Not long after this an accident happened, which threw Mrs. Pilkington's affairs into the utmost confusion. Her father was stabbed, as she has related, by an accident, but many people in Dublin believe, by his own wife, though some say, by his own hand. Upon this melancholy occasion, Mrs. Pilkington has given an account of her father, which places her in a very amiable light. She discovered for him the most filial tenderness; she watched round his bed, and seems to have been the only relation then about him, who deserved his blessing. From the death of her father her sufferings begin, and the subsequent part of her life is a continued series of misfortunes.
Mr. Pilkington having now no expectation of a fortune by her, threw off all reserve in his behaviour to her. While Mrs. Pilkington was in the country for her health, his dislike of her seems to have encreased, and, perhaps, he resolved to get rid of his wife at any rate: nor was he long waiting for an occasion of parting with her. The story of their separation may be found at large in her Memoirs. The substance is, that she was so indiscreet as to permit a gentleman to be found in her bed-chamber at an unseasonable hour; for which she makes this apology. 'Lovers of learning I am sure will pardon me, as I solemnly declare, it was the attractive charms of a new book, which the gentleman would not lend me, but consented to stay till I read it through, that was the sole motive of my detaining him.' This indeed is a poor evasion; and as Mrs. Pilkington has said no more in favour of her innocence, they must have great charity indeed with whom she can stand exculpated.
While the gentleman was with her, the servants let in twelve men at the kitchen window, who, though they might, as she avers, have opened the chamber door, chose rather to break it to pieces, and took both her and the gentleman prisoners. Her husband now told her, that she must turn out of doors; and taking hold of her hand, made a present of it to the gentleman, who could not in honour refuse to take her, especially as his own liberty was to be procured upon no other terms. It being then two o'clock in the morning, and not knowing where to steer, she went home with her gallant: but she sincerely assures us, that neither of them entertained a thought of any thing like love, but sat like statues 'till break of day.
The gentleman who was found with her, was obliged to fly, leaving a letter and five guineas inclosed in it for her. She then took a lodging in some obscure street, where she was persecuted by infamous women, who were panders to men of fortune.
In the mean time Mr. Pilkington carried on a vigorous prosecution against her in the Spiritual Court; during which, as she says, he solemnly declared, he would allow her a maintainance, if she never gave him any opposition: but no sooner had he obtained a separation, than he retracted every word he had said on that subject. Upon this she was advised to lodge an appeal, and as every one whom he consulted, assured him he would be cast, he made a proposal of giving her a small annuity, and thirty pounds[2] in money; which, in regard to her children, she chose to accept, rather than ruin their father. She was with child at the time of her separation, and when her labour came on, the woman where she lodged insisted upon doubling her rent: whereupon she was obliged to write petitionary letters, which were not always successful.
Having passed the pains and peril of childbirth, she begged of Mr. Pilkington to send her some money to carry her to England; who, in hopes of getting rid of her, sent her nine pounds. She was the more desirous to leave Ireland, as she found her character sinking every day with the public. When she was on board the yacht, a gentleman of figure in the gay world took an opportunity of making love to her, which she rejected with some indignation. 'Had I (said she) accepted the offers he made me, poverty had never approached me. I dined with him at Parkgate, and I hope virtue will be rewarded; for though I had but five guineas in the world to carry me to London, I yet possessed chastity enough to refuse fifty for a night's lodging, and that too from a handsome well-bred man. I shall scarcely ever forget his words to me, as they seemed almost prophetic. "Well, madam, said he, you do not know London; you will be undone there." "Why, sir, said I, I hope you don't imagine I will go into a bad course of life?" "No, madam, said he, but I think you will sit in your chamber and starve;" which, upon my word, I have been pretty near doing; and, but that the Almighty raised me one worthy friend, good old Mr. Cibber, to whose humanity I am indebted, under God, both for liberty and life, I had been quite lost.'
When Mrs. Pilkington arrived in London, her conduct was the reverse of what prudence would have dictated. She wanted to get into favour with the great, and, for that purpose, took a lodging in St. James's Street, at a guinea a week; upon no other prospect of living, than what might arise from some poems she intended to publish by subscription. In this place she attracted the notice of the company frequenting White's Chocolate-House; and her story, by means of Mr. Cibber, was made known to persons of the first distinction, who, upon his recommendation, were kind to her.
Her acquaintance with Mr. Cibber began by a present she made him of The Trial of Constancy, a poem of hers, which Mr. Dodsley published. Mr. Cibber, upon this, visited her, and, ever after, with the most unwearied zeal, promoted her interest. The reader cannot expect that we should swell this volume by a minute relation of all the incidents which happened to her, while she continued a poetical mendicant. She has not, without pride, related all the little tattle which passed between her and persons of distinction, who, through the abundance of their idleness, thought proper to trifle an hour with her.
Her virtue seems now to have been in a declining state; at least, her behaviour was such, that a man, must have extraordinary faith, who can think her innocent. She has told us, in the second volume of her Memoirs, that she received from a noble person a present of fifty pounds. This, she says, was the ordeal, or fiery trial; youth, beauty, nobility of birth, attacking at once the most desolate person in the world. However, we find her soon after this thrown into great distress, and making various applications to persons of distinction for subscriptions to her poems. Such as favoured her by subscribing, she has repaid with most lavish encomiums, and those that withheld that proof of their bounty, she has sacrificed to her resentment, by exhibiting them in the most hideous light her imagination could form.
From the general account of her characters, this observation results, That such as she has stigmatized for want of charity, ought rather to be censured for want of decency. There might be many reasons, why a person benevolent in his nature, might yet refuse to subscribe to her; but, in general, such as refused, did it (as she says) in a rude manner, and she was more piqued at their deficiency in complaisance to her, than their want of generosity. Complaisance is easily shewn; it may be done without expence; it often procures admirers, and can never make an enemy. On the other hand, benevolence itself, accompanied with a bad grace, may lay us under obligations, but can never command our affection. It is said of King Charles I. that he bestowed his bounty with so bad a grace, that he disobliged more by giving, than his son by refusing; and we have heard of a gentleman of great parts, who went to Newgate with a greater satisfaction, as the judge who committed him accompanied the sentence with an apology and a compliment, than he received from his releasment by another, who, in extending the King's mercy to him, allayed the Royal clemency by severe invectives against the gentleman's conduct.