66

nour be revealed. As for the young actress, she regarded her noble lover as Helena viewed Bertram, but as a bright particular star, in whose radiance and collateral light she must be comforted, not in his sphere he was so much above her."

Still did she nightly appear, and as often did her enamoured lover take his accustomed place, whence he "gazed on the fair who caused his care," till, at length, it became evident not only to him, but to other frequenters, that the songs in which the sentiment was applicable to her particular feelings were sung in a faltering voice and with a tremulous air; especially that wherein Gay's heroine exclaims"Alas! poor Polly! alack and well-aday!

Before I was in love, every month was May!"

Alas, Poor Polly! may be echoed by our reader. She was deeply, dangerously attached. Her friends became alarmed; her unsuccessful suitors despaired; and her manager, not the least interested of the general observers, saw his treasure escaping. Admonitory age was not slow to warn; jealousy to reprove; nor envy, as well as prudence, to condemn. But "when love's strong passion is impressed on youth, neither counsel nor wisdom can remove it ;" and after all the glorious triumphs over feeling and circumstance--the season of her probation finished-heart-touched, she surrendered the good name so long and virtuously sustained, and at the close of the theatre in July, left self, friends, and all, for love !-resigning all mastery over her better nature to become the mistress of a married man!* On the first certainty of what had long been dreaded, "infinite tongues" were busy in conjecture as to what probable compact Miss Fenton had made with her noble lover under these deplored circumstances, as it was understood she did not mean to return to the stage; and Swift, writing from vague report, says, in a letter, dated July 6th, 1728:-"The Duke of Bolton has run away with Polly Peachum, having settled four hundred per year on her, during pleasure, and upon disagreement, two hundred more."

Whether any such terms existed could never be ascertained, for no "disagreement" or separation took place. The Duke was not merely in love with Miss Fenton, but, as his after conduct proved, really loved her. It is equally evident that her devotion to him was of equal measure and weight. Their mutual attachment-sudden and unpremeditated-was coeval with their first meeting, and though no oral confession on either side was made for some time after, yet when two hearts spontaneously join, they will discourse, though tongues were out of use, and speak their own meaning. The Duke had, in truth, no occasion to make love to Miss Fenton, he found it readymade; therefore it required no "oaths (those servants of deceitful men)" to bind him; and we are not disposed to add a feather's weight to her trespass by imputing to her the more deliberate infamy of haggling for the price of her dishonour. We have previously shewn that she was proof against such bribes, and it is therefore more natural, as well as charitable, to suppose that no sordid conditions were annexed to her self-sacrifice; and when he, a suitor, cried

"Say thou art mine, and ever

My love, as it begins, shall so persever,"

If any extenuation may be received for such a violation of sacred commandment, it may be urged that this nobleman had been virtually separated from his wife before he became attached to Miss Fenton.

he kept his word, proving himself throughout his life a man of such "uncoined constancy" that neither in word nor act was he ever known to deviate from that deep and fervent affection which had led them both into so indefensible a position. For twenty-three years, the most valuable portion of her life, Miss Fenton was strictly devoted to privacy, lost to society, and her own approval, residing with the Duke more like a respected wife than a mistress. Such was her external propriety of demeanour and conduct, that-apart from the crime of attaching herself to a married man-she provoked no malice, neither excited open reproach from those whose strict principles could not fail to condemn her situation, and shun her society.

"Coronets are stars, and sometimes falling ones."

The Duke, however, ultimately made what reparation for his share of the error he had power to make,—a reparation of doubtful sufficiency in most cases of the kind, and rarely efficacious. In the present instance, however, it proved otherwise, possibly from the less rigorous morality of that period. His Duchess dying in 1751, he immediately married Miss Fenton, whose long trespass against the laws of propriety and religion seemed all at once buried in the tomb of the departed; and the now Duchess of Bolton, emerging from her long seclusion, sustained her acquired rank for nine years with dignified simplicity, unmixed with the slightest arrogance; never seeming to forget that she owed her elevation to good fortune, and the rare constancy and generosity of her noble husband, whom she had the misfortune to outlive. Doomed to experience

