The title of this narrative intimates to the reader by a natural
inference, that its writer has spent more nights than one in that
abode of the unruly--a watchhouse. I will be candid, and admit the
fact, that twice during a pretty long and not unadventurous life, it
has been my lot to enjoy the security afforded by that refuge of the
vagrant. _Twice_ only--I confess to no more. The first of these
dilemmas I am about to speak of now--the second may form a subject of
future narration.
There are few of my readers who have not heard of the city of
Montreal, in the Province of Lower Canada, and fewer still who know
much of its peculiarities, social, political or architectural, on
which it is my design hereafter, supposing that I can keep on good
terms with Mr. White, to enlighten them--but not at present. Well, it
was my happiness, at an early period of my life, to reside in the good
city of Montreal. What carried me there, is my own affair, and I shall
merely say that I was neither a trader who cheated the poor Indians
out of their pelteries, a smuggler of teas and silks across the
frontier, a tin pedlar, nor a bank-note counterfeiter, all of which
classes often find it convenient to take up a temporary residence in
Canada. I was a wild ungovernable lad, with no parent or guardian to
direct me, left entirely to my own impulses, and unfortunately
enjoying the pecuniary means of assisting those impulses to bring me
into all manner of scrapes, from which it required much ingenuity to
extricate myself.
The long winters in Canada may convey to a southern reader an idea of
dreariness and discomfort, locked up as the people are in enduring
frosts--buried for months in continual snows--with one unvaried
monotony of dazzling white pervading the face of nature--the streams
fast sealed with "thick ribbed ice"--and a thermometer at from twenty
to thirty degrees below zero for weeks together. In short, a southern
fancy paints Old Winter, ruling with despotic sway, unrestrained by
the checks and balances which limit his authority in our more moderate
climate--usurping a portion of the nominal domains of autumn and
spring--and inflicting through his prime minister, Jack Frost, the
most rigorous exactions of a government of force, on the unresisting
people--penetrating into their dwellings at all hours, interfering
even in the mode of their dress, attending all their movements in town
or in country, and invariably assailing the lonely traveller on the
extended prairie or in the dreary forest. Such is undoubtedly the
picture which a southern imagination draws of a Canadian winter. But
social life can modify the worst extremes of nature's inclemency, and
find in the very evils of our condition sources of delight and
enjoyment. So far from suffering during the winters I spent in Canada,
I recall those joyous periods, when I was engaged in the constant
pursuit of gaiety and pleasure, and when care had no control over my
spirits as the brightest spots on the far off waste of memory.
How different were those winters from the fickle, capricious season
through which we have just passed. Poets and tourists have celebrated
the beauty of Italian skies. I have never seen them--but I can fancy
nothing brighter than the heavens in Canada, on a clear frosty night,
when every breath of vapor is absorbed and rarefied by the intensity
of the cold. Never have I realized in other countries the complete
distinctness with which each star comes forth in the azure vault--the
palpable suspension of each body of light in the field of air. In
other skies the stars and planets seem delineated on a ground of blue.
In a Canadian winter night you realize that each orb is in suspension,
moving and twinkling through the surrounding ether. This is difficult
to describe, and some who have not seen and _felt_ the glories of the
northern heavens as I have--aye, felt them in a double sense, gazing
upon them until my soul was wrapt into sublime ecstasy, and my
upturned nose frost bitten into the bargain--may think that I am
talking nonsense.
But the social delights of a Canadian winter are more to my purpose,
in disabusing the fancy of those who shiver when they think of these
hyperborean regions. Such tremors may be justified when we fancy a
winter tramp across the steppe of Russia, or a visit to a Koureen of
Zapojoreskies. But Canada--dear, delightful Canada! The gaieties of
thy long winters--the dancing--the driving--the dining--the
flirtation--the lovemaking, with which thy frosty months abound, might
keep warm the heart of a dweller underneath the tropics.
