BURTON IN NEW YORK.
1848-1856.
Palmo's Opera-House was built in 1842, and, according to Wemyss' Chronology, was the sixteenth theatre erected in New York. It was built by Ferdinand Palmo, and designed for the presentation of Italian opera. To Palmo, it is said, belongs the honor of having first introduced that department of music in the city. In 1844 he opened with "Lucia di Lammermoor"; but the support given to his venture was not generous, notwithstanding the fact that wealth and fashion still resided in Warren, Murray, and Beekman streets. The time apparently was not ripe; the experiment ended in financial ruin to Palmo, and the unfortunate man never wholly recovered from the blow. The house passed into divers hands, and was the scene of a variety of entertainments for two or three years afterward. The writer remembers distinctly going there of an afternoon, when a boy, to a circus entertainment. The place was at a low ebb in point of popularity and attraction when the comedian fixed upon it as his future professional home. He rearranged, fitted it up, and adorned it, and called it Burton's Theatre.
Palmo's Opera-House, afterward Burton's Theatre. (After a water-color drawing in the collection of Thomas J. McKee, Esq.)
It had no doubt long been a dream of the manager to attain as nearly as possible to perfection in the organization and direction of a first-class theatre. His varied experience in Philadelphia and elsewhere constantly suggested an administration composed of members equally valuable in their respective lines, and forming an harmonious whole under an efficient executive, as the best system of government for the growth and development of dramatic art; and perhaps during his reign in Chambers Street he came as near the realization of that dream as is permitted to human aspiration. In confirmation of the foregoing, we quote a passage from William B. Wood's Recollections, where, writing in 1854 of the evils of the star system, he says: "Let me here remark, that I am happy to see of late times—I mean within the last few years—that the pernicious system of which I speak, by carrying itself fairly out, and by so breaking up all sound stock companies, has finally destroyed itself.... To that intelligent manager, Mr. Burton, the first credit is due. He has been striving for a number of years in New York, as he had been doing here in Philadelphia, to bring his theatre to a proper system, based on the principles of common sense and experience. With talents of his own equalled by few stars, he has preferred to ascertain whether the public could not be better attracted by a good stock company of combined talent, and every New Yorker knows with what excellent effect he has labored. His success, I am happy to learn, has amply confirmed his reputation for dramatic judgment."
We may supplement this by a paragraph taken from Laurence Hutton's entertaining volume of "Plays and Players." Describing in glowing terms the production of Buckstone's comedy of "Leap Year," at Burton's, March 1, 1850, Mr. Hutton says: "That our readers may fully comprehend the subject and period of which we write, it will be well to remind them, perhaps, that the art of acting had arrived at such a point in Burton's Theatre, that, to play a comedy well, was not enough. Every thing was so well done, so perfect in every respect, mere excellence was so much a matter of course, was so positive, on the Chambers Street boards, that there was but little room for the comparative, and the superlative itself was necessary to create a sensation."
The Chambers Street Theatre opened July 10, 1848, with "Maidens, Beware"; "Raising the Wind," and "The Irish Dragoon." These were succeeded by "New York in Slices," "Dan Keyser de Bassoon," and "Lucy Did Sham Amour." The work was slow at first, but the disappearance of money was rapid. We have seen, however, that there was no limit to Burton's energy and perseverance. He played in New York, Philadelphia, and Baltimore, week after week; managed, in conjunction with John Brougham, an engagement with Mr. W. C. Macready at Ford's Theatre, Boston, October, 1848; was announced, on Macready's departure, to appear himself; but the intention was unfulfilled, and so it chanced that he never acted there until the last years of his life. He played for the benefit of the widow and family of Edmund Simpson, at the Park Theatre, December 7, 1848, in referring to which event Mr. Ireland says: "We insert the entire bill to show the forgetfulness of self evinced by the volunteers, and their willingness to assume any character to insure the best result, there being no less than five gentlemen in the cast who had played, and might justly have laid claim to the principal character of the play." The play was "The School for Scandal," cast principally as follows:
| SIR PETER TEAZLE | Mr. | Henry Placide. |
| SIR OLIVER SURFACE | " | Wm. E. Burton. |
| JOSEPH SURFACE | " | Thomas Barry. |
| CHARLES SURFACE | " | George Barrett. |
| CRABTREE | " | W. R. Blake. |
| SIR BENJAMIN BACKBITE | " | Peter Richings. |
| CARELESS | " | C. M. Walcot. |
| SIR HARRY | " | H. Hunt. |
| MOSES | " | John Povey. |
| TRIP | " | Dawson. |
| LADY TEAZLE | Mrs. | Shaw. |
| LADY SNEERWELL | " | John Gilbert. |
| MRS. CANDOUR | " | Winstanley. |
| MARIA | Miss | Mary Taylor. |
This deed of charity was followed by others for the same object on the part of New York managers, and among them Burton contributed a night at his own theatre, on the 5th of March ensuing, in which the full strength of his company appeared.
The burning of the Park Theatre in 1848 left Burton without a rival. The Olympic was of the past; Forrest thundered at the Broadway; Wallack's and Daly's were yet to be. It was not long before the public discovered the genius that presided in Chambers Street, and recognized the unusual excellence which characterized the performances. The location was favorable for Brooklyn people, and from first to last the theatre enjoyed a monopoly of their patronage. "For several years," says Ireland, "Burton's Theatre was the resort of the most intelligent class of pleasure-seekers, and there beauty, wit, and fashion, loved to congregate, without the formality or etiquette of attire once deemed necessary at the Park." Its fame was really phenomenal. Leaping metropolitan bounds, it spread to distant states and neighborhoods, and became, one might almost say, a familiar and welcome contribution to the social and intellectual communion of the time. For a stranger to come to New York in those days and omit to visit Burton's, would imply an obtuseness so forlorn, or an indifference so stolid, that in the one case he would be an object of compassion, and in the other a grave offender of public sentiment. But in all probability he looked forward during his journey city-ward to his evening in those halls of Momus; and we may be certain that the
"Quips, and cranks, and wanton wiles,
Nods, and becks, and wreathèd smiles"
of that night lived in his memory for many a long day.
It is not too much to say that this attraction was almost wholly due to the extraordinary powers of Burton himself. True, his company embraced the finest artists in their several lines of any stage in the country; and it was well known to all lovers of refined drama that the Chambers Street Theatre was the home of English comedy, and that any given play could be there produced with a cast entirely adequate, and with a perfection of detail ensuring to the auditor an artistic delight and a representation of the highest class. But there are many who, while appreciating the delineation of manners and character, seek amusement pure and simple, and who believe that good digestion waits on hearty laughter. To this large constituency Burton was the objective point, for his humor and comic power were a perennial fountain of mirth. His appearance, either discovered when the curtain rose, or entering from the wing, was the signal for a ripple of merriment all over the house. Every countenance brightened, the dullest face glowed with gleeful expectancy. No actor, we believe—unless possibly Liston,—ever excelled Burton in humorous facial expression. Tom Hood, in referring to certain pastimes of a London evening, says in his felicitous rhyme:
"Or in the small Olympic pit sit, split,
Laughing at Liston, while you quiz his phiz."
