ridiculous it may seem for a Man to be affected with such idle Stuff as this, it is not unprecedented or extravagantly strange; since Tradition tells us, that Saturn, Father of JUPITER, the Great Grandfather of Cyrus, and many other august Personages, were equally mov'd, by such Instigations, to much the same Absurdities.

Notwithstanding, however, all such malignant Measures were taken, the full Time of Pregnancy advanc'd, and the Child was hourly expected; when a positive Order came down, that Mrs. FUN, who then lay at the Castle-Tavern, Pater-noster-Row, must not be brought to-bed within the Walls, lest the Child, which was suspected to be a Bastard, should bring a Scandal on the Dignity and Chastity of the City. Upon this, even while the Lady lay crying out, the Father waited on the chief Personage of the Liberties, with Remonstrances, that the Child was very honestly got, and that none but very creditable People were at the Labour; complaining, at the same Time, that the same Privilege had been permitted an old Woman of a very bad Character, one Mother Midnight, who had often practis'd her Profession there, tho' it was now denied others. —'Twas all in vain: The Gentleman, though he behav'd with a great deal of Politeness and Good-manners, was so prepossess'd against the whole Family of FUN, which had been falsely represented to him as of no Character or Reputation, that he not only forbid the Men Midwives doing their Duty, but sent others to see his Orders duly executed.—What could now be done?—Mrs. FUN was, in the midst of her Travail, remov'd; and, nobody daring to give her Assistance, her poor Offspring almost perished in the Birth. But Nature had been liberal, the Stamina were sound, and branched out for Life. 'Tis true, indeed, its Features were so defac'd, that the strong Likeness in them was almost lost; and a Weakness, which will be lasting as it's Life, is the Consequence of the Usage it then met with.—If, after all, then, it should fail of answering those Expectations the Town had of it, in Embrio; it will undoubtedly be thought, there is Reason enough to excuse all the Imperfections and Failings it is unhappily afflicted with; since these are so far from being its Faults, that they are Misfortunes which must infallibly engage the Protection of every candid, tender-hearted, christian Reader!

PROLOGUE.

AS dying Sinners hope to get to Heav'n,

And beg and pray to have their Crimes forgiv'n,

So I come here, with humble Supplication,

In Hopes you'll kindly save us from Damnation.

For you must know the whole of this Design,

The Plot, the Manner, Sentiment is mine.

'Tis true, we must confess, our motley Piece

Is not confin'd by Laws from Rome or Greece:

For I disdain old Aristotle's Rules,

That tie down Scriblers, limit none but Fools.

I dare beyond the Goal of Critics run,

What Order should confine the Works of FUN,

Whose Self I am?—And for your Information,

Hear my Birth, Parentage and Education:

My Sire was, thirty Years ago, in Vogue;

His Name was WIT, an arch, diverting Rogue;

My Mother's Name was HUMOUR, low and poor,

Reduc'd for Want sometimes to play the Whore.

Who best repaid what she was pleas'd to grant,

Was RIBALDRY, her favourite Gallant.

Now, little Delicacy dwelt in either,

For, as I'm told, they all Three lay together.

Soon after I was born, their darling Son,

A Bastard Compound he!—was christen'd FUN.

Laughter, a merry Jade, was chose my Nurse;

Whose Birth was mean, but Education worse;

Betimes she taught me to distort the Face,

And sneer at ev'ry Thing but want of Grace;

At twelve Years old she sent me first to School;

My Tutor, Ignorance, a Coxcomb and a Fool.

Little I learn'd 'tis true, but ev'ry Day

The Truant play'd, at length ran quite away.

Proud of my Freedom, rambling up and down,

Folly, a Jilt that ruins half the Town,

Spreading those Arms which ev'ry Fool admires,

Caught me to satisfy her loose Desires.

The Task, tho' hard, I follow'd with Delight;

Sometimes most wisely wrong, and sometimes blindly right;

Above all Order, or the vain Pretence

Of Learning, Genius, Taste or Common Sense.

Who then will censure what may here be done?

What WIT will criticise a PIECE OF FUN?

Persons of the DRAMA.

MEN.

- Sir ALEXANDER DRAWCANSIR, Kt.

- Dr. MOUNTAIN.

- Sir NACKADIL TRUNNION, Kt.

- 'Squire ANTONY.

- BULLYBOY.

- Lord RIOT.

- ORATOR, alias the BRAZEN HEAD.

WOMEN.

- ROXANA TERMAGANT.

- PEG BRINDLE.

- Four Witches.

- Drawer, Ghost, THIEF, JUSTICE, Mob and Attendants.

SCENE I. Discovers Three Witches.

Enter HECATE.

First Witch.

HOW now Hecate? You seem pleas'd.

Hec.

Have I not Reason? Drawcansir is ours:

He yields again to Dulness' magic Powers.

He was indeed a wayward Son,

Rejecting Opiate and Pun;

But now again he bears a Part,

In nodding Dulness' Art:

Therefore let us, with some most powerful Charm,

Timely prevent our future Harm;

That never from us he relapse again:

For in the Corner of his Brain,

There hangs a vap'rous drop of Wit,—

Then mar it e'er it comes to Light,

And, by the Strength of vain Illusion,

Draw him on to his Confusion.

Make him spurn Wisdom, Wit and Sense,

Retailing Humour out for Pence,

For you all know that Vanity,

Is Authors' chiefest Enemy.

[Call without.

Hark! I am call'd—my Mistress Dulness see

Sits in a foggy Cloud, and waits for me.

1st Witch.

What are we?

2d Witch.

Witches Three.

3d Witch.

Bound to what?

1st Witch.

Boil the Pot.

Around, around to go;

Ingredients in to throw,

To form a Charm that ever shall remain;

Nor let Drawcansir rise to Wit again.

2d Witch.

We'll do't.

3d Witch.

We will.

1st Witch.

Then let us raise it up—Thrice to thine.

2d Witch.

Thrice to mine.

3d Witch.

And thrice again to make up Nine—

Peace the Cauldron's come

[Cauldron rises.

1st Witch.

Let us then around it sing,

Like Elves and Fairies in a Ring.