It was during the winter of 18--, that after a long cessation of
theatrical representations in Montreal, a new theatre, which had
recently been built, was opened under the management of Mr. T----,
with a company principally picked up from the northern theatres of the
United States. Since the performances of Prigmore's old company,
previous to the declaration of war, in which, I believe, George
Barrett, since a favorite in high comedy, was the Roscius, playing
Romeo, Hamlet, &c. and in which Fennel played as a star, there had
been no regular theatrical establishment in Montreal--although the
officers of the garrison gave occasional dramatic exhibitions, and the
young citizens sometimes enacted a play or two during a season. A
regular theatre was a new thing, and excited much attention. The
manager was perhaps the finest specimen of self-conceit that the world
ever saw.[1] He was a short stumpy kind of man, with a face of most
fixed character, which delineated all the passions with the self-same
expression. His smooth pert visage, lit up by two bead-like black
eyes, seemed so entirely contented with its natural expression, as to
render it unnecessary to assume any other. His voice, shrill and
guttural, emulated his face in its uniformity. He had a _game leg_,
about three inches shorter than its brother, which gave him a halt of
so decided a character as not to be disguised. Yet he believed himself
to be a most distinguished actor, and fully competent to the
representation of Richard III, (for which his lameness was often
quoted by him as a _natural_ advantage) and even the more youthful and
well favored heroes of Shakspeare. The vanity of this man might have
been harmless, had he not been the manager. But in that capacity it
interfered most wofully with the well ordering of affairs. The company
was by no means strong. A Mr. Baker played the high tragedy badly
enough. Mc---- and Richards shared the next grade, the former doing
the seconds in tragedy and the ruffians in melo-drama. Of this man I
must say something, as he is connected with my narrative. For some
misconduct, the nature of which I know not, he had been driven from
the stage in England several years before, and enlisted as a foot
soldier in the 40th regiment. As such, he served in Upper Canada
during the war with this country; and when he obtained his discharge
in Montreal, the theatre being about to open, he was engaged to
personate the Cassios, the Horatios, the Baron Steinforts, &c. If his
temper was ever amiable, it had gained nothing by his military
service. He was morose and troublesome; but as the company was
composed, useful and rather a favorite.
[Footnote 1: He was not only an actor, but a dramatist. He was, or
claimed to be, the author of "Rudolph, or the Robbers of Calabria," a
very tedious piece of Brigandism; and "One o'clock, or the Wood
Dæmon," almost a literal version of Monk Lewis's "Wood Dæmon." He used
to accuse Lewis of having stolen his melo-drama, and told a long and
rather incomprehensible story of the manner in which the theft was
perpetrated. He also wrote a play called "Valdemar, or the German
Exiles," which was performed in the new theatre, at the period alluded
to in my story, and possessed, I think, soma little merit. Besides
being actor and play wright, he was a scene-painter, and kept a tavern
in the good city of Montreal.]
Of the females I shall notice but one, as she is to be the heroine of
my story for the present, and as, but for her, (like Mr. Canning's
needy knife-grinder) I should have no story to tell. What shall I call
her? Not by her _real name_ surely--for she has since held a high rank
among the heroines of the stage. I will call her _Fenella_; leaving
the curious to guess her real name, while I assure them that she is an
actual entity, whose performances I doubt not, many of my readers have
frequently admired. She was then an interesting woman of about twenty.
There was something a little mysterious in the circumstances under
which she made her first appearance in Montreal, which rendered her
the more attractive. She had with her an infant child; and yet she was
advertised as a _Miss!_ Shocking inferences were of course drawn among
the censorious; and sensations of a different description encouraged
the loose and licentious young men about town, to suppose that this
living indication of Fenella's frailty was a guarantee of the success
of their unhallowed addresses. Those who knew her, told a curious
story of her adventures in ----, the turn of which had driven her to a
temporary exile in Canada. The substance of the story was this: She
was the daughter of a poor widow, who earned her living by her needle.
Fenella was, when very young, remarkable for the beauty and vivacity
of her countenance, the grace of her figure, and an intelligence
beyond her advantages. An ambition to rise from her humble condition,
tempted her to resort to the stage. She appeared and was applauded,
for she exhibited true signs of talent of no common order. She was
engaged, but filled a subordinate station for two or three years. The
management of the ---- theatre changed during this period, and the old
gentleman who had assumed the duties of manager, was not long in
perceiving the merits of Fenella as an actress, while her personal
attractions awakened within him the remnant of amatory fire which time
had not extinguished, and subjected her to the unseasonable ecstatics
of a sexagenary lover. This part of her good fortune had few charms
for a sprightly girl of seventeen. But the ancient manager had a son,
who, while he equalled the old gentleman in the perception of female
attractions, had far greater charms in the eyes of the females
themselves, being a handsome well built fellow, and having had some
practice in the delicate task of making himself agreeable to the _beau
sexe_. It so turned out, that, while the old gentleman was making an
inquiry into the state of his feelings towards the pretty young
actress, which ultimately induced him to persecute her on all
occasions with his protestations of passion, the young man had
actually made successful advances to the discriminating fair one, and
had so far succeeded as to create a reciprocal sentiment in her
breast. They had betrothed themselves, (or as we tamely say, _were
engaged_,) but the old gentleman's passion for Fenella, was a serious
obstacle to their happiness. His temper was irascible, and he required
submission from all beneath him to his most unreasonable fancies. His
son was naturally desirous of avoiding his anger, and having
discovered the state of his father's feelings, he was desirous of
keeping secret the true state of affairs. In this dilemma, the young
couple decided upon a private marriage. Even after that event, her
husband thought it advisable to avoid a rupture with his father; but
when, in the natural course of things, Fenella was about to become a
mother, the secret could no longer be kept, unless by her absenting
herself from ----. She therefore left her husband, and entered upon a
temporary engagement in Montreal.
