University of Virginia Library

THE PUFF.

A DIALOGUE BETWEEN THE BOOKSELLER AND AUTHOR.

BOOKSELLER.
Museum, sir! that's not enough.
New works, we know, require a Puff;
A title to entrap the eyes,
And catch the reader by surprize:
As gaudy signs, which hang before
The tavern or the alehouse door,
Hitch every passer's observation,
Magnetic in their invitation.
—That Shakespeare is prodigious fine!
Shall we step in, and taste the wine?
Men, women, houses, horses, books,
All borrow credit from their looks.
Externals have the gift of striking,
And lure the fancy into liking.

AUTHOR.
Oh! I perceive the thing you mean—
Call it St. fames's Magazine.

BOOKSELLER.
Or the New British—

AUTHOR.
Oh! no more.
One name's as good as half a score.
And titles oft give nothing less
Than what they staringly profess.
Puffing, I grant, is all the mode;
The common hackney turnpike road:
But custom is the blockhead's guide,
And such low arts disgust my pride.
Success on merit's force depends,
Not on the partial voice of friends;
Not on the seems, that bully sin;
But that which passeth shew within:
Which bids the warmth of friendship glow,
And wrings conviction from a foe.—
Deserve Success, and proudly claim,
Not steal a passage into fame.

BOOKSELLER.
Your method, sir, will never do;
You're right in theory, it's true.
But then, experience in our trade
Says, there's no harm in some parade.
Suppose we said, by Mr. Lloyd?

AUTHOR.
The very thing I wou'd avoid;
And would be rather pleas'd to own
Myself unknowing, and unknown:
What could th' unknowing muse expect,
But information or neglect?
Unknown—perhaps her reputation
Escapes the tax of defamation,
And wrapt in darkness, laughs unhurt,
While critic blockheads throw their dirt:
But he who madly prints his name,
Invites his foe to take sure aim.

BOOKSELLER.
True—but a name will always bring
A better sanction to the thing:
And all your scribbling foes are such,
Their censure cannot hurt you much;
And, take the matter ne'er so ill,
If you don't print it, sir, they will.

AUTHOR.
Well, be it so—that struggle's o'er—
Nay,—this shall prove one spur the more.
Pleas'd if success attends, if not,
I've writ my name, and made a blot.

BOOKSELLER.
But a good print.

AUTHOR.
The print? why there
I trust to honest Leach's care.
What is't to me? in verse or prose,
I find the stuff, you make the cloaths:
And paper, print, and all such dress,
Will lose no credit from his press.

BOOKSELLER.
You quite mistake the thing I mean,
—I'll fetch you, sir, a Magazine;
You see that picture there,—the Queen.

AUTHOR.

BOOKSELLER.
But would not Ornament produce
Some real grace, and proper use?
A Frontispiece would have its weight,
Neatly engrav'd on copper-plate.

AUTHOR.
Plain letter-press shall do the feat,
What need of foppery to be neat?
The Paste-board Guard delights me more,
That stands to watch a bun-house door,
Than such a mockery of grace,
And ornament so out of place.

BOOKSELLER.
But one word more, and I have done—
A Patent might insure its run.

AUTHOR.
Patent! for what! can patents give
A Genius? or make blockheads live?
If so, O hail the glorious plan!
And buy it at what price you can.
But what alas! will that avail,
Beyond the property of sale?
A property of little worth,
If weak our produce at its birth.
For fame, for honest fame we strive,
But not to struggle half alive,
And drag a miserable being,
Its end still fearing and foreseeing.
Oh! may the flame of genius blaze,
Enkindled with the breath of praise!
But far be ev'ry fruitless puff,
To blow to light a dying snuff.

BOOKSELLER.
But should not something, sir, be said,
Particular on ev'ry head?
What your Originals will be,
What infinite variety,
Multum in Parvo, as they say,
And something neat in every way?

AUTHOR.
I wish there could—but that depends
Not on myself, so much as friends.
I but set up a new machine,
With harness tight, and furnish'd clean;
Where such, who think it no disgrace,
To send in time, and take a place,
The book-keeper shall minute down,
And I with pleasure drive to town.

BOOKSELLER.
Ay, tell them that, sir, and then say,
What letters come in every day;
And what great Wits your care procures,
To join their social hands with yours.

AUTHOR.
What! must I huge proposals print,
Merely to drop some saucy hint,
That real folks of real fame
Will give their works, and not their name?
—This Puff's of use, you say—why let it,
We'll boast such friendship when we get it.

BOOKSELLER.
Get it! Ah, sir, you do but jest,
You'll have assistance, and the best.
There's Churchill—will not Churchill lend
Assistance?

AUTHOR.
Surely—to his Friend.

BOOKSELLER.
And then your interest might procure
Something from either Connoisseur.
Colman and Thornton, both will join
Their social hand, to strengthen thine:
And when your name appears in print,
Will Garrick never drop a hint?

AUTHOR.
True, I've indulg'd such hopes before,
From those you name, and many more;
And they, perhaps, again will join
Their hand, if not asham'd of mine.
Bold is the task we undertake,
The friends we wish, the Work must make:
For Wits, like adjectives, are known
To cling to that which stands alone.

BOOKSELLER.
Perhaps too, in our way of trade,
We might procure some useful aid;
Could we engage some able pen,
To furnish matter now and then;
There's—what's his name, sir? wou'd compile,
And methodize the news in style.

AUTHOR.
Take back your newsman whence he came,
Carry your crutches to the lame.

BOOKSELLER.
You must enrich your book, indeed!
Bare Merit never will succeed;
Which readers are not now a-days,
By half so apt to buy, as praise;
And praise is hardly worth pursuing,
Which tickles authors to their ruin.
Books shift about, like ladies' dress,
And there's a fashion in success.
But could not we, like little Bayes,
Armies imaginary raise?
And bid our generals take the field,
To head the troops that lie conceal'd?
Bid General Essay lead the van,
By—Oh! the Style will shew the man:
Bid Major Science bold appear,
With all his pot-hooks in the rear.

AUTHOR.
True, true—our News, our Prose, our Rhymes,
Shall shew the colour of the times;
For which most salutary ends,
We've fellow-soldiers, fellow-friends.
For city, and for court affairs,
My lord duke's butler, and the mayor's.
For politics—eternal talkers,
Profound observers, and park-walkers.
For plays, great actors of renown,
(Lately or just arriv'd in town)
Or some, in state of abdication,
Of oratorial reputation;
Or those who live on scraps and bits,
Mere green-room wasps, and Temple wits;
Shall teach you, in a page or two,
What Garrick should, or should not do.
Trim poets from the City desk,
Deep vers'd in rural picturesque,
Who minute down, with wond'rous pains,
What Rider's Almanack contains
On flow'r and seed, and wind, and weather,
And bind them in an Ode together;
Shall thro' the seasons monthly sing
Sweet Winter, Autumn, Summer, Spring.

BOOKSELLER.
Ah, sir! I see you love to jest,
I did but hint things for the best.
Do what you please, 'tis your design,
And if it fails, no blame is mine;
I leave the management to you,
Your servant, sir,

AUTHOR.
I'm yours,—Adieu.