50 Poland Street, Soho, London—in 1760 Charles Burney moved his family to Poland Street; it was Frances’ first London home.
THE WITLINGS
The Witlings was not ‘discovered’ until 1945, when the author’s papers were acquired by the Berg Collection of the New York Public Library. The work is Burney’s first play which she wrote between May and July of 1779, after receiving the encouragement to pursue a career as a dramatist from Richard Sheridan, who was the artistic director of the Drury Lane Theatre. In January 1779, he was asked whether he would consider staging a play written by Burney without even having read it and he responded favourably, which greatly surprised and inspired the young author. However, within months of completing the play Burney was soon alerted by her father and his friend Samuel Crisp of the potential offence caused by her satire. Charles Burney urged his daughter to suppress the play, despite Sheridan’s continued insistence that he wished to read the work. It is not definitively known whether the playwright decided not to release the work simply on the advice of her father and Samuel Crisp, or if she ultimately determined that it would be a pragmatic decision to discard the play herself. The potentially controversial issue was the portrayal of the Bluestocking Society: a group of mostly women, who met to discuss literature and arts. They promoted the idea of female participation in the literary scene and some, including Elizabeth Carter, were also authors.
The Witlings is a satire set around a literary circle called the Esprit Party, which includes Lady Smatter, who designates herself the arbiter of taste, despite being ill-informed about literature, and Mr Dabler, who is a talentless and idiotic poet. The romantic component of the work centres on the relationship between the orphaned heiress Cecilia and Lady Smatter’s nephew, Beaufort. Burney once again highlights the precarious economic and social position of women, and the correlation between wealth and virtue. The character of Lady Smatter is almost certainly based on Elizabeth Montagu: a leading figure in the Bluestocking movement and a prominent patron of female authors. Lady Smatter is depicted as a self-serving, vain, greedy, supercilious character, and Burney mocks her ignorance in literary matters. Considering Montagu’s importance in promoting female writers and the fact they socialised in the same literary circles, it was a perhaps ultimately a wise career decision for Burney not to release the work.
CONTENTS
Dramatis Personæ
Act I.
Act II.
Act III. Scene 1
Act III. Scene 2
Act IV.
Act V.
Elizabeth Montagu (1718-1800) was a social reformer, patron of the arts and literary critic.
Dramatis Personæ
Beaufort.
Censor.
Dabler.
Jack, half Brother to Beaufort.
Codger, Father to Jack, & Father in Law to Beaufort.
Bob, Son to Mrs. Voluble.
Lady Smatter, Aunt to Beaufort.
Cecilia.
Mrs. Sapient.
Mrs. Voluble.
Mrs. Wheedle, a Milliner.
Miss Jenny, her apprentice.
Betty, Maid to Mrs. Voluble.
Act I.
A milliner’s shop.
A counter is spread with caps, ribbons, fans & band boxes.
Miss Jenny & several young women at work.
Enter Mrs. Wheedle.
Mrs. Wheedle. So, young ladies! Pray, what have you done today? [She examines their work.] Has anybody been in yet?
Miss Jenny. No, ma’am, nobody to signify; — only some people a-foot.
Mrs. Wheedle. Why, Miss Sally, who is this cap for?
Miss Sally. Lady Mary Megrim, ma’am.
Mrs. Wheedle. Lady Mary Megrim, child? Lord, she’ll no more wear it than I shall! Why, how have you done the lappets? They’ll never set while it’s a-cap; — one would think you had never worked in a Christian land before. Pray, Miss Jenny, set about a cap for Lady Mary yourself.
Miss Jenny. Ma’am, I can’t; I’m working for Miss Stanley.
Mrs. Wheedle. O ay, for the wedding.
Miss Sally. Am I to go on with this cap, ma’am?
Mrs. Wheedle. Yes, to be sure, & let it be sent with the other things to Mrs. Apeall in the Minories; it will do well enough for the City.
Enter a Footman.
Footman. Is Lady Whirligig’s cloak ready?
Mrs. Wheedle. Not quite, sir, but I’ll send it in five minutes.
Footman. My Lady wants it immediately; it was bespoke a week ago, & my lady says you promised to let her have it last Friday.
Mrs. Wheedle. Sir, it’s just done, & I’ll take care to let her Ladyship have it directly.
[Exit Footman.
Miss Jenny. I don’t think it’s cut out yet.