Read the couplet thus:
"Or in the Chambers Street snug pit sit, split,
Laughing at Burton, while you quiz his phiz,"
and we have the nightly situation. It was a common circumstance for the theatre to receive accessions toward the close of the performance, the new-comers standing in line along the walls, drawn thither by the potent magnet of the manager in the farce. Thus it was that, though the theatre furnished constantly a rich feast of comedy, and was more widely known than any other, still more celebrated was the great actor whose name it bore; and it was the magic of that name that drew the people, and it was he whom the people went to see. It seemed to make little difference what the bills announced; Burton would play,—and that was enough.
It was the privilege of the writer of these pages to have free access to the Chambers Street Theatre, and to know personally its manager, and his recollections are such as to induce him to believe that in no better way can he perform his task of completing Mr. Burton's career than by employing his own knowledge and recording the impressions he received. In so doing, the opportunity afforded for special reference to members of his company will be improved; and perhaps our retrospection may arouse in other breasts a remembrance of past delight.
Alluding to the comedian's first appearance in New York, October 31, 1837, Joseph N. Ireland, so often quoted, remarks: "The advent of Mr. W. E. Burton, the most renowned comedian of recent days, demands more than a passing notice. For nearly twenty years no other actor monopolized so much of the public applause, and popular sentiment universally assigned him a position in broad low comedy entirely unrivalled on the American stage." It was a little over three years between his arrival in America and his New York débût; about eleven between that appearance and his lesseeship in Chambers Street; and eleven more remain to be taken note of. Of these, eight belong to Chambers Street, two to the uptown theatre, and one to starring engagements in various cities—the last being in Hamilton, Canada, and abruptly terminated by the malady of which he died.
The company at Chambers Street now demands our attention; and the wish to suitably recognize the talents, and to chronicle, however simply, the triumphs of that famous array, has constrained us to widen the scope of our original design, and to extend somewhat our notices of certain individual actors. We shall in nowise regret this; for in recalling past delight it is a pleasure to dwell on those who caused it; and we may, perchance, awaken thereby a happy thought of them in other hearts. The departed years are full of memories, and the turning of a leaf may lay bare a volume of reminiscence. It forms no part of our purpose, however, to follow individual careers, and to trace their course on other boards than those of the Chambers Street Theatre. Many of them, indeed, after Burton removed uptown, and after his death, continued their successes and won renown in other scenes and under other management; and our readers may feel that but scant justice is done many meritorious names familiar to the present generation, in confining mention of them to a period when their talents and capabilities had not ripened to that excellence which afterward gave them fame. But we are concerned with them only as they figured as members of Burton's company, and as such contributed richly to our fund of memory. They stand in the dramatic Pantheon with their great chief; and in approaching that central and dominant figure we pause to bend delighted gaze upon the admirable group surrounding it.
From 1848 to 1856 the following names were numbered on the muster-roll: Henry Placide, Blake, Brougham, Lester, T. B. Johnston, Bland, Jordan, Barrett, Dyott, Fisher, Thompson, Holland, C. W. Clarke, Norton, Parsloe, Jr., Holman, Charles Mathews, Setchell, Mrs. Hughes, Mrs. Russell (now Mrs. Hoey), Mrs. Skerrett, Mrs. Rea, Miss Raymond, Mrs. Hough, Mrs. Buckland, Miss Weston, Miss Devlin, Miss Malvina, Miss Agnes Robertson, Fanny Wallack, Mary Taylor, Miss Chapman. This is by no means intended as a complete enumeration—"but 't is enough, 't will serve." Many names have been forgotten, and some remembered but omitted. It may be of interest to note at this point the fortunes that awaited at least five of the actresses above named—viz.: Mrs. Russell, Miss Weston, Miss Devlin, Miss Malvina, Miss Agnes Robertson.
Mrs. Russell, while at Burton's in 1849, and a great favorite, was married to John Hoey of express fame, and shortly thereafter retired from the stage, the manager doing the honors at her farewell, and presenting her on the occasion with a valuable testimonial of his regard. Long afterward Mrs. Hoey was induced by the elder Wallack to forsake her retirement, and for many years was the leading lady at his theatre, her refined manners, correct taste, and exquisite toilets, exciting anew public esteem and admiration. She quitted the stage and returned to private life in 1865.
Miss Lizzie Weston, whose beauty, dramatic aptitude, and versatility, won nightly plaudits, and whose performance was not without much that was highly meritorious, signalized a career more or less checkered by uniting her fortunes with those of the late Charles Mathews, during his starring tour in 1858, and is now the widow of that famous actor.
Miss Malvina, a sister of Mrs. Barney Williams, was a danseuse at Burton's,—for it was the fashion in the old days to beguile the lazy time between the pieces with a Terpsichorean interlude; and we remember but one instance of her appearance in any other character, and that was a minor part in the farce of "A School for Tigers." She became Mrs. Wm. J. Florence in 1853, and has since shared her husband's fortunes and honors. Miss Agnes Robertson made her débût in New York at the Chambers Street Theatre, October 22, 1853, as Milly in "The Young Actress," and has since been well known as the wife of Dion Boucicault.
A more illustrious alliance—so soon to end in piteous sorrow—was the portion of Mary Devlin. She was a minor actress at Burton's, but a woman of rare and lovely character. So much so, that she won the heart of Edwin Booth, and became his wife, and the idol of his home, till death early called her from his side. It was in memory of this sweet and gentle lady, that the poet Thomas William Parsons penned the following exquisite stanzas:
"What shall we do now, Mary being dead,
Or say, or write, that shall express the half?
What can we do but pillow that fair head
And let the spring-time write her epitaph?
"As it will soon in snow-drop, violet,
Wind-flower, and columbine, and maiden's tear,—
Each letter of that pretty alphabet
That spells in flowers the pageant of the year.
"She was a maiden for a man to love,
She was a woman for a husband's life,
One that had learned to value far above
The name of Love the sacred name of Wife.
"Her little life-dream, rounded so with sleep,
Had all there is of life—except gray hairs:
Hope, love, trust, passion, and devotion deep,
And that mysterious tie a Mother bears.
"She hath fulfilled her promise and hath past:
Set her down gently at the iron door!
Eyes! look on that loved image for the last:
Now cover it in earth—her earth no more!"
