Part 6

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."