A Biographical Dictionary of the Celebrated Women of Every Age and Country/Pilkington, (Lætitia)
PILKINGTON (LÆTITIA), a Wit and Poetess; Daughter of Dr. Van Lewen, a Gentleman of Dutch Extraction, settled in Dublin; born in 1712.
She had very early a strong inclination and taste for letters, which the following anecdote, related in her Memoirs, evinces:
On account of a weakness in the eyes, she had been forbidden to read, which only increased her natural curiosity. "Twenty times in a day," says she, "have I been corrected, for asking what such and such letters spelt: my mother used to tell me the word, accompanied with a good box on the ear, which, I suppose, imprinted it on my mind." She had soon learned to read, which she used to do in private.
"I was at this time about five years of age; when, my mother being abroad, I had happily laid hold on Alexander's Feast, and found something so charming in it, that I read it aloud: but how like a condemned criminal did I look, when my father, opening his study door, took me in the very fact; I dropped my book, and burst into tears, begging pardon; and promising never to do so again: but my sorrow was soon dispelled, when he bade me not be frightened, but read to him, which, to his great surprize, I did distinctly and without hurting the beauty of the numbers. Instead of the whipping, of which I stood in dread, he took me up in his arms and kissed me, giving me a whole shilling as a reward, and told me, he would give me another, as soon as I had got a poem by heart, which he put into my hand, and proved to be Mr. Pope's sacred eclogue, which task I performed before my mother returned home. They were both astonished at my memory, and from that day forward, I was permitted to read as much as I pleased, only my father furnished me with the best and politest authors, and took delight in explaining to me, whatever, by reason of my tender years, was above my capacity of understanding."
From a reader she quickly became a writer, and her performances were considered as extraordinary for her years. This, with a very engaging sprightliness, drew many admirers; and at length she became the wife of the Rev. Matthew Pilkington, a gentleman known in the poetical world by his volume of miscellanies, revised by Dean Swift. After she had been married some time, Mr. Pilkington grew jealous of her understanding; and her poetry, which when a lover he admired with raptures, was changed, when he became a husband, into an object of envy.
She was very ambitious of being known to Dean Swift, and obtained her desire in this manner. The anniversary of his birth-day being kept at the deanery, she wrote a copy of verses on the occasion, and inclosed them to Dr. Delany, who next day presented them to the dean: the dean kindly accepted her compliment, and said, "He would see her whenever she pleased." And in a day or two's time, she and her husband were invited, at the dean's request, to dine at Dr. Delany's, where he met them, and was so pleased with her conversation, that from that time she had free access to the deanery; where she had for several years after, all the opportunities she could desire of conversing with him upon all subjects; and it is allowed on all hands, that the description she has delineated of his character, his strange whims, humours, and oddities, is nearer the truth than that any other writer has given of him.
Mr. Alderman Barber being, in his turn, chosen lord mayor of London; from a former intimacy he had with the dean, he made him an offer to nominate his chaplain, and the dean recommended Mr. Pilkington, who with great joy accepted the place: this happened at the time when his jealousies of his wife's excelling him in poetry ran very high, and had greatly soured his temper towards her. After he had been some time at London, and growing at a distance in a better humour, he wrote her a very kind letter, and said that her verses were full of elegance and beauty; that Mr. Pope, to whom he had shewn them, longed to see the writer; and that he himself heartily wished her in London. She accepted the invitation, went, and when his chaplainship was expired, returned, but without him; the reason of his staying behind, was, as he pretended, the prospect of some preferment. But in a short time he and two booksellers were taken up for handing some treasonable poems to the press. On his being released, he let her know he would return to Ireland, but had no money to bear the expence. Upon which she prevailed on her father to send him a bill of 20 l. and then he came home.
Not long after this, an accident happened, which threw her affairs into great confusion. Her father was stabbed, she says, by accident, but many in Dublin, believed it was by his wife, though some said, by his own hand: Mr. Pilkington having now no farther expectation of a fortune by her, threw off all reserve in his behaviour, and wanted an opportunity to get rid of her, which soon offered itself, and shews at least great indiscretion, if not guilt on her side.
She came afterwards to England, and settled in London, where her story getting known by the means of Colley Cibber, she lived some time on contributions from the great; but these succours at length failing, was afterwards in the prison of the Marshalsea. After lying nine weeks here, she was released by the generosity of Mr. Cibber, and then, weary of attending on the great, she resolved to employ five guineas she had left, in trade; and accordingly taking a little shop in St. James's Street, furnished it with pamphlets and prints. How long she continued behind the counter is not said; but she has told us, that by the liberality of her friends, and the bounty of her subscribers, she was set above want, and that the autumn of her days was likely to be spent in peace and serenity. Whatever were her prospects, she lived not long to enjoy the comforts of this competence; in 1750, she died at Dublin, in the 39th year of her age.
Considered as a writer, she holds no mean rank. She was the author of The Turkish Court, or London Apprentice, a comedy, acted at Dublin, in 1748, but never printed. The first act of her tragedy, The Roman Father, was no ill specimen of her talents that way; and throughout her memoirs, which are written with great sprightliness and wit, are scattered many beautiful little pieces, written in the true spirit of poetry.