Mrs. Wheedle. I know it i’n’t. Miss Sally, you shall set about it when you’ve done that cap. Why, Miss Polly, for goodness’ sake, what are you doing?
Miss Potty. Making a tippet, ma’am, for Miss Lollop.
Mrs. Wheedle. Miss Lollop would as soon wear a halter: ‘twill be fit for nothing but the window, & there the Miss Notables who work for themselves may look at it for a pattern.
Enter a Young Woman.
Young Woman. If you please, ma’am, I should be glad to look at some ribbons.
Mrs. Wheedle. We’ll show you some presently.
Enter Mrs. Voluble.
Mrs. Voluble. Mrs. Wheedle, how do do? I’m vastly glad to see you. I hope all the young ladies are well. Miss Jenny, my dear, you look pale; I hope you a’n’t in love, child? Miss Sally, your servant. I saw your uncle the other day, & he’s very well, & so are all the children; except, indeed, poor Tommy, & they’re afraid he’s going to have the whooping cough. I don’t think I know that other young lady? O Lord, yes, I do, — it’s Miss Polly Dyson! I beg your pardon, my dear, but I declare I did not recollect you at first.
Mrs. Wheedle. Won’t you take a chair, Mrs. Voluble?
Mrs. Voluble. Why yes, thank you, ma’am; but there are so many pretty things to look at in your shop, that one does not know which way to turn oneself. I declare it’s the greatest treat in the world to me to spend an hour or two here in a morning; one sees so many fine things, & so many fine folks, — Lord, who are all these sweet things here for?
Mrs. Wheedle. Miss Stanley, ma’am, a young lady just going to be married.
Mrs. Voluble. Miss Stanley? Why, I can tell you all about her. Mr. Dabler, who lives in my house, makes verses upon her.
Miss Jenny. Dear me! Is that gentleman who dresses so smart a poet?
Mrs. Voluble. A poet? Yes, my dear, he’s one of the first wits of the age. He can make verses as fast as I can talk.
Miss Jenny. Dear me! Why, he’s quite a fine gentleman; I thought poets were always as poor as Job.
Mrs. Voluble. Why so they are, my dear, in common; your real poet is all rags & atoms: but Mr. Dabler is quite another thing; he’s what you may call a poet of fashion. He studies, sometimes, by the hour together. O he’s quite one of the great geniuses, I assure you! I listened at his door, once, when he was at it, — for he talks so loud when he’s by himself, that we can hear him quite down stairs: but I could make nothing out, only a heap of words all in a chime, as one may say, — mean, lean, Dean, wean — Lord, I can’t remember half of them! At first when he came, I used to run in his room, & ask what was the matter? But he told me I must not mind him, for it was only the Fit was on him, I think he called it, & so —
Young Woman. I wish somebody would show me some ribbons, I have waited this half hour.
Mrs. Wheedle. O, ay, I forgot; do show this young gentlewoman some ribbons. [In a low voice.] Take last year’s. [To Young Woman.] You shall see some just out of the loom.
Mrs. Voluble. Well, but, Mrs. Wheedle, I was going to tell you about Miss Stanley; you must know she’s a young lady with a fortune all in her own hands, for she’s just come of age, & she’s got neither papa nor mama, & so —
Enter a Footman.
/> Footman. Lady Bab Vertigo desires Mrs. Wheedle will come to the coach door.
[Exit.
Mrs. Wheedle goes out.
Mrs. Voluble. [Turning herself to Miss Jenny.] And so, Miss Jenny, as I was saying, this young lady came to spend the winter in town with Lady Smatter, & so she fell in love with my lady’s nephew, Mr. Beaufort, & Mr. Beaufort fell in love with her, & so —
Re-enter Mrs. Wheedle.
Mrs. Wheedle. Miss Jenny, take Lady Bab the new trimming.
Mrs. Voluble. [Turning to Miss Sally.] And so, Miss Sally, the match is all agreed upon, & they are to be married next week, & so, as soon as the ceremony is over —
Mrs. Wheedle. Miss Sally, put away those ribbons.
Mrs. Voluble. [Turning to Miss Polly.] And so, Miss Polly, as soon as the ceremony’s over, the bride & bridegroom —
Censor. [Within.] No, faith, not I! Do you think I want to study the fashion of a lady’s top knot?
Beaufort. Nay, prithee, Censor, in compassion to me —
Enter Beaufort and Censor struggling.