Let us now summon, as first in order, the name that heads the list of the actors above given. Henry Placide enjoyed in public estimation a fame worthy and well deserved. He was an actor of the old school, and his conceptions were the fruit of appreciative and careful study; his acting was a lucid and harmonious interpretation of his author; and his elocution, clear and resonant, was the speech of a scholar and a gentleman. The artistic sense was never forgotten in his delineations, and his name on the bills was a guaranty of intellectual pleasure. He was not broadly funny like Burton, or Holland; but those who remember his Sir Harcourt Courtley, his Jean Jacques François Antoine Hypolite de Frisac, in "Paris and London," and his Clown, in Shakespeare's "Twelfth Night," will not deny that he was the owner of a rich vein of eccentric humor, and that he worked his possession effectually. He was an expert in the Gallic parts where the speech is a struggle between French and English, and, indeed, since his departure they, too, have vanished from the stage. But those who saw him as Haversac, in "The Old Guard"; as The Tutor, in "To Parents and Guardians"; or as Monsieur Dufard, in "The First Night," will bear witness to his inimitable manner, and to his facile blending of the grave and gay. We shall never forget how, in the last-named character (Mons. Dufard), having engaged his daughter for a "first appearance," and having declared his own ability to manage the drum in the orchestra on the occasion, he, suddenly, during the mimic rehearsal, at an allusion in the text to sunrise, stamped violently on the stage; and to the startled manager's exclamation of "What's that!" serenely replied: "Zat ees ze cannon vich announce ze brek of day—I play him on ze big drum in ze night." In choleric old men Placide was unsurpassed. All the touches that go toward the creation of a grim, irascible, thwarted, bluff old gentleman, he commanded at will. His Colonel Hardy, in "Paul Pry," for instance, what an example was that! I hear him, now, at the close of the comedy, when things had drifted to a happy anchorage—hear him saying in reply to the soothing remark: "Why, Colonel, you've every thing your own way,"—"Yes, I know I have every thing my own way; but—— it, I hav'n't my own way of having it!" His repertory covered a wide range; and we retain vivid recollections of his Sir Peter Teazle, his Doctor Ollapod, and his Silky; the last in "The Road to Ruin," in which comedy, by the way, we remember seeing Placide, Blake, Burton, Lester, Bland, and Mrs. Hughes; truly a phenomenal cast.
Such, briefly sketched, was the actor who constituted one of Burton's strongest pillars. For some years he played at no other theatre in New York. He gave enjoyment to thousands, and in dramatic annals his name and achievements have distinguished and honorable record. As one of the many who remain to own their debt of pleasure and instruction, the present writer pays this tribute to the genius and memory of Henry Placide. [7]
We now summon another name from the famous corps, for the purpose of analysis, since we should be ill content with the cold respect of a passing glance at an artist so celebrated as was William Rufus Blake. We can recall no actor of the past, and we know of but one in the present, comparable with Blake in certain lines of old men—certainly in the rôle of tender pathos like Old Dornton, and in the portrayal of a sweetly noble nature framed in venerable simplicity, as in Jesse Rural, he had no equal; and it is simply truth to say that with him departed from the stage that unique, all-affecting, wondrous embodiment of Geoffrey Dale, in "The Last Man."
The characteristics of Blake's power were a broad heartiness, suggestive sentiment, and eloquent idealization. These traits informed respectively the parts he essayed, and gave to each in turn rare flow of spirit, richness of color, and poetic fervor. For the verbal expression of these salient elements, he possessed a tuneful voice, which rose or fell as the sway of feeling dictated, and his delivery was singularly felicitous in tone and emphasis. Nor was he lacking in a humor at once subtle and delicate, happily evinced in his acting of Mr. Primrose, in the comedietta of "Bachelors' Torments."
Those who saw Blake at the period of which we are writing, found it hard to believe that the Sir Anthony Absolute of aldermanic proportions before them was once a slender young man and played light comedy! Yet so it was. Very old play-goers will recollect the Chatham Garden theatre, and perhaps some tenacious memory bears record of having seen Blake there in the long ago; for there he first appeared to a New York audience, in 1824, playing Frederick, in Colman's "Poor Gentleman." We never saw him earlier than at Burton's, and then with added years had come a rotundity of person which, however unobjectionable in the famous impersonations of his prime, was not, it must be confessed, the ideal physique of light comedy; so his Frederick had long departed and his Sir Robert Bramble had appeared.
The first time we saw Blake was in "The Road to Ruin," and the impression he made has never been effaced. We were young, it is true, and sentimental, and easily moved; but our heart tells us that the effect would be the same could we see the actor in the play to-morrow. We have read since of the extraordinary sensation produced by the great Munden in the part of Old Dornton; but we have an abiding faith that the acting of the famous Englishman would have been no revelation to Blake; and we cannot, indeed, conceive of any added touch that would not have impaired, rather than heightened, the latter's superb delineation. But Blake's portrayal of the outraged, doting, fond, tender father, is, like his Jesse Rural, so fresh in the memory of living persons, that we feel it to be needless to descant upon its beauties. Few will forget the years of his last and long engagement at Wallack's—a fitting crown for a great artistic career. Blake played many parts and rarely touched but to adorn. Even his Malvolio, had it not been for the advent of Charles Fisher (who was born in yellow stockings and cross-gartered), would have passed into history as a carefully conceived and highly finished performance. Whenever we see Mr. John Gilbert we are reminded of Blake. There is a grace of action, a courtliness of manner, inseparable from Gilbert, which lends to all his efforts an elevating charm, a feature Blake did not possess in like degree. But the two actors belonged to the same school; their traditions will be much akin; and neither loses in being spoken of in the same breath, and with the same accent of admiration.
Following Placide and Blake is the name of an actor better remembered than either, and whose death is of comparatively recent date. We refer to John Brougham, who for thirty years and more was one of New York's prime favorites, and his name is associated with many of the drama's brightest and worthiest triumphs. His inexhaustible flow of spirits, in his best days, pervaded all his acting, and invested the most unattractive part with an alluring charm, as many a prosaic spot in nature becomes enchanted land by the music of falling waters. Add to this exuberant vitality a rich endowment of mother wit; a bright intelligence; keen sympathy and appreciation, and rare personal magnetism, and you have before you "glorious John," whose hearty voice it was always a pleasure to hear, and whose face, beaming with humor, was always welcomed with delight.
Brougham was Burton's stage manager in 1848, and his dramatization of "Dombey and Son" was first produced in that year. The representation of this play established the Chambers Street Theatre, drew attention to the talents of the stock company, and put money into Burton's purse. If theatres, like other things, succeed either by hook or crook, as the saying is, surely it was by hook that the manager won fame and fortune, for the digit of Captain Cuttle held sway like a wizard's wand. The temptation to dwell here on this renowned Burtonian impersonation is hard to resist; but we must be patient and bide our time.
Mr. Burton as Captain Cuttle.
Brougham played Bunsby and Bagstock, investing the oracular utterances of the tar, and the roughness and toughness and "devilish" slyness of the Major, with a humor and spirit all his own. We laugh outright as we think of that scene where Cuttle is being rapidly reduced to agony and despair by Mrs. MacStinger, and is rescued therefrom by Bunsby, who, with a hoarse "Avast, my lass; avast!" advances solemnly on the redoubtable female, and with a soothing gravity ejects the entire MacStinger family, following in the rear himself—Cuttle meanwhile gazing in speechless astonishment at the unexpected succor, until the door is closed; and then, drawing an immense breath, and turning toward the audience his inimitable face, exclaims in a tone of profound respect and admiration: "There's wisdom!"