Such was the story then told, and believed by all the charitable
portion of Fenella's admirers. I believed it then, and have had some
reason since to think it true, as, after remaining two years in
Canada, she returned to ---- and joined her reputed husband, lived
with him for several years, until his death, and bears his name to
this day.
Like other young men, I was fond of the theatre, and visited it
frequently. I was a great admirer of Fenella as an actress, but had no
acquaintance with her during her first season. Several of my young
friends were enlisted among her adorers, a numerous train, embracing
all ages, from the beardless boy to the bachelor of threescore. As far
as my observation extended, the managed this retinue of lovers with
great adroitness. To the young, she talked sentimentally, and excited
their fancy--with the old, she was prudent, and went just far enough
to retain their homage without committing herself. I had often rallied
Harry Selden, an inflammable young friend of mine, upon his hopeless
passion, for he was desperately enamored of the bewitching actress. He
confessed his lamentable infatuation, but insisted that I was only
secured from a similar fate by the distance which I kept from the
sphere of her attractions. This opinion I combated, and one evening,
when he proposed to test my stoicism by taking me to Fenella's
lodgings after the play was ended, I was too confident that I could
not be caught by the same snare in which he was entangled, to refuse
the challenge, and readily agreed to his proposition. We went to the
theatre, and Selden having presented me to her in the green room, we
accepted Fenella's invitation to see her home, and partake of a _petit
souper_ at her apartments.
It is proper perhaps, that I should here describe the lady, according
to the regular rules of tale writing, although as I have no great
talent in that line of description, I shall undoubtedly make a
bungling business of it. Fenella was rather above the middle height,
uncommonly well made, and her form fully developed that graceful
outline which denotes the full grown woman, in contradistinction to
the more angular symmetry of girlhood. Her face was oval, so much so
that there was something Chinese in its contour, although in nothing
else: her hair was a light chestnut, and so exuberant in its growth as
to contribute materially to her beauty. Her eyes were blue, bright and
sparkling when her fancy was excited, or languid and voluptuous when
at rest. But the mouth of this attractive creature was the prime
beauty of her countenance. It is difficult to imbody in words the
varied charms that played about her ripe and tempting lips. Certainly
I had better not attempt it. I will therefore leave my gentleman
readers to finish the sketch, by imagining the prettiest and most
attractive woman of their acquaintance--not _absolutely_ a beauty--and
I think they will have a correct idea of Fenella.
I was too young to have known much of women, but I was sternly
resolved not to be overcome. Fancy me then _téte à téte_ with Fenella
and my friend Selden, supping on cold tongue, and sipping white
sherry. At first I felt uneasy, but was still sure I should brave all
consequences. Gradually as I looked upon the animated countenance of
my hostess, the ice of my reserve was thawed, for my apparent coldness
seemed to have inspired her with the determination to warm me into
sentiments more complimentary at least to her powers of fascination. I
afterwards learned that Selden had betrayed to her my ridicule of the
devotion of her admirers. It was therefore merely natural that she
should have resolved to rank me in the number. Nor had she misjudged
her power, or the softness of my nature. I melted beneath her smile,
like wax before the flame--and ere we rose from the table I had become
aware of a new and indefinable sensation towards her: all I can say of
it is, that it was not _love_, although it had a close affinity to
that passion.
The freedom and ease of her conversation was new to me. She spoke of
her numerous lovers without embarrassment, and in some instances with
no little sarcasm; but she constantly qualified her raillery by
confessing that they were _good souls_, and alluded to the presents
which they made her in the most amiable terms.