2d Witch.

Agreed.

3d Witch.

Agreed.

1st Witch. (Sings)

SONG.

Whene'er Dulness annoys,

We all should rejoice in Chorus;

The Hour of the Time's before us

We all should rejoice, rejoice,

While around we go.

Let the Scriblers write like Asses,

Our Fire their Fire surpasses,

While our Charm compleat doth grow.

DA CAPO.

2d Witch.

With all the Speed we may,

When Dulness calls, we post away.

Sometimes upon the Rope we dance;

Or Capers cut, first cut in France;

Sometimes unto the Salt-box play,

Or to the Jews-harp dance away,

To some old Saw or bardish Rhime

With the Midwise and old Time.

1st Witch.

Now like Italian Cats we shew,

And, instead of Music, mew;

Where the carping Critics come,

And Blockheads keep their drowsy Hum:

Or, if with none of these we do't,

We dance to th' Echoes of the Foot.

3d Witch.

But 'tis Time the Charm begin,

Throw your poisonous Compounds in.

1st Witch.

Pen of Critic pointed small,

Whittled sharp and dipt in Gall,

Full of swelt'ring Envy fraught,

Boil thou first i'th' charmed Pot.

All.

Double, double, Toil and Trouble,

Fire burn and Cauldron bubble.

2d Witch.

Wetted with my Spittle fasting,

Here is all the Sense of Pasquin.

3d Witch.

Here what Puppets learn'd to squeak.

1st Witch.

Here the Tongue that made them speak.

2d Witch.

Here the Virtue of Pamela.

3d Witch.

Here Clarissa.

1st Witch.

Here Cornelia.

2d Witch.

Virgin from Baudery unmask'd.

3d Witch.

Wedding-day—The Banns unask'd.

1st Witch.

O—stand aside, and let me come,

Here, here's the Body of Tom Thumb;

For a Charm of powerful Trouble,

In the Broth of Dulness bubble.

All.

Around, around, around about,

Dulness come running in, all Wit keep out.

1st Witch.

Here a Goose-quill.

2d Witch.

Paper.

3d Witch.

Ink.

1st Witch.

Brains that ne'er were known to think.

2d Witch.

Poet's Mark wherewith Men brand 'em.

3d Witch.

Shot in vain, thrown out at Random.

1st Witch.

Valet.

2d Witch.

Loveill.

3d Witch.

And Creole.

All.

Dead and damn'd without a Soul.

1st Witch.

With Laughter that can never tickle,

Swell it up—Oh! here is Pickle.

2d Witch.

Here I've got within my Budget,

A Rosciad and the Brains of Touchit.

1st Witch.

Here a poor Birth-strangled Babe,

Ditch-deliver'd by a Drab;

Child of Poverty and Spleen,

Mother Midnight's Magazine.

3d Witch.

To make it stronger it is prudent.

1st Witch.

Here's the Kapelion.

3d Witch.

Here the Student.

2d Witch.

Here! here our favorite Delight.

3d Witch.

What is't?

2d Witch.

A Journal Jacobite.

1st Witch.

To add to these and make a pois'nous Stench,

Here take 4 Ounces of a noseless Wench.

2d Witch.

Add the Learning of a Blood,

Then the Charm is firm and good.

1st Witch.

By the Noise I hear of Puns,

Sure Drawcansir this Way runs—

At the Gate enter strait.

Enter Drawcansir.

Dr.

How now? Ye stupid, dull and tire some Hags,

Ye Imps of Dullness, —What is it you do?

All.

A Deed without a Name.

Dr.

I conjure ye, by that which you profess,

Howe'er you come to know it, —answer me.

Tho' you untie Ignorance and Dulness too,

Tho' their muddy Waves confound and swallow up

All Taste and Common-Sense, tho' the Treasure

Of Wit and Genius tumble all together,

Even 'till Nonsense sicken;—answer me.

1st Witch.

Speak, Drawcansir.

2d Witch.

Demand.

3d Witch.

We'll answer.

Dr.

Have you not rais'd within me tow'ring Hopes

That I alone should mount the Throne of Wit,

That I alone should reign the Umpire there?

Have not you often flatter'd me, that I,

Above the carping Critics am exalted;

And as the Barking-dogs near Hoxton shew,

I like the Moon am high as they are low;

And yet my Mind forebodes—it can't be true.

I am not safe, while yet the Town has Sense;

I am not safe, for that malicious Town,

As fast as I get up, still pulls me down.

3d Witch.

Thou shal't be satisfied.

See'st thou that Apparition?

Dr.

Ah! the Ghost of Vinegar! my Soul turns sow'r within me—'tis gone—now I am an Hercules again. A Second! Trotplaid! ah! shake not thy goary Locks at me, thou wert a Jacobite—A Third and like the former—Filthy Hags—why do you shew me this?—Another! I'll see no more.

1st Witch.

It speaks.

Ghost.

Drawcansir—Drawcansir—Drawcansir.

Dr.

Oh were I deaf, I'd hear thee.

Gh.

Be vain, be insolent, and take no Care,

Who writes, who rails, or who the Critics are:

Drawcansir never shall be vanquish'd, 'till

To fight against him, rise a mighty Hill;

'Till the fierce Lion leaves the Afric Shores,

And in a Coffee-house unregarded roars,

'Till Sexes change, and then thy Arm oppose.

Hark, hark what Noise?—Yes, 'tis—the Cock doth crow,

My Time is spent—your Servant—I must go.

[Ghost exit.

Dr.

Sweet Boadments! good! fly Fear unto the Winds,

Drawcansir shall e'er maintain his mighty Name;

For will the Lion ever grow so tame,

As not to frighten Critics from Bohea,

Can Sexes change, or Mountains fight with me;

I thank thee—yet I'd know. [Witches disappear:

Ha! vanish'd into Air—what—ho! without there.

Enter Servant.

S.

What is your Worship's Will?

Dr.

Saw you the wierd Sisters.

S.

No, my good Lord.

Dr.

It is enough—what Noise was that I heard?

S.

Three Messengers just now arriv'd, loaden

With heavy News—the Powers of Grub-street all

Are up in Arms, threat'ning Destruction

Upon Drawcansir's Head.