It was a great treat to see Burton and Brougham together. The two actors were so ready, so full of wit, so alive to each other's points and by-play, that any fanciful interpolation of the text, or humorous impromptu, by the one, was instantly responded to by the other; and the house was often thrown into convulsions of merriment by these purely unpremeditated sallies. This was notably the case in the afterpiece of "An Unwarrantable Intrusion"—committed by Mr. Brougham upon Mr. Burton—when in the tag the comedians suddenly assumed their own persons, and, addressing each other by their proper names, engaged in a droll colloquy respecting the dilemma of having nothing to say to conclude the piece; and each suggesting in turn something that ought to or might be said to an audience under such peculiar and distressing circumstances,—the audience meanwhile in a state of hilarious excitement, drinking in every sparkling jest and repartee, and wishing the flow of humor would last forever.
And here we are reminded of an incident not down in the bills, which furnished an audience with an unlooked-for and affecting episode. It occurred during the performance of Colman's comedy of "John Bull," produced for the benefit of a favorite actor; Burton playing Job Thornberry, and Brougham, who had volunteered for the occasion, appearing in his capital rôle of Dennis Brulgruddery. Brougham was no longer with Burton—an estrangement existed between them of which the public was aware—and the conjunction of the two actors naturally awakened a lively interest. It chances in the comedy that Mary Thornberry finds a refuge in her distress at the "Red Cow," and is greatly befriended by Dennis. Her father, discovering her there, and grateful for the service rendered, exclaims: "You have behaved like an emperor to her. Give me your hand, landlord!" Now, in the play, the reply of Dennis is: "Behaved!—(refusing his hand)—Arrah, now, get away with your blarney,"—but Brougham paused for a moment before Burton's outstretched hand, and then, as if yielding to an impulse, stretched forth his, and the two actors stood with clasped hands amidst an outburst of applause that fairly shook the building. Of course they were "called out" at the close, and Brougham, in the course of a felicitous little speech, remarked—alluding, perhaps, to the success of his Lyceum not being all he could wish—that he had "lately run off the track"; to which Burton, in his turn, responded by saying: "Mr. Brougham says he has 'run off the track.' Well, he has run off the track; but he hasn't burst his boiler yet!" At this speech the enthusiasm of the audience knew no bounds; and indeed, with the exception of Mary Taylor's farewell benefit, we can recall no theatrical occasion where more genuine feeling was manifested.
But to return to "Dombey and Son." Mrs. Brougham was the original Susan Nipper, and played the part acceptably; but all previous Nippers suffered eclipse when Caroline Chapman appeared at a later date, giving us a Susan that seemed to have sprung full-Nippered from the head of Boz himself. Her inimitable acting and ring of delivery were like a new light turned on the scene. Her flow of spirit and alert movement, her independent air and saucy glance, her not-to-be-put-down-under-any-circumstances manner,—all was freshness and sparkle, and her presence was as welcome to the audience as a summer shower to drooping wayside flowers. Miss Chapman was a great acquisition to Burton's, and her bright individuality shone in all her assumptions. Her line was the stage soubrette, a specialty which she lifted entirely out of the commonplace and informed it with force and distinction. It is a pleasure to place on record the memory of happy hours that we owe to the performances of Caroline Chapman.
The original Toots was Oliver B. Raymond, whom we never saw. T. B. Johnston was his successor, and as that admirable comedian never did any thing unacceptably, his Toots was a memorable effort; and had Uriah Heep not followed we should have been satisfied with his Toots; but when "Copperfield" was produced and Johnston appeared as Heep, it seemed as if he was born for that and nothing else. Now that we think of it, it seems to us, as we recall Johnston, that nature had peculiarly fitted him for the delineation of many of Dickens's characters. Something in his spare figure, his grotesqueness of demeanor, his whimsical aspect, his odd manner of speech, continually suggested a flavor of Boz; and whether as Toots, or Heep, or Newman Noggs, he seemed to have glided into his element, and was en rapport with the great novelist.
We must not forget, in writing of "Dombey and Son," to note how much its attraction was enhanced by the assumption, in 1849, of the part of Edith by Mrs. Josephine Russell (the present Mrs. Hoey). Laurence Hutton, referring to the event in his volume of "Plays and Players," says: "Up to the time of her assumption of the rôle, Edith, in Brougham's version of the story, was comparatively a secondary part, and one to which but little attention had been paid either by performer or audience. Mrs. Russell, however, by her refined and elegant manner, brought Edith and herself into favor and prominence. She made of Edith more than Brougham himself ever imagined could be made; and Edith made her a reputation and a success on the New York stage, which, until her honorable and much-to-be-regretted retirement, she ever sustained.[8]
We have dwelt thus on "Dombey and Son," because, in the first place, it gained for the Chambers Street Theatre an enduring public regard, and was no doubt the incentive to the after-production of dramatizations of Dickens, which gave us Burton in Micawber, Squeers, Mr. Bumble, and Sam Weller; and because in so celebrating it we pay a deserved tribute to Brougham, from whose fertile brain and ready pen it came. We may say, in this connection, that not only as actor, but as playwright also, Brougham achieved fame and honor. Many of his comedies are well known to the stage, and are included in the published drama; and as a writer of burlesque we question whether any thing better or funnier than his "Po-ca-hon-tas or the Gentle Savage" has ever been composed. Of one thing we are certain: an incarnate pun-fiend presided over its creation. This extravaganza, first acted at Wallack's Lyceum, took the town by storm, and its bons-mots, local hits, and trenchant witticisms, were on the lips of everybody. In structure, idea, and treatment of theme, it was ludicrous to a degree. Who does not remember Brougham and the late Charles Walcot in their respective parts of Powhattan and Captain Smith?
It goes without saying that Brougham's Hibernian delineations were perfect and to the manner born. Many an Irish farce we recall, during his stay at Burton's, to which he gave a new lease of life; and we congratulate ourselves that our memory holds record of having once seen him as Sir Lucius O'Trigger, the only cast in our experience wherein Sheridan's creation found a fitting representative.
We now pause before an actor of illustrious lineage; of a name honored in dramatic annals by encomiums bestowed only upon abilities of the highest order; an actor who, conscious of his inheritance of genius, worthily perpetuates the traditions of his house; and who is now, despite the flight of time, the most engaging and accomplished comedian known to the American stage. Our readers will need no further introduction to Lester Wallack, the "Mr. Lester" of Burton's, where first we saw him so many years ago. We recall the evening when we sat in the cosy parquette, awaiting with eager interest the rising of the curtain on Charles Dance's comic drama of "Delicate Ground," in which Mr. Lester would make his "first appearance since his return from England" (so the bill ran), in the character of Citizen Sangfroid. We say eager interest, for we had heard much of Mr. Lester: that he was graceful, handsome, distingué,—in fact, splendid generally; and our expectancy was akin to that of the watching astronomer—
"When a new planet swims into his ken."
