AN EPISTLE TO MR. COLMAN. You know, dear George, I'm none of those I vent a notion here in private, Which public taste can ne'er connive at, With easy verse most bards are smitten, Oft bit his nails, and scratch'd his head, To make my meaning clear, and please ye, I have a simile will hit him; His verse, like clothes, was made to fit him, Though I have mentioned Prior's name, Think not I aim at Prior's fame. 'Tis the result of admiration To spend itself in imitation; If imitation may be said, Which is in me by nature bred, And you have better proofs than these, Who, but a madman, would engage Write what we will, our works bespeak us Imitatores, servum pecus. Tale, elegy, or lofty ode, We travel in the beaten road: Proud to hedge in my scraps of wit, T' acquire some name from their reflection; The Moon still shines with borrow'd light, The first advantage which I see, (I love a fling at politics) Amuse the nation, court, and king, "Stop thief! stop thief!" exclaims aloud, O England, how I mourn thy fate! For sure thy losses now are great; Two such, what Briton can endure, Minorca and the Connoisseur! To day, before the Sun goes down, He dies, whoe'er takes pains to con him, Know, reader, that on Thursday died THE PUFF. A DIALOGUE BETWEEN THE BOOKSELLER AND AUTHOR. PREFIXED TO THE ST. JAMES'S MAGAZINE, SEPTEMBER, 1762. BOOKSELLER. MUSEUM, sir! that's not enough. AUTHOR. Oh! I perceive the thing you meanCall it St. James's Magazine. BOOKSELLER. Or the New British AUTHOR. Oh! no more. One name's as good as half a score. 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 would avoid; And wrapt in darkness, laughs unhurt, 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. BOOKSELLER. You quite mistake the thing I mean, -I' fetch you, sir, a magazine; You see that picture there-the queen. AUTHOR. A dedication to her too! No, no, my friend, by helps like these, And curve and incidental line Fall out, fall in, and cross each other, Ye tiny poets, tiny wits, Who frisk about on tiny tits, 1 Dryden Leach, a printer of note at that time. C. Who words disjoin, and sweetly sing, Great letters lacing down each line; 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 2, Than such a mockery of grace, And ornament so out of place. BOOKSELLER. But one word more, and I have doneA patent might ensure 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; This paste-board Guard might have been seen, until within these few years, at various bun-houses and tea-gardens in the vicinity of the metropolis. C. 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, Will give their works, and not their name? BOOKSELLER. Get it! Ay, 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, The friends we wish, the work must make 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? would 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, AUTHOR. True, true, our news, our prose, our rhymes, Shall show the colour of the times; For which most salutary ends, We're fellow-soldiers, fellow-friends. My lord duke's butler, and the mayor's. For politics-eternal talkers, Or those who live on scraps and bits, Mere green-room wasps, and Temple wits; Deep vers'd in rural picturesque, Who minute down with wond'rous pains, On flow'r and seed, and wind, and weather, My good man, too-Lord bless us! wives Are born to lead unhappy lives, Although his profits bring him clear Almost two hundred pounds a year, Keeps me of cash so short and bare, That I have not a gown to wear; Except my robe, and yellow sack, And this old lutestring on my back. -But we've no time, my dear, to waste. Come, where's your cardinal, make haste. The king, God bless his majesty, I say, Goes to the house of lords to day, In a fine painted coach and eight, And rides along in all his state. And then the queen MRS. SCOT. Aye, aye, you know, Great folks can always make a show. But tell me, do-I've never seen Her present majesty, the queen, MRS. BROWN. Lard! we've no time for talking now, Hark! one-two-three-'tis twelve I vow. MRS. SCOT. Kitty, my things,-I'll soon have done, It's time enough, you know, at one. -Why, girl! see how the creature stands! Some water here to wash my hands. -Be quick-why sure the gipsey sleeps! Look how the drawling daudle creeps. That bason there-why don't you pour, Go on, I say-stop, stop-no moreLud! I could beat the hussey down, She's pour'd it all upon my gown. -Bring me my ruffles-can'st not mind? And pin my handkerchief behind. Sure thou hast awkwardness enough, Go-fetch my gloves, and fan, and muff. -Well, Heav'n be prais'd-this work is done, I'm ready now, my dear-let's run. Girl,-put that bottle on the shelf, And bring me back the key yourself. I'm glad you think so,-Kitty, here, -Come, come then, give mamma a kiss, -There, go to Kitty-there's a man, |