Dr.

Let them come on—

They come like Sacrifices in their Trim,

And to the blink-ey'd Maid of powerful Dulness,

All cold and lifeless will we offer them.

Bring me my Pen and Ink, my Sword and Shield,

My BACCO BOX, and onward to the Field.

[Exit.

SCENE II. A Coffee-House, Covent-Garden.

Sir Nackadil Trunnion, Squire Antony.

Sir N.

Antony—Antony—sit down and read the News papers—Boy, what are you gaping at? —Why the Lad's a Nizey I think—what do you stare at?

Ant.

Father, Father, do but look at that fine Gentleman there, all over Silver amost—why he's as fine again as I am—I warrant his Father must be a Lord.

Sir N.

A Lord! Antony—no—no; may be not a Parliament Man.

Ant.

No! why you told me Father, when you gi'n me a new Coat at your Election, that I was as fine as any Parliament Man's Son in the Nation.

Sir N.

Ay! ay!—well, well he may be a Lord's Son then, for aught I know;—or a Lord's Bastard may be—who knows?

Ant.

Ho! ho! who? So may I Father, I may be a Lord's Bastard too, for aught I know— neither you nor I know that, you know. Ha! ha! ha!

Sir N.

What do you make of your Mother then, you Dog, ha!

[Breaks bis Head with his Cane.

Ant.

O Lord! O Lord! O Lord!

Enter Bullyboy.

Bul.

What's the Matter, Gentlemen? What's the Matter?—Ha! Sir Nackadil Trunnion! I am very glad to see you.

Sir N.

I don't recollect, Sir, that—

Bul.

What have you forgot your Nephew— my Name is Bullyboy—I am the youngest Son of the Family of the Bloods.

Sir N.

God so—I beg your Pardon Kinsman —I had indeed almost forgot you—you are grown almost out of Knowlege since you came down to Tumbledown-hall—about five years ago, you was not much higher than this. I think —Humph—quite a Man! tho' I heard as much from your Mother—well I am very glad to see you—here Antony—this, Sir, is my Son Antony—come hold up your Head, and let's have none of your Snuffling—why how you stand sucking your Orange, as if you were going to be hang'd.

Bul.

Sir, your humble Servant, I am very proud to see you.

Ant.

Your Servant, Sir—I don't care how proud you are, not I.

[Aside.

Sir N.

Ay Sir, this Son Sir, I intend to make a great Man—I have brought him up to London with me for that Purpose.—You heard I suppose, I was chosen Member for our Borough, and that obliges me you know to attend the Parliament.

Bul.

Undoubtedly, Sir.

Sir N.

Now Sir, as hereafter, as things may happen and turn out, if so be, I should come to be at the Head of Affairs; I shall want, you know, a good clever Fellow, with a ready Wit, to write your—what do ye call 'em, Pamphlets and News-papers on my Side, when I want to carry a Point you know.—I am told your great Men have them always in Pay.—Now if I could bring my Son Antony to this, I could trust him better than any body else you know, and he might save me Money too.

Bul.

Right, Sir,

Ant.

I wont do't.

Sir N.

You wont, Sirrah?

Ant.

No, I wont.

Sir N.

Not assist your Father, Sirrah!—why wont you?

Ant.

'Cause I, wont.

Bul.

Oh Sir! but it is your Duty.

Ant.

What did he beat me for then?

Bul.

You must have offended him, I suppose very grossly.

Ant.

Not I—I only said I might be a Lord's Bastard for what I knew.—What Harm was there in that you know, when he said the same of you just before?

Bul.

Of me Sir!

Sir N.

As I did not then know you, Nephew, you know—

Bul.

O Lord Sir! I am not at all offended!

Ant.

Well then, why should Father be offended?

Bul.

Very true.

Ant.

Well then—Humph.

Bul. [Aside to Sir Nackadil.]

I'll tell you Sir Nackadil—my Cousin Antony has the Seeds of ready Wit in his Nature, and only wants a little good Instruction to fit him for the Task you intend him;—if you'll leave him to me, I'll engage myself to give you a good Account of him: —We have Academies here in Town, where he may learn to be a Wit, a Writer, and a Politician in a few Hours.

Sir N.

Indeed! well, I am glad to hear that, and as you are so happily related to him, I am satisfied you will use your utmost Endeavours for his Improvement.—Antony!

Ant.

Well, what do you say?

Sir N.

Come, be a good Boy, Sirrah, for the Future; I'll forgive you.

Ant.

With all my Heart, forget and forgive I say;—I never lov'd to bear Malice in my Life.

Sir N.

to Bul. Well Sir, I'll leave him entirely to your Experience, and shall be glad if you'll accompany him to my Lodgings;—Antony will give you Directions.—Antony, I shall leave you to keep your Cousin Company.

[Exit. Sir N.

Ant.

Cousin!—what are you my Cousin?

Bul.

Ay—my Heart.

Ant.

Cod, I took you to be some young Lord, you are so woundy fine.

Bul.

O Cousin Antony, if you stay in Town and keep Company with us Bloods, you must leave off that Suit, and lose these lanky Locks of yours.

Ant.

Bloods! Cousin, why what are they? Bloods! Bloods!

Bul.

Why Sir, I have the Honour to be a Blood.

Ant.

O Cod! I should like to be such another as you very well;—why you look amost as well again as I do—tho', tho'f I say't, I'm a clever Fellow in the Main too.

Bul.

Oh! a very clever Fellow, and will be much cleverer if you'll be rul'd by me.

Ant.

Gaush, I'll do any Thing you bid me.

Bul.

Well then, you shall be a Blood:—In the first Place then, you must learn to hate that dry old Dog, that left us just now.

Ant.

What Father! Oh Cod! I learned that a good while ago.

Bul.

And then you must laugh at all he says to you.

Ant.

O gaush! but he'll break my Head for that tho'.

Bul.

Pho! pho! you must not mind that,— if he does, you must laugh at him again.

Ant.

So I will, now I think on't, or suppose I break his Head too: Ha!—hang me if I don't think I could beat him.