At last the tinkle of the bell; the curtain rose, and enter Miss Mary Taylor, the universal favorite, as Pauline. Her soliloquy closes with the cue for Sangfroid's entrance, and at the words, "Hush! my husband!" a pause succeeded—and then from "door left" was protruded an elegantly booted foot, and a moment later Lester stood before us, bowing with characteristic ease and grace to the demonstrations of welcome. We confess to an unconditional surrender on that occasion. The actual fact was far beyond any expectation or hope. We thought we had never seen any one quite so splendid; and Sangfroid was forthwith invested with the best and noblest elements that combine to elevate mankind. We endeavored for many days afterward to conform our daily life to the general teachings of Sangfroid; we imitated the gait and manner, the calm aplomb of Sangfroid; the accent of Sangfroid was impressed on all our ordinary forms of speech; our conversation on whatever topic was plentifully sprinkled with Sangfroidisms; in short, the whole tenor of our existence was shaped and directed by Sangfroid in the person of Mr. Lester. We recovered in due course from our abject submission to the spell of Sangfroid; but Lester continued to stretch forth the "sceptre of fascination," and to his matchless grace and finish we owe many a delightful recollection.
Then in early manhood,[9] the unrestrained alertness and vivacity of youth were his in bounteous measure. He was in the Percy Ardent and Young Rapid period, and had not yet entered the corridor of years at the far end of which lurked the blasé figure of "My Awful Dad." We remember him in so many parts which in all likelihood he never will play again! There was Rover, in "Wild Oats," that buskined hero, with his captivating nonchalance dashed with tragic fire; his tender conversion of Lady Amaranth—played, be it said, with all proper demureness by Miss Lizzie Weston; his triumph over Ephraim Smooth—one of Blake's instances of versatility—in a scene rich with the spirit of frolic abandon; and his humorous tilt with Sir George Thunder—a belligerent sea-dog, played by Burton as he alone could play it—an episode replete with comic power;—all these contributed to a performance which we revelled in many and many a night; and the memory of it, now as we write, draws near in a succession of vivid pictures. There was Tangent, in "The Way to Get Married," a capital part in Lester's hands, blending manly action and debonair grace with that easy transition to airy farcical expression, a favorite and effective dramatic habit of this actor, and given full play in that memorable prison scene in the comedy, when, a victim to adverse circumstances, and actually fettered, he makes felicitous use of his handkerchief to hide his mortification and his chains from the eyes of the heroine during her visit of sympathy. Percy Ardent, in "The West End," was another of his characteristic assumptions in those days; so also were Young Rapid, in "A Cure for the Heartache," and the Hon. Tom Shuffleton, in "John Bull"; and, indeed, Burton's frequent revivals of the old comedies would have been a difficult matter without Lester; for in every one of them a light comedy part is distinctly drawn, and unquestionably the rarest among all dramatic artists is the first-class light comedian.
Let any one who thinks otherwise endeavor to recall the names of those who have been or are famous in that special line, and he will be surprised to find how few he can enumerate. One might suppose that all young actors would naturally incline toward light comedy, and be ambitious in that direction, since in that sphere are found the charm of youth, the expression of lofty sentiment, the impulse to chivalrous action, the opportunity for the display of graceful and manly bearing,—not to mention the lover, whom, as Emerson declares, all the world loves; and why then, one may ask, should there not be always a plentiful crop of ripening light comedians? Alas, it is not enough to be young, good-looking, intelligent, and of virtuous impulse, or even a lover. Something more is needed, and we conceive it to be that gift of nature, which study and practice develop into seeming perfect art, but which neither study nor practice can create; the gift, let us say, of perceiving instinctively the salient points of a character, and going beyond the author in felicitous and suggestive expression of them. It is easier, we think, to compass tragedy; easier to simulate age; easier to be funny; than to be at once airy and gay, delicately humorous, and engagingly manly. There are fewer light comedians born,—that is the whole story; and where we find one actor like Lester Wallack, we meet with plenty of every other specialty. This was made strikingly evident by Burton's experiments in supplying Lester's place, when the latter joined his father in the establishment of Wallack's Lyceum. Charles Fisher was imported, and he for a season essayed to succeed Lester; but
"The expectancy and rose of the fair state"
he was not, and it was not long before the fiddle of Triplet and the yellow stockings of Malvolio emancipated him from the bondage of light comedy, revealed his true powers, and made us grateful to Burton for introducing to New York one of the best eccentric comedians of the day. Dyott, Norton, and even Holman, were severally thrown into the breach, such was the strait in which the manager found himself; and it was not until he secured George Jordan that equilibrium was restored to the company.
But to return. The versatility of Lester, so conspicuous throughout his career, was early made apparent. We remember him as Steerforth, as Sir Andrew Aguecheek, and Captain Murphy Maguire; and though in the last he acted under the shadow of Brougham's rich impersonation, still he was a delightful Captain. We saw him as the young lover, in "Paul Pry"; as Frederick, in "The Poor Gentleman," and many more; besides those parts, such as Young Marlow, Charles Surface, and Captain Absolute, which need no reference, since they remain ripe and finished conceptions in his present repertory. But of all his delineations of the past, that which we linger on with the greatest pleasure, and which affected us most, was his Harry Dornton, in "The Road to Ruin." From the moment he appears beneath his father's window, importunate for admittance, he awakens an interest and sympathy that follow him to the end. The part abounds in touches of Lesterian hue and flavor: the scene just mentioned; that wherein Milford makes careless and heartless allusion to Old Dornton, and is met by Harry's eloquent and electric rebuke; the scene with the Widow Warren, and with Sophia;—all are charming; and we feel it to be no small tribute to hold in memory Lester's Harry side by side with the Old Dornton of Blake.
We have spoken of T. B. Johnston, and referred to famous parts of his, particularly to the conception and execution of certain characters in Dickens which undeniably he made his own; but we remember this actor in other and sundry enjoyable delineations, of which brief mention may be made. The odd aspect of Johnston, joined to his whimsical method, so in keeping, as before remarked, with the creations of Boz, peculiarly fitted him for the apt portrayal of those idiosyncrasies of nature and temperament shadowed forth by characters in many of the old farces, in which he often appeared, those pieces being quite the fashion in the days of which we are writing. We may instance Panels, in "A School for Tigers," as one of these; his part in "A Blighted Being" (the name quite forgotten), was another; Humphrey Dobbins, in "The Poor Gentleman" (that not a farce, however), was a capital portraiture, and an amusing foil to Burton's Sir Robert Bramble; his Miss Swithers, in "A Thousand Milliners," where he almost divided the honors with Burton as Madam Vandepants;—these are a few of the many that come floating back on the tide of recollection.