"That life-long pang the widowed spirit bears ;"

with her lost lord, health also left her. Under this twofold bereavement, in a rapid, and what may be termed premature, decay of life, she was sent to Tonbridge Wells for the benefit of their waters. There she became acquainted with a medical gentleman, from whose skill she derived, as she believed, much alleviation to her complaint, and which belief induced her to engage his permanent attendance. During this arrangement a sudden and unexpected crisis took place in the Duchess's disorder, and she hastily made her will while in the last extremity of suffering, when gratitude for upwards of two years' professional devotion, to the exclusion of all other practice and emolument, prompted the dying woman to bequeath to him a large sum as compensation and reward for his services,-a no uncommon result of such compacts, when sickness has been long soothed by particular medical skill and attention.* This act gave to Horace Walpole, in one of his delightful letters to Sir Horace Mann, a theme upon which to exercise his characteristic pleasantry, with some implied censure upon the Duchess's final disposition of her money. But Horace Walpole could not forego his jest even upon the most serious events, especially in communications which he intended to be kept from the public eye, until himself, and those he wrote upon, would be insensible to the good or evil report of mankind. He mentions the death of this remarkable woman in the same spirit of badinage as that in which he announces the occurrence of a national calamity, communicated in the following terms:

The bequest of the aged Duke of Queensberry some years ago, to his private apothecary, was of a similar character.

"Don't you," said he, "like the impertinence of the Dutch? They have lately had a mud-quake, and giving themselves terra firma airs, call it an earthquake !" In the same letter (I think) he gives the following version of our heroine's demise "Well! I have heard of another honest lawyer! The famous Polly, Duchess of Bolton, is dead, having, after a life of merit, relapsed into her Pollyhood. Two years ago, ill at Tonbridge, she picked up an Irish surgeon. When she was dying, this fellow sent for a lawyer to make her will; but the man, finding who was to be her heir instead of her children, refused to draw it. The Court of Chancery did furnish another less scrupulous, and her three sons have but a thousand pounds a-piece, the surgeon nine thousand."

In this disposition of the Duchess's money there certainly was a great disproportion; but who can say whether it was unjust or not? In such cases, man sees the act, God the motive. This person, by his entire devotion to his noble patient, had probably made serious pecuniary sacrifices, past and prospective, in order to give his undivided attention to her peculiar case. This the Duchess doubtless considered, and at the so sudden approach of death, perhaps in the fulness of her gratitude, gave more than, in greater vigour of mind as well as body, she might have deemed necessary. The witty chronicler of this effect of " Poor human ruins tottering o'er the grave," implies but a mental falling off; yet his remark was unkind. As to the legacies left by the Duchess to her sons, they were probably as much as they wished and expected, and more than their fortunes required. But we all know the responsibilities of an established wit; once acknowledged a wit, his fancy is slave-bound "for aye." Whether as a talker or writer, he has still a character to sustain; like the face of a confessed beauty, his mind must always be seen en beau.* Walpole would not tell any story without a point, and in the absence of any other, the Pollyhood was irresistible, though candour might have spared it.

We cannot better conclude the account of this extraordinary woman than by adding the following posthumous eulogium (the sincerity of which cannot be doubted), passed upon her by Dr. Joseph Walton, and which may be found in a note subjoined to one of Swift's letters to Gay.

"She was," says he, "a very accomplished and most agreeable companion; had much wit, strong good sense, and a just taste in polite literature. Her person was agreeable and well made, though I think she could never be called a beauty. I have had the pleasure of being at table with her, when her conversation was much admired by the first characters of the age, particularly of old Lord Bathurst and Lord Granville."

The Duchess of Bolton was buried at Greenwich with all appropriate honours, in the year 1760, at the age of fifty-two.

The late Mr. Colman, whose conversation was so sparkling and epigrammatic, had never courage to appear in society when his health or spirits were not in full force. The consciousness of what was expected from him impelled too frequently excuses, even at the eleventh hour, for non-appearance, to the severe disappointment of those who reckoned upon his delightful society.

THE DAMNED SOULS.

BY W. G. J. BARKER, ESQ.

The Turks have a belief that in the craw of "the never-resting halcyon " -(yet kovan), the souls of the damned perpetually wander.

"On the Dardanelles, and especially on the Bosphorus, the passing and repassing of the little brown birds, the halcyons voyageurs,' or ‹ âmes damnées,' is incessant. They are never seen to pause in their course, and are rarely known to rest; but they bend their heads down, and pick up their food as they skim along the surface of the water in their everlasting flight."-COUNTESS GROSVENOR'S Yacht Voyage in the Mediterranean, vol. i. p. 278.

THEY have quitted human life,
Passion's never-ceasing strife,
Hope, and hate, and empty folly,
Joy, and grief, and melancholy,-
But they find no rest,

Though the flesh hath lost the hold
That it had on them of old :-

Why are they unblest?

Were they number'd with the great,
Envied sons of power and state,
Robed in garments brought afar,
Deck'd with gold of Istakar,

And the diamond's blaze?
Were they rank'd among the poor,
Suppliant at each wealthy door,

All their weary days?