Bul.

Bravo! that will do.—And then you must be witty upon ev'ry body.

Ant.

What, cut Jokes upon 'em, ha!—oh! I am a Dab at that.

Bul.

Ay Sir, but your Country Jokes are nothing, —you must be witty the right Way, or else you're Nobody;—you must learn to bully, pull People by the Nose, trip up their Heels, break their Heads, and so forth.

Ant.

Ay, but then they must not be so big as I.

Bul.

No, no, you must always take Care of that—but you may hum any body safely.

Ant.

Hum—ah! pray what's that?

Bul.

Why; suppose now I was to meet your Father:—I go up to him, and, with a very serious Countenance, say, Lord Sir, I wonder you can seem so unconcern'd, —do you know that your Son Antony is just now drop'd down dead in an Apoplectick Fit?—Upon my Honour 'tis true. —So, putting him into the utmost Consternation, go away, and laugh at the old Dog.

Ant.

Cod, this is good Fun enough, and then he'd run home frighted out of his Wits, and find it all a Joke:—Ha! ha! gaush I like that. —And will this make me a Blood?

Bul.

O Lord Sir, no! these are but half the Qualifications. You must learn Humour—

Ant.

O Sir, I am of a very good Humour already.

Bul.

Oh! that you must break yourself of— and learn to box, talk Baudy, roar and look big.

Ant.

Oh! I can roar and look big—you shall see now.

Bul.

O Lord Sir! that will never do—This Sir, is the way.

[Swears loud and affectedly.

Ant.

O Lord! O Lord!

Bul.

And then to be truly humorous, you must steal Trinkets and Pocket-books from the Ladies, which you are to keep for the Jest's sake;— then Sir, you are to bilk Taverns, —tumble the Waiters down Stairs, —break all the Glasses in your Way, —sally into the Street, —take all the young Women you meet for Whores, and kick the old ones into the Kennel, —knock down the Watch, —lie all Night in Covent-garden Round-house, —be carried before the Justice, where you have nothing to do but to prove your Father a Gentleman, and the old Dog his Worship will stand by you in abusing all the World.—This, my Boy, is true Humour.—You must also be a Critic.

Ant.

A Critic! ha! that's something harder still—is'nt.

Bul.

No Sir, nothing easier—you can read, I suppose.

Ant.

O yes, I can read.

Bul.

Ay, well, but that's not very material,— if you can do any thing more than tell your Letters it will be sufficient.

Ant.

My Letters! oh! I could tell my Letters at 4 Years old.

Bul.

That's more than some Critics can do at thirty.

Ant.

And then I can write very well, and talk Latin:—Quid agis? What are you doing?— Repeto mecum, I am repeating by myself. Quid repetis.

Bul.

Faith, my Boy, you are a better Scholar than half the Critics at Sam's, George's; or the Bedford.—But this is not much to the Purpose, Sir, you may criticise upon Authors very well, without ever reading, or even being able to read, them at all.

Ant.

Ah! like enough, —criticise, —ah.

Bul.

Ay, that's no more than this, Sir, —you must affect to have read every thing.—Then you must frequent all the Coffee-houses where Wit is pretended to; and whenever a Performance is mention'd you must stand thus, and cry with an Air of Disdain;— Oh Sir, Stuff Sir, Damnation Stuff Sir, stupid Stuff by G—d, —the Author's an Ass, damme.

Ant.

Ah!

Bul.

And then at the Appearance of a new Piece upon the Stage, you are to go, because ev'ry body does—Before the Curtain rises, you put the House in a Riot, and afterwards you must groan and cry Augh, off, no more, no more, Damnation low!—Oh, and then Sir, you must whip such a Machine as this out of your Pocket, and—

[Whiststles with a Cat-call.

Ant.

Ho! ho! ho! well, that's well enough, —let me try.—Damnation low!— [Whistles.] Goles, I believe I shall soon learn,— Well, and will this make me a Blood like you, ha!

Bul.

This is all the Instruction you will require, the rest will come easily of itself.

Ant.

Will it?—Then I'll be a Blood, damme.

Bul.

Well, you'll remember what I have told you, and I'll see you again in the Afternoon.— Here's an Acquaintance of mine coming, that I shall want to talk with.

Ant.

Well, well, I won't tell any body what you say.

Bul.

No Sir, you must leave me.

Ant.

But I'll keep this.

Bul.

Ay, ay, take it with you to practice.

Ant.

So I will.—Damnation low.

[Goes out whistling with a Cat-call.

Bul.

Ha! ha! ha! high Humbug! ha! ha! ha!

Enter Waiter.

W.

Sir, a Porter has brought this for your Honour.

Bul.

A Letter from Jack Riot?

[Breaks it open and reads:

Damme Jack, we had high Hum last Night at Mother Brindles, — Bitch Peg, damnation saucy, —knock'd up a Dust and play'd Hell;—you'll come to George's, — a Mob of us going to see Blood Henley, and Poor Nell, Justice to be bam'd, and the Doctor in fine Pickle, — dam my Blood.

JACK RIOT.

Bul.

Have among you, my Boys.

[Exit.

SCENE III. Doctor Mountain, reading a Paper.

The Covent-garden Journal! Death and Hell!

This, this will ruin my best labour'd Scheme.

Two Stars keep not their Course in one same Sphere,

Nor can one Town e'er brook the double Reign

Of an Inspector and a Censor too.

I hate Drawcansir; for, on single Sheets

He wants to do my Office; and beside

His Works are read, while mine neglected die.

This like a pois'nous Mineral gnaws my Inwards,

And nothing can or shall content my Soul,

'Till I am even'd with him—let me see

To keep my Place, and yet plume up my Pride—

How? How?—Oh! he has late atchiev'd Amelia;

A Maid that parallels Description and wild Fame,

One that excels the Quirks of blazoning Pens:

Suppose I tell him she's upon the Town,

A common Prostitute despis'd by all,

She wants a Nose, and that's a smooth Dispose

To make her be suspected.—Now Drawcansir

Is easily abus'd by Vanity,

And will as tenderly be led by the Nose

As Asses are—'twill do—but see he comes.