Time rolled on, and a month or two found me a constant visiter at the
lodgings of Fenella. I then flattered myself that I was a favorite. I
gallanted her frequently to the theatre, and waiting in the green room
until she had changed her dress, attended her home, supped with her,
and often prolonged my stay to a late hour. I never talked love to
her--for I did not _know how_--and she had so much experience in that
matter that I feared I should make myself ridiculous. Her power over
me was complete, yet I cannot charge her with having exerted it in a
single instance unfairly. Her whole design against me seemed to have
been confined to the excitement of a degree of admiration commensurate
with her personal attractions. At that point she appeared satisfied;
but as I grew in intimacy with her she shewed herself sincerely my
friend, frequently checking my fool hardy impetuosity, and giving me
good advice, which might have come with a better grace from the less
lovely lips of my aunt Deborah. I soon accommodated my sentiments and
conduct to those of Fenella, and while I became her most devoted
friend, I dropped entirely the character and feelings of a lover. A
tacit understanding soon became established between us; and I was
admitted to liberties in my new character, which I could have enjoyed
in no other. These familiarities were misunderstood by my friends; but
in spite of their firm belief, there was nothing amatory in our
intercourse.
About this time Fenella's benefit at the theatre was announced, an
event of some importance to her, as the second season of the theatre
had been particularly unproductive, and the limping manager had failed
almost entirely to pay the salaries of his performers. I think Douglas
was the play selected by her, in which she was to personate Lady
Randolph; and in order to the effective _cast_ of the piece, it was
essential that Mc---- should perform Glenalvon. He had frequently
treated Fenella with rudeness, and evidently disliked her; he objected
to the part assigned him, and absented himself from the rehearsals of
the tragedy. But as he was notoriously a devotee of the bottle, and
frequently remiss in his duty, little was thought of his absence. The
benefit night arrived; the time came for the curtain to rise; but no
Glenalvon had appeared behind the scenes; and it was soon made known
that Mc---- had not studied the part, and would not appear that night.
The house was crowded; and to Fenella's great mortification, it was
necessary that some other performer should _read the part_. This was
done, and the play came off lamely enough.
Fenella was not destitute of spirit, and she resented this affront in
the proper manner. Mc----'s benefit took place a few weeks after, and
she resolutely refused to play for him. As she was the only actress in
the company possessing any claim to talent, it was impossible to
_cast_ a piece without her; and the consequence of her name being
absent from the bills for Mc----'s benefit was, that no one attended,
or so few as to render it a most irksome task to go through the
performances. The rage of the disappointed beneficiary was boundless:
he vowed that he would be revenged upon Fenella for the injury she had
done him, although in just resentment of an affront for which he
deserved no better treatment.
Mc---- was a good draughtsman, and frequently sketched figures with
great accuracy. He resorted to his pencil as the instrument of his
revenge, and caricatured Fenella with so much skill, that while no one
could mistake the original of the sketch, the incongruities of the
details were such as to render it highly ludicrous.
The chief quality of a caricature seems to be _disproportion_--an
unfitness of parts to each other. Simple exaggeration does not suffice
to produce the effect desired, for if all the details of the picture
be equally exaggerated, it may present a disagreeable likeness, but it
does not produce that deep sense of the ridiculous which arises from
an incongruous classification of the details. This rule is perhaps
better tested than any other, by the _reductio ad absurdum_, and it is
well illustrated by those extravagant French prints, in which heads of
enormous comparative dimensions are placed upon bodies and limbs
ridiculously diminutive, the effect of the disproportion being
heightened by the accessaries of dress, &c. This is perhaps the most
extravagant kind of caricature, but it requires far less skill than
those sketches in which the more minute incongruities of features,
form and costume, are resorted to. These sometimes exhibit much
graphic ability, and it is a curious fact, that in pictures of this
kind, where every feature is distorted, the strongest likenesses are
sometimes preserved.[2] It is _truth_ presented through the medium of
the ludicrous. Like the burlesque in writing, which exhibits an
argument even more forcibly, because it presents the whole matter in a
ridiculous light. But I am forgetting my story.
[Footnote 2: Some striking examples of this have been produced by the
French caricaturists, who, though far inferior to their English
brethren in broad humor, excel them in the subtilty of their
conceptions. I remember a series of prints representing Charles X and
his ministers, in the forms of various beasts. The king was personated
by the _Giraffe_, then exhibiting at the _Jardin des plantes_ in
Paris--the ministers by other animals, whose instinctive qualities
were intended to represent the several characteristics of those
dignitaries. For instance, as well as I remember, the Fox played
Prince Polignac, the Wolf, Count Peyronnet, &c. to indicate the
cunning and rapacity of those ministers. The accuracy of the
likenesses in those prints was remarkable. I believe Louis Phillippe
and his ministers have more recently been shewn up in a similar
manner.]
I had not seen Fenella for several days, when passing along St. Paul
street one morning, I met an acquaintance, who accosted me with,
"Bless me, Pertinax, where have you been so long? I was last evening
at Fenella's, and she actually hinted a suspicion of your defection
from her cause."
