Let us bother the librarian once again. Let us ask him to reach down,
dust, and hand over to us that little brown book over there, the Memoirs
of Mrs. Pilkington, three volumes bound in one, printed by Peter Hoey in
Dublin, MDCCLXXVI. The deepest obscurity shades her retreat; the dust
lies heavy on her tomb—one board is loose, that is to say, and nobody
has read her since early in the last century when a reader, presumably a
lady, whether disgusted by her obscenity or stricken by the hand of
death, left off in the middle and marked her place with a faded list of
goods and groceries. If ever a woman wanted a champion, it is obviously
Laetitia Pilkington. Who then was she?
Can you imagine a very extraordinary cross between Moll Flanders and
Lady Ritchie, between a rolling and rollicking woman of the town and a
lady of breeding and refinement? Laetitia Pilkington (1712–1759) was
something of the sort—shady, shifty, adventurous, and yet, like
Thackeray’s daughter, like Miss Mitford, like Madame de Sévigné and
Jane Austen and Maria Edgeworth, so imbued with the old traditions of
her sex that she wrote, as ladies talk, to give pleasure. Throughout her
_Memoirs_, we can never forget that it is her wish to entertain, her
unhappy fate to sob. Dabbing her eyes and controlling her anguish, she
begs us to forgive an odious breach of manners which only the suffering
of a lifetime, the intolerable persecutions of Mr. P——n, the
malignant, she must say the h——h, spite of Lady C——t can excuse.
For who should know better than the Earl of Killmallock’s
great-granddaughter that it is the part of a lady to hide her
sufferings? Thus Laetitia is in the great tradition of English women of
letters. It is her duty to entertain; it is her instinct to conceal.
Still, though her room near the Royal Exchange is threadbare, and the
table is spread with old play-bills instead of a cloth, and the butter
is served in a shoe, and Mr. Worsdale has used the teapot to fetch small
beer that very morning, still she presides, still she entertains. Her
language is a trifle coarse, perhaps. But who taught her English? The
great Doctor Swift.
In all her wanderings, which were many and in her failings, which were
great, she looked back to those early Irish days when Swift had pinched
her into propriety of speech. He had beaten her for fumbling at a
drawer: he had daubed her cheeks with burnt cork to try her temper; he
had bade her pull off her shoes and stockings and stand against the
wainscot and let him measure her. At first she had refused; then she had
yielded. “Why,” said the Dean, “I suspected you had either broken
Stockings or foul toes, and in either case should have delighted to
expose you.” Three feet two inches was all she measured, he declared,
though, as Laetitia complained, the weight of Swift’s hand on her head
had made her shrink to half her size. But she was foolish to complain.
Probably she owed her intimacy to that very fact—she was only three
feet two. Swift had lived, a lifetime among the giants; now there was a
charm in dwarfs. He took the little creature into his library. “‘Well,’
said he, ‘I have brought you here to show you all the Money I got when I
was in the Ministry, but don’t steal any of it.’ ‘I won’t, indeed. Sir,’
said I; so he opened a Cabinet, and showed me a whole parcel of empty
drawers. ‘Bless me,’ says he, ‘the Money is flown.’” There was a charm
in her surprise; there was a charm in her humility. He could beat her
and bully her, make her shout when he was deaf, force her husband to
drink the lees of the wine, pay their cab fares, stuff guineas into a
piece of gingerbread, and relent surprisingly, as if there were
something grimly pleasing to him in the thought of so foolish a midget
setting up to have a life and a mind of her own. For with Swift she was
herself; it was the effect of his genius. She had to pull off her
stockings if he told her to. So, though his satire terrified her, and
she found it highly unpleasant to dine at the Deanery and see him
watching, in the great glass which hung before him for that purpose, the
butler stealing beer at the sideboard, she knew that it was a privilege
to walk with him in his garden; to hear him talk of Mr. Pope and quote
Hudibras; and then be hustled back in the rain to save coach hire, and
then to sit chatting in the parlour with Mrs. Brent, the housekeeper,
about the Dean’s oddity and charity, and how the sixpence he saved on
the coach he gave to the lame old man who sold gingerbread at the
corner, while the Dean dashed up the front stairs and down the back so
violently that she was afraid he would fall and hurt himself.
But memories of great men are no infallible specific. They fall upon the
race of life like beams from a lighthouse. They flash, they shock, they
reveal, they vanish. To remember Swift was of little avail to Laetitia
when the troubles of life came thick about her. Mr. Pilkington left her
for Widow W—rr—n. Her father—her dear father—died. The sheriff’s
officers insulted her. She was deserted in an empty house with two
children to provide for. The tea chest was secured, the garden gate
locked, and the bills left unpaid. And still she was young and
attractive and gay, with an inordinate passion for scribbling verses and
an incredible hunger for reading books. It was this that was her
undoing. The book was fascinating and the hour late. The gentleman would
not lend it, but would stay till she had finished. They sat in her
bedroom. It was highly indiscreet, she owned. Suddenly twelve watchmen
broke through the kitchen window, and Mr. Pilkington appeared with a
cambric handkerchief tied about his neck. Swords were drawn and heads
broken. As for her excuse, how could one expect Mr. Pilkington and the
twelve watchmen to believe that? Only reading! Only sitting up late to
finish a new book! Mr. Pilkington and the watchmen interpreted the
situation as such men would. But lovers of learning, she is persuaded,
will understand her passion and deplore its consequences.