Enter Drawcansir.

Dr.

It was a false Alarm—Fast in their Tents

Sleep on the Powers of Grub-street, scarce awoke

By Poverty or Fear—I'll therefore to my Love—

Excellent Wench! Perdition catch my Soul

But I do love her, and when I do not,

Chaos is come again—Oh my Amelia!

Moun.

Ah! didst thou name Amelia!

Dr.

Why? Wherefore should I hot, with Raptures name her?

Moun.

Here kneel thou down and breathe a solemn Vow,

Ne'er to own that deceitful Fair again:

For she has undone thee, Drawcansir; she has ruin'd thee.

Dr.

Dost thou join Ruin with Amelia's Name?

Doth she not come replete with Wealth and Honour?

Moun.

O no Drawcansir! she has robb'd thy Name

Of that high Rank and Lustre which it boasted;

Has level'd thee with Men of common Fame,

Has made thee a Picture for the Hand of Scorn

To point her slow and moving Finger at.

There's not a Boy, or Porter in the Streets,

But casts the base Amelia in thy Teeth.

For she has been a Prostitute to all,

'Till ev'n the Rubbish of the Town are sicken'd.

Dr.

Ha! Villain! Miscreant! what is that you say?

Learn to restrain the Licence of your Speech;

For, mark me, Sir, I will not have her Name Profan'd.

Moun.

It is the Curse of Fools to be secure,

And that be thine—Dream on, nor think upon

The Vengeance till thou feel'st it, for e'er long

Thou wilt be damn'd.

Dr.

—Damn'd for Amelia!

Is she not fair as Painting can express,

Or Fancy form! eternal Excellence

Dwells in her Mind, and sits upon her Tongue.

Be damn'd for her!

Moun.

Thou wilt be damn'd and hiss'd about the Town,

Branded a Fool, a Scribler, Idiot—

Dr.

Ha!

Learn thus Obedience—

[Strikes him.

Moun.

—Ha! a Blow! thou'st us'd

Me well— this to thy Heart—

Dr.

— And this to thine.

[They sight.

Moun.

By Heav'n my Sword has lost its usual Point!

Dr.

And so has mine—suppose we make it up,

And bam the Town—you own your Pow'r subdued,

And both of us will flourish—

Moun.

Ha! base-born Tike!

Would'st thou with venal Trash pollute my Fame?

Know I disdain thine Offer—

Dr.

Then thus thou Villain will I be reveng'd.

Moun.

And I—

[They go out fighting.

SCENE IV. The Brazen Heap.
A Specimen of TRUE ORATORY.

Old Women the Pests of the Creation—what constitutes them? Ignorance and a College Education —University itself an old Woman — Want of Impudence want of Sense— no Man beside myself e'er dar'd to say so—Nonsense —Puns—Quibbles—Conundrums —Smart Sayings—St. Paul's Church-yard and, Grub-street, the same Place—Puffs— Horses, the Consumers of Oats, gone to draw the Asses to Mother Midnight's Oratory—long Ears best to taste the Music of the Salt-box— In my humble Opinion they are got on the wrong Side of the Post there—Mary Midnight not herself—See the Old Woman's Dunciad—what signifies her pretending to stand up for her own Existence? She don't exist at all—I can prove it.—

Roxana Termagant, an old Apple Woman, who is she? Who's afraid? Not I—I don't screen myself under Petticoats—none but Fools and Villains oppose Justice.—Who's a Favourite at Court?—I am—they can't persuade me to be a Bishop for all that—Subsidies subside—Who's King then?—I shall write my own Memoirs soon—or set up a Dailypaper —the Clare-market Journal—who'll smoke then?—Protestants—who?—Pope a Pop—who says so?—No honest Man— I am an honest Man—Nobody'l deny that— whoever could prove me a Rogue?

It is necessary Women should have masculine Epithets when Men creep into Petticoats—why should not a Woman be call'd a Rogue, Rascal, Scoundrel, Villain—no Proof to the contrary— Sauce for Goose Sauce for a Gander—I say it— prove it—New Astronomy, no Astronomy; Gresham College an Old Woman—Man in the Moon set up there by Moses. Moses a much greater Man than Sir Isaac Newton—a Comet, what?— Neither a Catherine Pear nor a Cheshire Cheese.

Mother Midnight made Use of unfair Weapons —Salt-boxes! why does a Salt-box make her a better Man? Why I can get five Salt-boxes, and then I am five times as good as she—Solo on a Broom-stick—did you ever hear a Dog sing— Signor Canini from Bologna—come forth—now trust your Ears—

Here a Song by a Dog.

There's the masterly—the grand Coup— the ev'ry Thing— Music itself no more than Sound, Sound no more than Noise—I myself a good Musician—perhaps a little harsh to old Women or so—but come—Signor Canini renew the Strain—

Dog sings again.

—Conviction! now who's Conqueror? Epaminondas a great Man—I much like him —have been up long enough since I go down unconquer'd.—

SCENE V.

Justice Bobadil, Dr. Mountain, Riot, Sir Nackadil Trunnion, File, Mrs. Brindle.

Just.

Well, Sir, and what Business do you Follow? Your Name is File you say—do you never attend the Play-house Door, to see the Company safe out?

File.

No Sir.

Just.

I believe, Fellow, you don't strictly confine yourself to Truth—did you never see my Face before?

File.

No Sir—nor do I ever desire to see it again.

[Aside.

Just.

What's that you mutter about?— Who has any Thing to lay to the Charge of this Man?

Moun.

I, Sir—he assaulted and robbed me, as my Servants can witness.

Just.

Your Servants! Man—why, who are you, Fellow?

Moun.

Sir.

Just.

Sir, I say, Man—Fellow—who are you?

Moun.

I am call'd Mountain, Sir.

Just.

Mountain! alias Dunghill, ay—ay I know you—the vilest Fellow that ever wore a Head.—Well, and you have been robb'd, you say, by this Fellow:—Very well, I have done with you, —you may go down—Man— you are not to go away—do ye mind?—You shall be bound to prosecute, and if you stir out of the House I shall send a Warrant after you—Ay, for all you look so, —you're a Gentleman, and as such I use you.—

Moun.