Bland was a useful member of Burton's company, though we think his stay was brief, and he contributes less to memory, as it chances, than many others. We never regarded him as a great actor, though we have read of his being thought the best Jacques of his day, and very fine as Sir Thomas Clifford. We never saw him in either, and have no recollection of "The Hunchback" being produced at the Chambers Street Theatre. In "The Honeymoon" Burton himself was the Jacques. We remember Bland very well as Sulky, in "The Road to Ruin," and as Ham, in "David Copperfield," and both efforts were creditable and contributed to the general success—his share in the exciting and touching scenes between Old Dornton and himself, as Sulky, being admirably done.
We are surprised that we remember so little interesting to record of Jordan. Succeeding Lester, and deemed by many the peer of that comedian, one might naturally suppose that his achievements would figure largely in these reminiscences; but we can recall very few impersonations of which we retain a vivid impression. We cannot concur with that estimate of his powers which ranked him with Lester, yet we cordially admit that he came nearer than any actor we know of. He was very handsome, had a fine stage presence, and was agreeable in all that he did. We recall his spirited performance of Rover; his Kitely, in Ben Jonson's "Every Man in His Humor"; his Ferdinand, in "The Tempest"; his Lysander, in "Midsummer Night's Dream"; and his Captain Hawksley, in "Still Waters Run Deep," was superb and unequalled. It was always a pleasure to see Jordan, and we owe to his acting many an hour of enjoyment.
George Barrett—or, "Gentleman George," as he was quite as well known—was one of Burton's company for a short period, and with his name are associated many pleasant memories. Among them we may mention with delight his performance of Sir Andrew Aguecheek, a companion picture to Fisher's Malvolio. His long body and attenuated "make up," his piping voice, his fantastic manner, and absurd assumption of acumen,—all contributed to an embodiment artistic and entertaining in the highest degree. He also played Flute, the Bellows-Mender, in the revival of "Midsummer Night's Dream"; and it seems but yesterday, so vivid is the remembrance, that we saw him stalking about the stage, in the guise of Ben Jonson's bombastic hero, Captain Bobadil.
Old play-goers, if they remember nothing else of John Dyott, will recollect his admirable reading—his distinct utterance—his fine emphasis,—qualities specially noticeable in his Shakespearian assumptions and in characters of a didactic cast; and which made acceptable many a part he undertook, half redeeming it from deficiencies consequent upon natural unfitness. It was such a pleasure to listen to his delivery of the text, that you overlooked or pardoned inadequacy of treatment in other respects. Necessarily his impersonations were of very unequal merit. Certain phases of the character assumed might be justly conceived and well executed; others manifestly lacking in the expression of what was naturally suggested, or sufficiently obvious. We might cite instances of this—Claude Melnotte or Alfred Evelyn, for example; but we prefer to think of him in his most agreeable aspects, which were not conspicuous in light comedy, though that rôle, under the stress of exigency, often fell to his lot.
We pleasantly recall him as Lieut. Worthington, in "The Poor Gentleman"; as Peregrine, in "John Bull"; as Penruddoch, in "The Wheel of Fortune"; as Duke Orsino, in "Twelfth Night"; as Master Ford, in "The Merry Wives of Windsor"; and others that might be mentioned. He was a useful member of the Chambers Street company, acted always with intelligence and spirit, and, though leaving no great name, deserves remembrance as a finished reader and conscientious artist.
Charles Fisher, well known to the present generation of play-goers as a sterling comedian, came to Burton's after Lester's withdrawal, and, as previously remarked, succeeded that actor as the exponent of light comedy. We saw him in several characters of that order; but it must be confessed that his efforts, however praiseworthy, were not such as to induce a condition of complacency on the part of the management, with regard to his capacity in that direction. But the whirligig of time, as Shakespeare tells us, brings on its revenges; and in due course Mr. Fisher had his, and a truly artistic one it was.
It came about on the second revival of "Twelfth Night," and was achieved in the part of Malvolio. In referring to Blake's assumption of this character, we observed, in passing, that Fisher was born in yellow stockings and cross-gartered—meaning to express the natural affinity for Shakespeare's creation existing in the actor; and we believe there will be no question among those who remember the impersonation, as to the subtlety of conception, the felicity of portrayal, and fidelity to detail, that so eminently distinguished it. From first to last it was a masterpiece. His manner when he interrupts the orgies of Sir Toby, the Clown, and Aguecheek, and during their maudlin mockery, was full of rare suggestiveness; the great scene in the garden, where he falls into the trap set by Maria, was one of the finest pieces of acting known to our stage. The audience were as intent during its progress as if their own lives and fortunes hung upon that enigmatic letter. When it comes home to him at last that he indeed is the favored of Olivia, and he gives full rein to his fancy respecting his future exaltation—how he must bear himself, the lofty air he will assume, the consideration he will extort,—he was inimitable. Already he is clothed in yellow stockings and cross-gartered; and he smiles, as he struts, the smile that his deceiver declares so becomes him. In the ensuing scene before Olivia, where the stockings and smiles play so important a part, he was equally fine; and if Fisher had played nothing else, his Malvolio would remain an interpretation of the highest class, and a glory of dramatic art. The press, with one accord, united in its praise; and Mr. Richard Grant White, whose ability to judge of Shakespearian delineations was well known, confessed, in the columns of the Courier and Inquirer that he did not know where Mr. Fisher learned to play Malvolio so well. To say that we enjoyed what we have here endeavored to recall, is to say but little. It is one of our most valued memories—and we could not help thinking, when the lovely Viola of the late Miss Neilson was captivating all hearts, what a revelation it would have been to her admiring audience had Fisher presented his picture of Malvolio.
In Burton's revival of the "Midsummer Night's Dream," Fisher was cast as Duke Theseus; and in thinking of the part, that glorious passage descriptive of the Duke's hounds rings in our ears, as spoken with glowing enthusiasm by the actor:
"My hounds are bred out of the Spartan kind,
So flew'd, so sanded; and their heads are hung
With ears that sweep away the morning dew;
Crook-kneed, and dew-lapp'd like Thessalian bulls;
Slow in pursuit, but match'd in mouth like bells,
Each under each. A cry more tunable
Was never holloa'd to, nor cheered with horn,
In Crete, in Sparta, nor in Thessaly:
Judge when you hear."
In "The Tempest" also, as Prospero, Mr. Fisher appeared to advantage, and swayed the destinies of the Enchanted Isle with dignity and effect. Triplet, in "Masks and Faces," was another performance of Fisher's that we might linger over in pleasant memory of its humor and pathos; a performance, too, by the way, which brought to public view a new accomplishment of the actor; namely, his acquaintance with the violin,—an advantage that lent unusual force and brilliancy to the capital scene where Woffington, having played Lady Bountiful to the forlorn family, completes her conquest by calling for the fiddle and dancing "Cover the Buckle." And with the tune in our ears, and a vision of Fisher's elbow in deft movement, we take leave of the actor who gave us in the past so many happy hours.
