University of Virginia Library

INDUCTION.

Enter a Lady, followed by an Author, in a cloak and black silk mask.
Author.
(Bowing and pointing to the side of the Stage, opposite to that on which they have entered.)
This way will bring you to your box.

Lady.
Perhaps
You're a Performer?

Aut.
No, ma'am—mind the traps—
'Tis as an Author I have sought my fashion.

Lady.
I doat on authors—genius is my passion.
But why then mask'd?

Aut.
That I may not be known.

Lady.
What could you write and be so loath to own?
Nothing equivocal, I hope.

Aut.
In me
You see—or, but for this disguise, would see—
And unknown champion in the muse's field,
But more consider'd still, as more conceal'd,
A guest in courts, in camps, in halls, in hovels—
In short—the Author—of the Scottish Novels.

Lady.
Delightful! I've been three whole seasons dying
For your acquaintance—Nay now, don't be flying—
You'll come to me to-morrow evening—mind,
Without your mask,—as soon as you have dined.
A little early party—

Aut.
Pray excuse me.

Lady.
O, no excuses—now you sha'n't refuse me.
Pledge me your word, or, in this public place,
I vow I'll have that vizor from your face.

Aut.
I throw me on your honor then: you'll not
Betray me now—my name is ****** *****.

Lady.
Dear, I'm so sorry.

Aut.
Wherefore?

Lady.
That's the name
On ev'ry body's tongue—I meant to claim
A secret to myself.—And did you write
The Play then, we are come to see to night?

Aut.
I'm not its Author: though I fairly own
'Twas through my means it came before the town.
It's one of those old plays, revis'd and clipt,
Of which I've sev'ral yet, in manuscript,
And from whose scenes you may have sometimes read
A blank verse motto at my chapter's head.
But, as the same event of James's day
Founds my new Novel, and this ancient Play,
The actors interweave such scenes of mine
As come germanely to the play's design.

Lady.
Then, this is not, as former plays have been,
The Novel shifted into act and scene?

Aut.
No: for this Novel, you will find, had not,
Like some before it, a theatric plot.
Be not displeas'd then, pray you, nor surpriz'd,
If, for a Novel closely dramatiz'd,
You find a plain, old-fashion'd Play before ye,
With the old freedom, varying from the story,
And following only one great rule and measure,
The aim to give a gentle audience pleasure.

Lady.
I wish no scenes but your's had been embrac'd;
Then I might praise, and not commit my taste;
But to applaud an unestablish'd Poet—
I may get wrong, perhaps before I know it.
Now Lady Light-blue, who's a first-rate wit,
Said the last Comedy was quite a hit:
Miss Sourby, who's a critic and blue stocking,
Said never any thing was half so shocking:
Which was I to believe?—I do protest,
I never in my life was more distrest!

Aut.
To-night, at least, applaud: and never fear
But that your smile will carry judgments here;
E'en the cross critics may be half controul'd—

Lady.
Let but the critics know your Play is old.
And they'll uphold you, be it but to force
Those horrid, forward moderns off the course.

Aut.
Spare the poor moderns; I am of their crew.

Lady.
Yes, sir; but all the world agree, that you
Unlike the moderns of our tiresome race,
Will come, in time, to have an ancient's place.
Nay, more; I apprehend, that if the Play,
Old as you call it, should succeed to day,
The house must thank, in far the first degree,
That modern muse, (long modern may she be,)
Who takes her name from first-born Waverley!