Insolent Rascal!

[Exit.

Just.

To File—stand you aside, Fellow— I shall talk to you presently.— [Exit File] Well, Mistress, who are you? What have you to say?

Mrs. Br.

My Name is Brindle, if it please your Worship, —this young Gentleman here is a vile Fellow, and last Night broke into my Bed-chamber and ravish'd me, without giving me any thing for it;—which your Worship knows is a cruel Thing—when I have kept House in the Parish and paid Taxes this two Years— under your Worship's Protection and Favour.— But these young Fellows think they may do any Thing with any body, because, as how, we are civil and obliging to our Customers, and all that, if it please your Worship.—So therefore, I beg your Worship will make out a Mittimus and send him to Newgate, and have him scragg'd;— for indeed 'twas a Rape, if it please your Worship, and he ought to be hang'd as much as Penlez or Maclaine.

Just.

It is very well, Madam, we are acquainted with you, and consequently know you to be a creditable Woman—you shall have Justice done you.—Well, Sir, what do you say to this?

Riot.

Damme Sir!—a Bitch of Bitches— damn my Blood!

Just.

That, Sir, is nothing at all to the Purpose.

Riot.

I very seldom do talk to the Purpose, Sir — does your Worship always do that? That, Sir, is a damnation Failing of mine.

Just.

Sir, I shall make you speak to the Purpose.

Riot.

Will you by the Lord? Then you'll make me do more than body else can.

Just.

Sir, do you know that I am a Justice of Peace?

Riot.

Not I Sir, but I judge so by your Stupidity and Insolence.

Just.

Dare you affront a Magistrate, Sir, in his Office? Do you know, Sir, that I shall send you to the Gatehouse?

Riot.

Not I—damn my Blood! if I know any such thing.

Just.

Do you know, Sir, that it is in my Power to commit you to Newgate?

Riot.

Nay—nay, none of your Hum, my dear Barrister—but dismiss me—I must go to the Bedford—damme!

Just.

This must be some young Fellow of Quality by his Impudence; I must take Care how I act with him.—I'll try him a little further however—[Aside] Do you know, Sir, the Consequence of a Rape?

Riot.

The Consequence of a Rape, old Boy! —a Bastard, a Bastard, or two at most— but there's no Danger with Peg there; she'll breed nothing but the Consumption of Mercury.

Mrs. Br.

Indeed, if it please your Worship, I am as honest a Woman, in my Way, as ever broke Bread.

Riot.

Only in a damn'd bad Way, Peg— I'll tell you, Bobadil—your Worship would do well by putting her in a better, by sending her to Bridewell, damme!

Just.

It must be so—he's some Spawn of Quality—Pray, Sir, may I have the Honour to know who you are?

Riot.

As you begin to grow a little civil and intelligible, I'll tell you, Sir—I have the Honour to be Son and Heir to Lord Riot.

Just.

Lord Riot! let me see—whereabouts doth he lie?—In or out—Riot—Riot— out—ay; but then he's Brother to Bacon Hope that married Viscount Dangle's Neice, who was Sister to Viscount Favour, that married the Earl of Place's Daughter, who is Son to his Grace of Promise; and so it is possible I may offend somewhere, —[Aside.] Though I have not the Honour to know you, Sir, I shall nevertheless behave in this Affair according to Justice—Do you know, Mistress, the Consequence of bringing such a Charge as you were going, against the noble Gentleman?

Mrs. Br.

Indeed, if it please your Worship, he did—

Just.

No—Woman, he did not.

Mrs. Br.

I'll take my Oath.

Just.

Ha! Woman—do you contradict me? How do you say it was?

Mrs. Br.

—Why—if it please your Worship —I goes up Stairs—

Just.

How, Woman! I GOES up Stairs— false English, Woman, false English, and consequently what you say must be false—your Mittimus shall be made out immediately.

Riot.

No—no—damn the Bitch, I have abus'd her, let her go about her Business.

Just.

If 'twill oblige your Lordship that she be dismiss'd—or else it is proper these People be made Examples for the Good of Community— Woman, I believe you are a sad Creature; but as I have a great deal of the Milk of Human Kindness in my Nature; and am in Hopes you will amend, you may go.—I am very sorry I have given your Lordship so much Trouble; your Lordship is at Liberty whenever your Lordship pleases.

Riot.

Servile Dog! Ha! ha! ha!

Sir N.

Hold, Sir, a Moment, perhaps I have not such a Veneration for your Quality as his Worship; therefore I shall charge Mr. Constable with you for the Insult you put on me last Night in your Way to the Round-house, and expect you find Bail, before his Worship, to answer me in a proper Place—I attended you here this Morning for that very Purpose.

Riot.

Why, faith, thou art a very comical old Fellow, damme—Do you know now I don't remember I ever saw your Face before?

Sir N.

That may be, Sir—I must assist your Memory then.

Riot.

Why thou art an odd Bitch—what shall I say to this Fellow, Bobadil?

Just.

Oh! I'll deal with him for your Lordship presently—pray, Sir, who are you? What are you? Whence do ye come? As the Man can give no Account of himself, I shall send him to the Gatehouse, my Lord.

Sir N.

Me to the Gatehouse, Mr. Justice! do you know, Sir, that I am in the Commission of the Peace, and of the Quorum! and that I am Representative in Parliament?

Just.

How!

Sir N.

For the Borough of Muddletown.

Just.

I had like to have gone too far here.

[Aside.

Sir N.

Send Sir Nackadil Trunnion to the Gatehouse, indeed!

Just.

I beg Sir Nackadil Trunnion's Pardon in the most submissive Manner, but I hope a Mistake, arising from the many Deceptions People of the poorer, and consequently of the viler, Class put on us, will find an Excuse—And I hope also, the Error his Lordship might possibly, unknowingly, and I am confident unwillingly, committed, is not of such a Nature in itself, as to make either of you slight a Reconciliation. As nothing is more conducive to the Promotion of Justice and the Good of Community, than the perfect Amity of People of Power and Fortune, and which it is necessary they should preserve, in order that the lower Part of Mankind should meet with the Punishment due to their Offences—if you will do me the Honour, with his Lordship, to step into the next Room, a Moment, I will attempt to clear up this Affair, in which I am sure, as you are Men of Fortune, there is not, on either Side, any thing contrary to the nicest Points of Honour, Justice and Good-manners.