There are both :-- the hungry grave
Gathers sultaun, gathers slave;
Rich and poor alike fall low
Before Azrael's dreaded bow,
In its destined hour;

All must pass Al-Sirat's ridge,
And, escaped that dizzy bridge,

Bend to Monkir's power.

These were of each class and clime
From the very birth of Time,
Who perversely went astray,
Leaving Virtue's narrow way

For an evil path.
Upon earth they had their will;
Mourning now, they quaff their fill
Of the cup of wrath.

For they made a boast of sin-
Eblis reign'd their hearts within,
And his bidding foul they wrought,
To themselves with ruin fraught,
And a dire dismay;
Therefore, from communion thrust
With the spirits of the just,

Damned souls are they.

Hell is not confined to space :
It pervadeth every place

Banks of the Yore.

Throughout wide creation's bound
Where a guilty wretch is found,
In his heart contending;

'Tis remembrance of the past,
Join'd with sense of woe, to last
Ages never ending.

Neither do those lost ones dwell,
Always pent in dungeon cell
Of that sad and rueful pit
Where the fiends in torments sit;—
They revisit earth:

Wandering with the wandering bird,
Still their wailings may be heard

Where they sinn'd with mirth.

Ne'er does the "yet kovan” rest,
Never does she build a nest;
On the wave she springs to life,
Rock'd amid its stormy strife,
On its breast she dies;
And with her, although unseen,
Writhing under tortures keen,
A doom'd spirit flies.

Oh! more dreadful such a lot,
Thus reviewing each loved spot,
Vex'd with agony undying,
Whence there is no hope of flying,
Than to lie fast bound

By an adamantine chain,
Fix'd for ever to remain

In hell's depth profound.

This the damned souls endure,
Smitten with a vengeance sure,
For the laws of Allah broken,
Guilt imagined, done, or spoken,
For the Prophet's word unprized,
For the Holy Faith despised;-
Men of pious heart,
When the "yet kovan" flits by,
Fervent pray, with downcast eye,
They may be prepared to die,
And find a better part.

SKETCHES OF LEGENDARY CITIES AND TOWNS. BY LOUISA STUART COSTELLO.

HEREFORD.

HEREFORD, though it has the character of being peculiarly dull, an accusation generally brought against cathedral towns,-is so finely situated, so handsomely built, and its glorious church so magnificent, that I can scarcely agree that it deserves to be so designated :-at least, to a visitor, the place is full of interest; and the pleasure it can afford in its charming walks, and the sublime aspect of one of the most perfect specimens of early architecture in the kingdom, cannot fail to enlist a stranger in its cause.

The best view of the town is from a rising ground on the road to Ross, whence the majestic tower of the Cathedral and the spires of the other venerable places of worship appear to great advantage. It reminds me of Bourges, the position of the town being not unlike, although Hereford certainly has the advantage in some respects, standing higher, and in a more beautiful country. The golden vale of Hereford, through which runs its sparkling river, is in spring one mass of many-coloured flowers, which enamel the luxuriant meadows as far as the eye can reach; the hills are everywhere covered with coppice-woods, and waving corn-fields spread out their riches in gorgeous display. The hop-that most beautiful of all twining plants, the rival of the vine-here vies with Kent in richness, and throws its graceful garlands over wide tracts which they adorn, sharing the fame of the celebrated orchards, whose produce has illustrated the name of Herefordshire.

In the season of blossoms, the apple and pear-trees in this county present a wilderness of bloom; and, when these are matured, the rich aspect of their crimson and gold fruit makes the stranger imagine that he has strayed into the jewelled region where Aladdin sought his lamp. No wonder that Merlin the bard was enamoured of his unrivalled apple-trees, and laments the destruction of his orchard by an enemy in the most moving strains; for the inexpressible beauty of these valuable and ornamental groves is greater than any other can present the orange itself, in spite of its perfumed flowers, sacred to wedded love, and its fruit of sunny glow amidst its shining metallic leaves, is scarcely so attractive.

What riches are in these extensive and lovely orchards !—whether the apples be the golden pippen, the redstreak, the red, white, and yellow musk, the forwhelp, or dymock-red, or those called the ten commandments, that furnish the "juice divine," whose praises are sung by Philips in inflated measures, and by the Norman poet, Basselin, in strains worthy of Anacreon. No wonder that the exquisite liquor produced by this immortal fruit, famous from all time, should, as the poet of cyder exclaims, be loved by "the peasants blithe," who

"Will quaff, and whistle, as their tinkling team
They drive, and sing of Fusca's radiant eyes,
Pleased with the medley draught."

Nor is the perry, furnished by the luscious pears of this county, less to be boasted-whether produced from the squash, the oldfield, the