An artist of quite another sort was Lysander Steele Thompson. He was an importation of Burton's; and his specialty was the Yorkshireman of the stage, a line in which he stood alone and unapproachable. Actors there have been who played the same parts, and with a sufficient mastery of the dialect to pass muster; but, compared with Thompson's, their assumptions were like artificial flowers in a painted vase beside a clump of spring violets in the dew of morning. The semblance was there; but the delicious fragrance of nature's breath it was not theirs to give. The native freshness and out-of-door breezy spirit were Thompson's own and born with him. His engagement was followed by the production of all the known plays in which there was a Zekiel Homespun, or a Robin Roughhead. We saw him in them all: Bob Tyke, in "The School of Reform"; Zekiel Homespun, in "The Heir-at-Law"; Stephen Harrowby, in "The Poor Gentleman,"—and until the advent of Thompson, the Harrowby family had been omitted in Burton's version of the comedy;—Robin Roughhead, in "A Ploughman Turned Lord"; John Browdie, in "Nicholas Nickleby"; and Giles, in "The Miller's Maid"; in which last, indeed, he acted under an inspiration that almost laid claim to genius itself; and we see him now, in that high-wrought scene, where, as the defender of virtue and innocence, he towers in superb wrath above the villain Gamekeeper, who would tear from her home the person of Susan Fellows.
It goes without saying that his dialect was perfect, and all the humorous phases—the touches of bewilderment and arch simplicity, the quaint retort, the rollicking drollery, the innocence blent with audacity,—all these traits and characteristics were so many gifts of expression summoned and employed at will. We have seen many tragedians and artists in melodrama; many "old men" and light comedians; many funny men and eccentric actors, but we have seen one Yorkshireman only—Lysander Thompson.
He was not without vanity, however, and possibly aspired to other dramatic walks than his famous specialty, if we may judge from a little episode in his career at Burton's, which really makes too good a story to be lost. Burton had in view the production of "The Merry Wives," in order to act Falstaff; and in the distribution Thompson was asked to make choice of a part. The story runs that, after due reflection, Mr. Thompson answered that on the whole he would prefer to play Sir John. The manager regarded him for a moment with a glance of wonder, and then: "I'm—— if you do; one Falstaff is enough; you must choose again, Thompson." And he chose the Host of the Garter Inn, and made a palpable hit.
The late Charles Mathews played a short engagement at Burton's; and we remember his capital acting in "Little Toddlekins" and as Young Rapid; but we need not dwell upon an actor whose stay was so fleeting, whose celebrity was so extended, and whose Memoirs have so recently been given to the public.
George Holland, also departed, was for a brief period at the Chambers Street Theatre, and we recall our enjoyment of his broad fun and facial extravagance. We always felt, however, that—as his line was somewhat akin to Burton's—he underwent a perilous ordeal in appearing on the same stage with the great actor whose genius was so overshadowing.
Messrs. Norton, [10] Holman, and Parsloe, Jr., were useful members of the stock company, limited in range and ability; and we mention them as painstaking actors, who always did their best, and aided materially in the general success of the theatre. The name of young Parsloe is included on account of his performance of Puck, which, owing to natural cleverness and acrobatic aptitude, he succeeded, under Burton's training, in making exceedingly effective and full of goblin action.
And now let us fancy ourselves sitting, as of old, in the parquette, the curtain having risen on "The Serious Family." Sleek reads his appeal, and we hear a voice saying: "Those words give comfort to every fainting and world-worn spirit, good Mr. Aminadab Sleek"—and we know that Lady Sowerby Creamly has spoken, and that Mrs. Hughes is before us. Of this estimable lady and admirable actress, much more might be said than present space will allow. Almost as familiar a figure as the manager himself, for years she enacted those characters which were peculiarly her forte, and was identified with all the success and shared all the fame of the renowned theatre. We can recall no instance of her having disappointed an audience; and though, in the course of her long service, she may have assumed uncongenial parts, yet so intelligent was she, so thorough, so conscientious, that, in spite of unsuitableness, her performance was always acceptable and meritorious. Lady Duberly, in "The Heir-at-Law," Mrs. Malaprop, in "The Rivals," Lucretia McTab, in "The Poor Gentleman," were her accustomed line, and well indeed she played them. Widow Warren, in "The Road to Ruin," Mrs. Skewton, in "Dombey and Son," Betsy Trotwood, in "David Copperfied," were kindred felicitous portraitures; and no one can think of Burton as Sleek and Toodle without instantly associating Mrs. Hughes as Lady Creamly and Mrs. Toodle. How many times did they play those parts together! In all those lighter pieces and farces Burton made so popular and famous, she was his ally and strong support; and no history of the drama of that period can be written without conspicuous mention of her name; nor can the professional career and triumphs of Burton be recounted without suggestion and remembrance of Mrs. Hughes. Their professional relation was perfectly harmonious, and she was with him to the last. She went with him from Chambers Street to the New Theatre, and when that was given up accompanied him on all his starring tours, acting with him when he appeared for the last time in New York, and when he acted for the last time in his life at Hamilton, Canada. In a speech Burton once made, he thus referred to their theatrical relations: "I have been her father, her son, her uncle, her first husband, her second husband, and her third husband, her friend, and her disconsolate widower, and I have liked her better and better in each relation!"
Even as far back as 1826 Mrs. Hughes was a great favorite. H. B. Phelps, in his valuable work known as "Players of a Century," gives a notice of the press she received for a benefit night at that period, which he says is worth preserving as a model: "Mrs. Hughes takes her benefit at the theatre to-night. It would be an insult to the generous enthusiasm of her numerous admirers, to say another word on the subject."
As it cannot fail to be of interest to readers of this volume, we copy from Mr. Phelps's book a reply to a letter addressed by him to the Hon. Charles Hughes, State Senator, asking information respecting Mrs. Hughes's subsequent history.
"Dear Sir:—Mrs. Esther Hughes, formerly Mrs. Young, was my mother. She died upon her farm, three miles from this village (Sandy Hill, N. Y.), on the 15th of April, 1867, at the age of seventy-five, from the effects of an accident (falling down stairs, caused by vertigo). She had left the stage before the war, her last engagement being a travelling tour with W. E. Burton, in the South and North. She was acting in Albany as Mrs. Young when the war of 1812 was declared, and I have often heard her speak of Solomon Southwick and of John O. Cole, who was a boy in Southwick's office. Her many years of theatrical life speak for themselves."
We have heretofore alluded to the Miss Agnes Robertson of long ago; and now a memory steals in upon us of her débût at Burton's, and of her enchanting performance in the protean play of "The Young Actress." Of the half dozen parts assumed, the Scotch lassie and the Irish lad still haunt us. The highland fling of the one and the "Widow Machree" of the other were charming to see and hear; and, indeed, Miss Robertson was charming altogether.