Censor. Why how now, Beaufort? Is not a man’s person his own property? Do you conclude that, because you take the liberty to expose your own to a ridiculous & unmanly situation, you may use the same freedom with your friend’s?
Beaufort. Pho, prithee don’t be so churlish. [Advancing to Mrs. Wheedle.] Pray, ma’am, has Miss Stanley been here this Morning?
Mrs. Wheedle. No, sir; but I expect her every moment.
Beaufort. Then, if you’ll give me leave, I’ll wait till she comes.
Censor. Do as you list, but, for my part, I am gone.
Beaufort. How! Will you not stay with me?
Censor. No, sir; I’m a very stupid fellow, — I take no manner of delight in tapes & ribbons. I leave you, therefore, to the unmolested contemplation of this valuable collection of dainties: & I doubt not but you will be equally charmed & edified by the various curiosities you will behold, & the sagacious observations you will hear. Sir, I heartily wish you well entertained.
[Going.
Beaufort. [Holding him.] Have you no bowels, man?
Censor. Yes, for myself, — & therefore it is I leave you.
Beaufort. You shan’t go, I swear!
Censor. With what weapons will you stay me? Will you tie me to your little finger with a piece of ribbon, like a lady’s sparrow? Or will you enthral me in a net of Brussels lace? Will you raise a fortification of caps? Or barricade me with furbelows? Will you fire at me a broad side of pompons? Or will you stop my retreat with a fan?
Miss Jenny. Dear, how odd the gentleman talks!
Mrs. Wheedle. I wonder they don’t ask to look at something.
Mrs. Voluble. I fancy I know who they are. [Whispers.]
Beaufort. Are you not as able to bear the place as I am? If you had any grace, you would blush to be thus out-done in forbearance.
Censor. But, my good friend, do you not consider that there is some little difference in our situations? I, for which I bless my stars! am a free man, & therefore may be allowed to have an opinion of my own, to act with consistency, & to be guided by the light of Reason: you, for which I most heartily pity you, are a lover, &, consequently, can have no pretensions to similar privileges. With you, therefore, the practice of patience, the toleration of impertinence, & the study of nonsense, are become duties indispensable; & where can you find more ample occasion to display these acquirements, than in this region of foppery, extravagance & folly?
Beaufort. Ought you not, in justice, to acknowledge some obligation to me for introducing you to a place which abounds in such copious materials to gratify your splenetic humour?
Censor. Obligation? What, for showing me new scenes of the absurdities of my fellow creatures?
Beaufort. Yes, since those new scenes give fresh occasion to exert that spirit of railing which makes the whole happiness of your life.
Censor. Do you imagine, then, that, like Spenser’s Strife, I seek occasion? Have I not eyes? & can I open them without becoming a spectator of dissipation, idleness, luxury & disorder? Have I not ears? & can I use them without becoming an auditor of malevolence, envy, futility & detraction? O Beaufort, take me where I can avoid occasion of railing, & then, indeed, I will confess my obligation to you!
Mrs. Voluble. [Whispering Mrs. Wheedle.] It’s the youngest that’s the bridegroom, that is to be; but I’m pretty sure I know the other too, for he comes to see Mr. Dabler; I’ll speak to him. [Advances to Censor.] Sir, your humble servant.
Censor. Madam!
Mrs. Voluble. I beg your pardon, sir, but I think I’ve had the pleasure of seeing you at my house, sir, when you’ve called upon Mr. Dabler.
Censor. Mr. Dabler? — O, yes, I recollect. — Why, Beaufort, what do you mean? Did you bring me hither to be food to this magpie?
Beaufort. Not I, upon my honour; I never saw the woman before. Who is she?
Censor. A fool, a prating, intolerable fool. Dabler lodges at her house, & whoever passes through her hall to visit him, she claims for her acquaintance. She will consume more words in an hour than ten men will in a year; she is infected with a rage for talking, yet has nothing to say, which is a disease of all others the most pernicious to her fellow creatures, since the method she takes for her own relief proves their bane. Her tongue is as restless as scandal, &, like that, feeds upon nothing, yet attacks & tortures every thing; & it vies, in rapidity of motion, with the circulation of the blood in a frog’s foot.
Miss Jenny. [To Mrs. Voluble.] I think the gentleman’s very proud, ma’am, to answer you so short.