Sir N.

As you are so perfectly obliging, Sir, and seem to come to a right Understanding of Things, I will hear what you have to say to't.

Riot.

A dry troublesome old Bitch, this!— I believe I had better make it up with him, damn my Blood!—

SCENE VI.

Enter Roxana Termagant.

Raise all my Powers, the Powers of Grub-street raise,

Drawcansir trembles at the Name of me.

My Ranks in King-street shine—but oh my Heart!

I'm sick of Love, and for my mortal Foe;

Drawcansir's Charms have pierc'd my tender Breast:

Oh wherefore then do I, in seeming Hate,

Rise up to Battle thus against his Power—

Oh! but to conquer and subdue his Arm,

That I may bend his stubborn Soul to Love.

Enter Mountain.

Moun.

Why sits the Child of Dulness pensive here?

When now her Host of Friends have ta'en th' Alarm,

Are up and ready to revenge her Cause;

The roaring Lion threatens to devour,

Drawcansir's self and all his boasted Power.

Term.

Ha! say'st thou Doctor? Doth the Lion roar?

He is Queen Dulness' Friend—but yet alas!

May I not hope Drawcansir is so too?

For oh! I blush to tell thee that I love The dear Drawcansir.

Moun.

—Ha! in Love with him!

[Aside.

I thought that I alone possess'd her Heart—

Have not I told her twice ten thousand Lies?

Boasted of Favours I had ne'er receiv'd,

In vain to win her Love? What must be done?

O now I ha't—great Madam, if by me

You'll condescend to be advis'd, I'll make

This mighty Hero gladly own your Love.

Term.

Wilt thou do that? Then shalt thou be our

Friend—all Grub-street shall be tributary made,

Each Day, to feed your Lion and yourself.

Moun.

I'll do't—I study'd Physic in my Youth,

And can procure such charmed powerful Drugs

That shall command the Passions of the Soul,

And bind Drawcansir to your Charms for ever.

Term.

I've read indeed that Magic hath such Powers—

Go, try and prosper—yet, alas, I fear—

I'll to Ben Sedgley's—you may find me there.

[Exit.

Moun.

And I to minister the Draught—O Fool—Fool—

Fool!—I'll make him loath her Name—

But how? Oh! an Emissary I'll get,

That while he o'er his Journal daily sleeps,

Shall pour it lavishly into his Ear;

Which such strange Work shall in his Memory make,

That never more he shall for her awake.

[Exit.

SCENE VII.

Enter 'Squire Antony, whistling.

Cod, here comes Father—now I'll have some Fun with him—I'll hum him, damme.

[Begins crying.

Enter Sir Nackadil Trunnion.

Sir N.

Well, Antony, what's the matter, Boy? What do you cry for? What are you blubbering about?

Ant.

O Lord! Father, O Lord! O Lord! our House at Tumbledown-hall is burn'd down to the Ground, and every thing destroy'd—here has been Steward Poundage to look for you, and tell you of it—he's gone to see about for you.

Sir N.

Tumbledown-hall burn'd to the Ground, and all the rich Furniture and Plate gone to the Dogs! oh I am ruin'd! undone! I had rather have lost half my Estate. Where, where is Mr. Poundage gone? What is there nothing sav'd at all?—Where did the Fire begin? What part of the House?—Is your Mother safe? Oh I shall run distracted.

Ant.

Ho! ho! ha! a Hum—Ha! ha! ha!

Sir N.

What do you laugh at your Father's Misfortunes?

Ant.

Why Father you're humm'd—Ho!

Sir N.

Humm'd! you Dog, what do you mean by that?

Ant.

Ho! ho! why 'tis all a Joke—Ho! ho! I don't know any thing about Tumbledownball, not I.

Sir N.

You don't—and a'nt you a pretty Fellow to make Game of your Father, ha! Sir.

[Breaks his Head.

Ant.

Ho! ho! ho! I don't mind that— damme—I must not heed that—there— [Put's himself in a boxing Posture at a Distance, and darts a strait Blow at his Father.] that's for you—hang me if I don't think I could beat you, at dry Boxing, —if 'twas n't for that Cane.

Sir N.

Amazing Impudence! you do, Sir! then there, and there, and there. [Beats him.

Ant.

OLord! OLord! OLord! no indeed I don't—pray Father. [Falls on his Knees.

Sir N.

O! have I brought you to Reason young Gentleman, and pray who has been tutoring you to this?—Who set you on to abuse your Father, Sirrah, ah! come, get up and tell me— where have you been?

Ant.

Cousin, you lest me with, told me I should hate you, and not mind what you said to me, and then he said it was witty to hum any body.

Sir N.

A mighty pretty Fellow, that! I shall go and acquaint my Brother Bullyboy of this Behaviour of his—and you, I see Sir, have profited more by his Instructions in half an Hour, than you have done by mine these eighteen Years. —I wanted you to turn over a new Leaf, and this is the Way you was going to do it; but, Sirrah! I shall turn you back again to your old Chapter—Well, and did you learn no more of these goodly Tricks of him? What more did he tell you?

Ant.

Yes, he said I must learn to bully and swear and look big and so, and then I must learn to be a Critic, and to cry Stuff, Damnation low! and to whistle thus—and that would make me a great Man.

Sir N.

Mighty pretty! a fine Fellow, that!— I had intrusted my Son with a fine Rascal—he would give me a good Account of him—a very good Account indeed, and this was the Way you was to become a great Man—Come along, Sir, and if ever I see you conversing with that Cousin of your's again, I shall wring your Nose off for you—Come, Sir, I shall take another Course with you—I am now going to Gresham College —Come along, Sir—let me see if you can learn nothing better there.

[Exeunt.

SCENE VIII. Drawcansir soulus—reading at a Table.

Drawcansir rising.

Strange that my Sword should want its usual Point.