"Why to tell you the truth Nichols, I have absented myself with
_malice prepense_."
"She is of that opinion, and takes it unkindly of you, that while she
is suffering so much vexation, you of all others, who neither flatter
nor make love to her, should prove recreant."
"Vexation! what do you mean?"
"Come, come, you will not pretend that you know of nothing which
should annoy her, when the cause of her annoyance is the talk of the
whole town."
"Nothing whatsoever--I know of nothing that could give her uneasiness,
unless that stupid Lord William Lenox[3] has been besieging her again.
I saw him driving a tandem carriole this morning. Perhaps he drove to
her lodgings and worried her with his vapid talk."
[Footnote 3: This sprig of nobility, is the third son of the Duke of
Richmond, who was then Governor of the Canadas. At that early period,
Lord William had made himself notorious by the seduction of a married
woman, whom he kept as a mistress for some time. The people of
Montreal were much scandalized at that affair. He has since become
well known to the world by his marriage with the celebrated singer,
Miss Paton,--by squandering her earnings in the most profligate
manner, and by his divorce from her. The lady is better known in this
country as Mrs. Wood, and under that name her singing has been
universally admired here. Lord William's last enterprise, it appears,
is a theatrical one--as the English newspapers state that he is now
the manager of a provincial theatre.]
"Nonsense! She has not seen Lord William for a week."
"Well, what _is_ the matter then?"
"And you really have not heard?"
"I tell you I have heard nothing of the kind."
"And you have not seen Selden, nor Seymour, nor Marryatt, nor
Cleaveland."
"Neither of them for two days. I have been a perfect hermit, shut up
among my books, during that period."
"And you have heard nothing of a caricature?"
"Out upon you--caricature! No!"
"You surprise me. Well, I must be the first to inform you, that Mc----
has put his threat of revenge into execution, by making our friend the
subject of a caricature, confoundedly well done, and striking in its
resemblance, but so ludicrous that it is impossible to resist laughing
at it. Here it is"--and he produced the sketch.
Fenella's costume was peculiar, although no way extravagant. During
the winter, her street dress was a tight fitting blue cloth pelisse,
trimmed in front with gold buttons, with two or three on the waist
behind; a black fur tippet round the throat, and a black fur bonnet
and feather. The picture did not shew her face, but represented her
moving from the spectator. The dress was a perfect copy, and the
figure could not be mistaken; but the skill of the artist had given to
it the most masculine character, and the posture was so ludicrously
vulgar, as to produce great effect. Indignant as I was at this
dastardly method of casting ridicule on an amiable woman, I could not
but be sensible of the talent which had rendered a mere figure so
extremely ridiculous.
"And where did you get this, Nichols?" said I.
"Oh, they are to be had for money. This is the first that was
exhibited. Passing by the barber's shop just below the City Hotel,
yesterday morning, I saw it in the window, and purchased it for the
modest sum of two crowns. Before night another was exhibited, and
bought by Cleaveland for three crowns; and this morning another copy
appeared, which Selden bought for _five_. The rascal rises in his
price at every repetition, and is in a fair way to make up for the
loss at his benefit. There is another in the window now, and if we
pass that way you may see it. Our object in buying them was to get
them out of the way, for you cannot conceive how much annoyed Fenella
is, at this vulgar representation of her figure. But as long as we
buy, Mc---- will produce copies."
"Come along. I will have some talk with this barber"--and we made our
way to the shop, at the window of which, as Nichols had stated, the
picture hung, while a crowd of idlers were stopping to laugh at this
ridiculous effigy of a popular actress.
We entered the shop and demanded the price of the caricature.
"Ten dollars," was the reply.
"Have you the audacity," said I, "to demand such a sum for a daub like
this?"
"I have."
"And how do you rate its value so high?"
"By the demand for it. I have not an article in my shop that commands
so ready a sale. Those who buy know the intrinsic value of the picture
better than I do. I only judge of it by the price which it will
bring"--said the fellow with a roguish smile, which tempted me to
knock him down.
"Well," said I, "you have killed the golden goose this time, or I am
mistaken. You shall not sell another of them if I can prevent it."
"Oh I have no fear of that. The lady herself will buy them, rather
than allow them to hang long in my window."
"You are an impertinent varlet, and I trust will be chastised as you
deserve."
I should have said more; but Nichols hurried me away, lest my hot
temper should get me into some awkward scrape--and we walked to
Fenella's lodgings.
What happened there and afterwards, must be deferred to another
chapter, when the reader shall be introduced into the watchhouse, and
his curiosity gratified in regard to my sojourn there.
For the Southern Literary Messenger.