Mrs. Voluble. O, but he won’t get off so, I can tell him! I’ll speak to him again. [To Censor.] Poor Mr. Dabler, sir, has been troubled with a very bad head ache lately; I tell him he studies too much, but he says he can’t help it; however, I think it’s a friend’s part to advise him against it, for a little caution can do no harm, you know, sir, if it does no good, & Mr. Dabler’s such a worthy, agreeable gentleman, & so much the scholar, ’twould be a thousand pities he should come to any ill. Pray, sir, do you think he’ll ever make a match of it with Mrs. Sapient? She’s ready enough, we all know, & to be sure, for the matter of that, she’s no chicken. Pray, sir, how old do you reckon she may be?
Censor. Really, madam, I have no talents for calculating the age of a lady. What a torrent of impertinence! Upon my honour, Beaufort, if you don’t draw this woman off, I shall decamp.
Beaufort. I cannot imagine what detains Cecilia; however, I will do any thing rather than wait with such gossips by myself. I hope, ma’am, we don’t keep you standing?
Mrs. Voluble. O no, sir, I was quite tired of sitting. What a polite young gentleman, Miss Jenny! I’m sure he deserves to marry a fortune. I’ll speak to him about the ‘Sprit Party; he’ll be quite surprised to find how much I know of the matter. I think, sir, your name’s Mr. Beaufort?
Beaufort. At your service, ma’am.
Mrs. Voluble. I was pretty sure it was you, sir, for I happened to be at my window one morning when you called in a coach; & Mr. Dabler was out, — that is, between friends, he was only at his studies, but he said he was out, & so that’s all one. So you gave in a card, & drove off. I hope, sir, your good aunt, my Lady Smatter, is well? For though I have not the pleasure of knowing her Ladyship myself, I know them that do. I suppose you two gentlemen are always of the ‘Sprit Party, at my Lady’s house.
Censor. ‘Sprit Party? Prithee, Beaufort, what’s that?
Beaufort. O, the most fantastic absurdity under heaven. My good aunt has established a kind of club at her house, professedly for the discussion of literary subjects; & the set who compose it are about as well qualified for the purpose, as so many dirty cabin boys would be to find out the longitude. To a very little reading, they join less understanding & no judgement, yet they decide upon books & authors with the most confirmed confidence in their abilities for the task. And this club they have had the modesty to nominate the Esprit Party.
Censor.
Nay, when you have told me Lady Smatter is President, you need add nothing more to convince me of its futility. Faith, Beaufort, were you my enemy instead of my friend, I should scarce forbear commiserating your situation in being dependant upon that woman. I hardly know a more insufferable being, for having, unfortunately, just tasted the Pierian Spring, she has acquired that little knowledge, so dangerous to shallow understandings, which serves no other purpose than to stimulate a display of ignorance.
Mrs. Voluble. I always know, sir, when there’s going to be a ‘Sprit party, for Mr. Dabler shuts himself up to study. Pray, sir, did you ever see his Monody on the Birth of Miss Dandie’s Lap Dog?
Censor. A monody on a birth?
Mrs. Voluble. Yes, sir; a monody, or elegy, I don’t exactly know which you call it, but I think it’s one of the prettiest things he ever wrote; there he tells us — O dear, is not that Mrs. Sapient’s coach? I’m pretty sure I know the cipher.
Censor. Mrs. Sapient? Nay, Beaufort, if she is coming hither —
Beaufort. Patience, man; she is one of the set, & will divert you.
Censor. You are mistaken; such consummate folly only makes me melancholy. She is more weak & superficial even than Lady Smatter, yet she has the same facility in giving herself credit for wisdom; & there is a degree of assurance in her conceit that is equally wonderful & disgusting, for as Lady Smatter, from the shallowness of her knowledge, upon all subjects forms a wrong judgement, Mrs. Sapient, from extreme weakness of parts, is incapable of forming any; but, to compensate for that deficiency, she retails all the opinions she hears, & confidently utters them as her own. Yet, in the most notorious of her plagiarisms, she affects a scrupulous modesty, & apologizes for troubling the company with her poor opinion!
Beaufort. She is, indeed, immeasurably wearisome.
Censor. When she utters a truth self-evident as that the sun shines at noon day, she speaks it as a discovery resulting from her own peculiar penetration & sagacity.
Beaufort. Silence! She is here.
Enter Mrs. Sapient.
Complete Works of Frances Burney Page 358
