m.

Any one who chanced to drop in at a certain coffee-house at Charing
Cross, kept by a Mr Fenton, in the days when the first George was King,
might--indeed, he could not have failed to--have made the acquaintance
of a "little witch" (as Swift called her) with a voice of gold, who was
destined one day to be a Duchess. This little elf with the merry eyes,
dancing feet, and the voice of an angel, was none other than Mrs
Fenton's daughter by a former husband, a naval officer, and the prime
favourite of all the wits and actors whom her fame drew to the
coffee-house.

She sang for her stepfather's customers, danced for them, charmed them
with her ready wit, and sent them into fits of laughter by her childish
drolleries. Of course there was only one career possible for her, they
all declared. She must go on the stage, and then she could not fail to
take London by storm. She had the best masters money could secure for
her; and when she reached her eighteenth birthday Lavinia Fenton made
her first curtsy on the Haymarket stage as Monimia, in _The Orphan_. Her
_debut_ was electrifying, sensational. Such beauty, such grace, such
wonderful acting were a revelation, a fresh stimulus to jaded appetites.
Within a few days she had London at her feet. She was the toast of the
gallants, the envy and despair of great ladies. Titled wooers tumbled
over each other in their eagerness to pay her homage; but Lavinia
laughed at them all. She knew her value; and her freedom was more to her
than luxury which had not the sanction of the wedding-ring.

Her real stage triumph, however, was yet to come. After appearing in the
_Beaux's Stratagem_ with brilliant success she was offered the part of
Polly Peachum in Gay's Opera, which was about to make its first bow to
the public. The salary was but fifteen shillings a week (afterwards
doubled); but the part was after Lavinia's own heart. For a few
intoxicating weeks she was the idol and rage of London; her picture
filled the windows of every print-shop; the greatest ladies had it
painted on their fans. Royalty smiled its sweetest on her.

Then, at the very zenith of her triumph, the startling news went
forth--"The Duke of Bolton has run away with Polly Peachum." And the
news was true. The popular idol, who had turned her back on so many
tempting offers, had actually run away with Charles Paulet, third Duke
of Bolton and Constable of the Tower of London; and the stage knew her
no more. For twenty-t