And now what was she to do? Reading had played her false, but still she
could write. Ever since she could form her letters, indeed, she had
written, with incredible speed and considerable grace, odes, addresses,
apostrophes to Miss Hoadley, to the Recorder of Dublin, to Dr.
Delville’s place in the country. “Hail, happy Delville, blissful seat!”
“Is there a man whose fixed and steady gaze——”—the verses flowed
without the slightest difficulty on the slightest occasion. Now,
therefore, crossing to England, she set up, as her advertisement had it,
to write letters upon any subject, except the law, for twelve pence
ready money, and no trust given. She lodged opposite White’s Chocolate
House, and there, in the evening, as she watered her flowers on the
leads, the noble gentlemen in the window across the road drank her
health, sent her over a bottle of burgundy; and later she heard old
Colonel——crying, “Poke after me, my lord, poke after me,” as he
shepherded the D—— of M—lb—gh up her dark stairs. That lovely
gentleman, who honoured his title by wearing it, kissed her,
complimented her, opened his pocketbook, and left her with a banknote
for fifty pounds upon Sir Francis Child. Such tributes stimulated her
pen to astonishing outbursts of impromptu gratitude. If, on the other
hand, a gentleman refused to buy or a lady hinted impropriety, this same
flowery pen writhed and twisted in agonies of hate and vituperation.
“Had I said that your F——r died Blaspheming the Almighty”, one of her
accusations begins, but the end is unprintable. Great ladies were
accused of every depravity, and the clergy, unless their taste in poetry
was above reproach, suffered an incessant castigation. Mr. Pilkington,
she never forgot, was a clergyman.
Slowly but surely the Earl of Killmallock’s great-granddaughter
descended in the social scale. From St. James’s Street and its noble
benefactors she migrated to Green Street to lodge with Lord Stair’s
_valet de chambre_ and his wife, who washed for persons of distinction.
She, who had dallied with dukes, was glad for company’s sake to take a
hand at quadrille with footmen and laundresses and Grub Street writers,
who, as they drank porter, sipped green tea, and smoked tobacco, told
stories of the utmost scurrility about their masters and mistresses. The
spiciness of their conversation made amends for the vulgarity of their
manners. From them Laetitia picked up those anecdotes of the great which
sprinkled her pages with dashes and served her purpose when subscribers
failed and landladies grew insolent. Indeed, it was a hard life—to
trudge to Chelsea in the snow wearing nothing but a chintz gown and be
put off with a beggarly half-crown by Sir Hans Sloane; next to tramp to
Ormond Street and extract two guineas from the odious Dr. Meade, which,
in her glee, she tossed in the air and lost in a crack of the floor; to
be insulted by footmen; to sit down to a dish of boiling water because
her landlady must not guess that a pinch of tea was beyond her means.
Twice on moonlight nights, with the lime trees in flower, she wandered
in St. James’s Park and contemplated suicide in Rosamond’s Pond. Once,
musing among the tombs in Westminster Abbey, the door was locked on her,
and she had to spend the night in the pulpit wrapped in a carpet from
the Communion Table to protect herself from the assaults of rats. “I
long to listen to the young-ey’d cherubims!” she exclaimed. But a very
different fate was in store for her. In spite of Mr. Colley Cibber, and
Mr. Richardson, who supplied her first with gilt-edged notepaper and
then with baby linen, those harpies, her landladies, after drinking her
ale, devouring her lobsters, and failing often for years at a time to
comb their hair, succeeded in driving Swift’s friend, and the Earl’s
great-granddaughter, to be imprisoned with common debtors in the
Marshalsea.
Bitterly she cursed her husband who had made her a lady of adventure
instead of what nature intended, “a harmless household dove”. More and
more wildly she ransacked her brains for anecdotes, memories, scandals,
views about the bottomless nature of the sea, the inflammable character
of the earth—anything that would fill a page and earn her a guinea. She
remembered that she had eaten plovers’ eggs with Swift. “Here, Hussey,”
said he, “is a Plover’s egg. King William used to give crowns apiece for
them. . . .” Swift never laughed, she remembered. He used to suck in his
cheeks instead of laughing. And what else could she remember? A great
many gentlemen, a great many landladies; how the window was thrown up
when her father died, and her sister came downstairs with the
sugar-basin, laughing. All had been bitterness and struggle, except that
she had loved Shakespeare, known Swift, and kept through all the shifts
and shades of an adventurous career a gay spirit, something of a lady’s
breeding, and the gallantry which, at the end of her short life, led her
to crack her joke and enjoy her duck with death at her heart and duns at
her pillow.