Memoirs of Laetitia Pilkington

Volume 3

My mother, before her death, had taken in a number of subscriptions in Ireland, and after her departure from life, as I was left quite destitute of money or friends, I was obliged to pursue the design of printing the volume; to which I was encouraged by several persons of real worth and distinction: but though I became indebted to the public, it was never in my power, to raise a sufficient sum to defray the expense of printing; but on the contrary, through the resentment of those, whom my mother had formerly described, I was not only basely traduced in my reputation, but plunged into a world of calamities, which I may, perhaps, at some time hereafter relate, together with the various passages of my life. However, amongst many accusations, that fell heavily on me, one was, that I had defrauded the public, by taking subscriptions to a work, which I not only had not a design of printing, but one that never existed, except in my imagination; as they were kind enough to declare, that my mother never wrote such a book.

Yet should I have been content, to have stood all this reproach, and much more, nay, as the subscribers were persons of fortune and humanity, whose contributions proceeded more from the desire of serving me, than a curiosity to see the book, I would have remained their debtor for ever, sooner than have brought such an affair over; but, that having a wife and family to support, and finding it impossible to obtain from my father the smallest succour, though I applied to him in the most submissive and pathetic manner: on the contrary, when I found him endeavouring to hurt me in the opinion of those, with whom I had some interest [*particularly the Lord Bishop of Derry, to whom I am much obliged.] I thought it but prudent, to acquit myself of the charge of dishonesty, by delivering the books to my benefactors, and at the same time, to endeavour to make as much as possible by it. To this end I came to London last October, but had not brought the manuscript with me, which was in the hands of Mr. Powell, printer in Dublin. I thought it prudent, not being overstocked with cash, to try how a subscription would take in London, before I ventured to pay a sum, which was due to Powell. I therefore printed proposals, and communicated my plan to Mr. Foote, who had, when in Ireland, professed a great friendship for me, (not without some cause) as will be seen hereafter. He highly approved my project, and assured me I might make a considerable sum by it; and that for his own part, he would get me at least a hundred subscribers, all which, not knowing the gentleman's real disposition, I sincerely believed. His farce of the Englishman in Paris, was at this time acting; and I ventured to write the following lines upon it, which I sent to him in a letter, and begged his permission, to insert them in the Daily Advertiser.

To Samuel Foote, Esq.; on seeing his Englishman in Paris

When brilliant merit justly claims applause,

Commands esteem, and admiration draws;

When every action suits to please mankind,

Delights the sense, and elevates the mind:

Each Bard enraptured should exalt his lays,

And gladly pay his tributary praise;

Yet British wits are silent when they see,

Thy last inimitable comedy;

In which, a spirit lives through every part,

That charms, that soothes, that captivates the heart.

'Tis thine, oh Foote, with a peculiar ease,

At once to lash, t'instruct us, and to please:

So sweet, yet poignant, all your satires flow,

That patiently from you our faults we know;

The dunce, the fribble, the affected wit,

Chastised by you, must silently submit.