How dull its Edge! sure some superior Power,

Like mighty Pallas, in the Shape of Rust,

Oppos'd my Arm—by Heav'n it shall not be—

Tho' Hills on Hills t'oppose my Vengeance meet,

My Foes shall all lie sprawling at my Feet.

But let me pause—

Of what unequal Genius are we fram'd?

One Day the Mind, replete with Wit and Sense,

Dictates secure and fondly tells herself,

The Hour of Dulness will return no more:

The next, the Spirits pall'd and sick with Study,

Turn all to Nonsense, and the Town despise.

O my Amelia! what hast thou return'd

For all the Toil and Labour which I squander'd,

Dulness, Aversion, Tediousness and Stuff?

Sour'd all mine Hopes and damp'd my tow'ring Fame!—

Here I lest reading.

[Reads. ‘It being reported that a HILL must be levell'd, before the Bedford Coffee-house could be taken, Orders were given accordingly; but this was afterwards found to be a Mistake, a second Express assuring us, that this HILL was only a little paultry Dunghill and had long before been levell'd with the Dirt.’ [Falls fast asleep.

Enter an Apothecary.

Drugs apt and Time agreeing,

Fast asleep, no Creature seeing,

Mixture of MIDNIGHT Weeds collected,

Works thrice damn'd and thrice neglected.

Journal in Drury-lane begun,

Poor Compound of Ribaldry and Pun.

Pierce the soft Recesses of thy Brain.

[Empties a Phial into his Ear.

My Business done, I now go out again.

[Exit Apothecary.

Drawcansir wakes.

This Candle doth want Snuffing—Ha! what's this?

[Ghost rises.

Gh.

I am thy Genius—and I come to say,

The Powers of Dulness fight with thee To-day.

Dr.

Well—wherefore should I fear? Since Fate has said

I never shall be conquer'd 'till unfear'd

The Lion roar, a Mountain rear it's Head, And Sexes change.

Gh.

Be not deceiv'd—this is already true.

In yon Piazza, hark, the Lion roars,

An Hill uplifts it's Head, and—

[Ghost sinks.

Dr.

How is this?

Vanish'd! I would know more of this—Ha!

Now I begin to fear and doubt the Word

Of that equivocating Ghost—but, ha!

Whom have we here?

Enter Roxana Termagant and Mountain.

Moun.

Fear not, the Charm will work.

R. Ter. to Dr.

O my lov'd Lord, my dear Drawcansir, hear me.

Dr.

Ha! Woman, who art thou? Away— be gone—

R. Ter.

I am thy mortal Foe, and yet thy Friend.

Dr.

Woman, away, I know thee now— thou art

Roxana Termagant—but wherefore here?

Why dost thou come to brave me at mine Home?

At King-street end I'll meet thee by and by,

And thou or I in Wit shall lower lie.

R. Ter. to Moun.

Didst thou not say the Charm had pierc'd his Brain?

Moun.

The Charm was naught—there was left out a Grain

Of special Puns—he can't endure thee now.

R. Ter.

Then shall he die—shout Dulness, and fall on!

Dr.

Hold—hold—in vain you draw your threatning Sword,

I bear a charmed Life, and cannot die

Till Sexes change, Hills rise, and Lions roar unfear'd.

R. Ter.

Despair thy Charm, for know I was a Man.

Moun.

I am a Mountain, and a Lion keep To roar at thee.

Dr.

Accursed be the Tongues that tell me so;

For it hath cow'd my better Part of Man:

And be those juggling Witches ne'er believ'd,

Those Imps of Vanity that swell our Pride,

Yet cheat us of our Hopes—

Yet, I will fight ye—both at once fall on.

[They fight—Drawcansir falls.

Moun.

Now let's away, the Battle will be ours,

We shall disperse full soon his friendly Pow'rs.

To mighty Dulness be a Sacrifice,

The Queen for you and I reserves the Prize.

[Exeunt Mountain and Termagant.

Dr.

How are the Mighty fallen!—I am down;

O now farewell—farewell ungrateful Town.

Tobacco stops my Throat, my Race is run,

And now in Death I'm punish'd with a Pun.

[Exit dying.

Information about this book

Title statement

Fun: a parodi-tragi-comical satire: As it was to have been perform'd at the Castle-Tavern, Pater-Noster-Row, on Thursday, February 13, 1752, but suppressed, by a special order from the Lord-Mayor ...

Kenrick, W. (William), 1725?-1779.

Publication

Distributor

University of Oxford Text Archive
Oxford University Computing Services
13 Banbury Road
Oxford
OX2 6NN
ota@oucs.ox.ac.uk

ID [ota]

http://ota.ox.ac.uk/id/4051

ID [isbn10]

1106010507

ID [isbn13]

9781106010506

ID [TCP]

K040233.000

ID [BIBNO]

CW3313470447

ID [ECLL]

0601100300

Availability

Distributed by the University of Oxford under a Creative Commons Attribution-ShareAlike 3.0 Unported License

Source

— Fun: a parodi-tragi-comical satire: As it was to have been perform'd at the Castle-Tavern, Pater-Noster-Row, on Thursday, February 13, 1752, but suppressed, by a special order from the Lord-Mayor ..., Kenrick, W. (William), 1725?-1779.. [2],iv,[2],40p. ; 8⁰. London :: sold by F. Stamper,. 1752.. [Anonymous. By William Kenrick.] [Reproduction of original from the British Library.] [English Short Title Catalog, ESTCT40324.] [Electronic data. Farmington Hills, Mich. : Thomson Gale, 2003. Page image (PNG). Digitized image of the microfilm version produced in Woodbridge, CT by Research Publications, 1982-2002 (later known as Primary Source Microfilm, an imprint of the Gale Group).]

Creation

Created by converting TCP files to TEI P5 using tcp2p5.xsl, TEI @ Oxford.

Editorial practices

This electronic text file was keyed from page images and partially proofread for accuracy. Character capture and encoding have been done following the guidelines of the ECCO Text Creation Partnership, which correspond roughly to the recommendations found in Level 4 of the TEI in Libraries Guidelines. Digital page images are linked to the text file.