We could give a long list of actors and actresses who from year to year were enrolled in the Chambers Street company, and whose efforts are pleasantly remembered. We do not mean to slight them; but we must hasten toward our appointed goal. One actress, however, a recognized favorite in New York long before her engagement with Burton, which terminated with her farewell to the stage, deserves more than a passing notice, for the pleasure she gave was as pure and healthful as it was winsome and bright. We refer to Miss Mary Taylor—"Our Mary,"—better known and esteemed than any actress of her day, except Charlotte Cushman, that we can recall.
We shall not dwell upon any part of her career, nor examine her dramatic capabilities. She never appeared without eliciting the warmest of welcomes; and when we try to think of the many characters we saw her in, we find ourselves remembering only how sweet and good she was. We were present at her farewell benefit, and during the speech Mr. Burton made for her the emotion throughout the house, at the thought of parting, was as sincere as it was deep. She stood, visibly affected, in the midst of her companions, and when the curtain fell there was a sigh, as if the audience had lost a friend.
We have endeavored in the foregoing to indicate the strength of the Chambers Street company, and we think the reader cannot fail to be impressed by the exhibit. The fact of such dramatic portraiture being easy, seems to us a striking proof of its supreme excellence. The majority of them were they living now might be comedy stars. When we have Jefferson, Raymond, Fawcett Rowe, Stuart Robson, and Florence, starring about the country, playing their one part hundreds of nights, what shall we think of Burton, Placide, Blake, Brougham, Lester, Johnston, and the rest, appearing together nightly in characters of varied but equal dramatic power? There has been a great change since then. The name of the places of amusement now is legion, and one bright star in the heaven of scenic splendor consoles the public for the loss of a concentration of wit and genius. As we recall for a moment all that bright array, we are taken back through the maze of distance, and old familiar forms arise; we see the glimmer of accustomed footlights; the scene is alive with well-known faces; we even hear voices that we know; we join in the old-time plaudits—and forget how many years have rolled between! There is no retrospection without its tinge of sadness. "Never to return" is the refrain of human memory. How beautifully Holmes expresses it in "The Last Leaf":
"The mossy marbles rest
On the lips that he has pressed,
In their bloom;
And the names he loved to hear,
Have been carved for many a year
On the tomb."
The years of the Chambers Street Theatre were fruitful in dramatic events. We have already mentioned "Dombey and Son," in 1848; and that signal triumph was followed by "David Copperfield," "Oliver Twist," "Nicholas Nickleby," and "The Pickwickians." The immortal Toodles was first seen October 2, 1848, and an account of that performance will be found in our Recollections. It became later the custom of the management to present "The Serious Family" and "The Toodles" every Tuesday and Friday in each week, so great was the popularity of those pieces. People came from all parts of the country to see them; parents brought their families and relatives; and one middle-aged couple, a husband and wife, never failed, for successive seasons, to occupy the same seats at every representation. All the old comedies were given in due course, with that perfection of cast to which we have alluded, and those pieces made famous by Burton's acting—such as "The Breach of Promise," "Charles XII.," "Happiest Day of my Life," "Paul Pry," "Family Jars," "Soldier's Daughter," "Charles II.," "How to Make Home Happy," etc., (and which now seem for ever lost,)—were a constant source of joyous pleasure. The wisdom and good judgment of the manager were conspicuous in the nightly programmes, and it may here be said that no theatrical caterer ever excelled Burton in an acute perception of what was needful to meet the public taste, and in providing the requisite entertainment. To wide experience he added intuitive appreciation of stage effect, and his extensive knowledge of the drama was seen in the disciplining of his forces and in his sagacious distributions. It must not be forgotten that as manager as well as actor Burton shone in the prosperity and fame of his theatre; and it will not be when now we touch on the Shakespearian revivals that lent such beauty, grace, and dignity to his stage, and revealed the manager in the gracious aspect of a profound and reverent student of the mighty dramatist. These revivals were the crowning triumphs of Burton's management. The production of "A Midsummer Night's Dream," "Twelfth Night," "The Tempest," "Winter's Tale," "The Merry Wives of Windsor," marked an era in theatrical representation, for up to that time no attempt had been made so ambitious; and the success that attended the enterprise was in all respects richly deserved. "A Midsummer Night's Dream," in particular, won universal admiration. The fairy portion was so beautiful; the play before the duke so capital; that Shakespeare's creation acted upon the public like a revelation, and heart and mind felt the glow of a new sensation. The notices of the press were so unqualified in their praise of "A Midsummer Night's Dream," that they were gathered and issued in a pamphlet as a tribute to the achievement. The effect of the succeeding revivals was similar in kind, and the people marvelled at the resources of a management that on so limited a stage could produce such wonderful results. And with these plays of Shakespeare came the impersonations of Nick Bottom, Sir Toby Belch, Caliban, Autolycus, and Falstaff—never to be forgotten by those who witnessed them, and of which a more extended review is given in our Recollections. It only needed Shakespeare to round the glory of Chambers Street; after that there were no more worlds to conquer.
Mr. Burton as Timothy Toodle.
Following the years, we find a record of "As You Like It," produced for the benefit of the American Dramatic Fund at the Astor Place Opera-House, January 8, 1850, in which Burton appeared as Touchstone, with a cast including Hamblin, Bland, Jordan, Chippendale, Chapman, Miss Cushman, Mrs. Abbott, Mrs. Walcott, and Mrs. J. Gilbert. In the same year he played a short engagement at the Chatham Theatre, and also essayed to revive the old Olympic; but the division of attraction was of brief duration. His home was in Chambers Street, and there, to borrow from Lord Tennyson, the banner of Burton blew. The usual even tenor of the theatre was varied by new accessions to the company, and by first appearances, and other interesting events. The present Miss Maggie Mitchell appeared June 2, 1851, as Julia, in "The Soldier's Daughter"; but we cannot say positively that the occasion was her stage débût. May 3, 1852, was the farewell benefit of Mary Taylor, to which reference has already been made. September 6th of the same year was the date of the "Centenary Festival of the Introduction of the Drama into America," at Castle Garden, and we find Burton figuring in the elaborate and attractive programme as Launcelot Gobbo, in "The Merchant of Venice." Miss Agnes Robertson made her New York débût October 22, 1853, and November 23d of the same year witnessed the production of "The Fox Hunt," an original comedy by Dion Boucicault, in which Burton appeared as William Link. In 1854, that long baronet, Sir William Don, entered upon the scene, and in the same year (December 18th) a benefit to Morris Barnett occurred, on which occasion "The Serious Family" was given with all the honors. Mr. H. A. Perry made his débût in 1856, playing Gossamer, in "Laugh When You Can," and that actor was also seen as Leontes, in "Winter's Tale."
Every summer for several years, during the recess at Chambers Street, Burton played engagements at Niblo's with a selection from his company, and was seen at that resort in a round of his favorite characters. This was a great boon to strangers visiting the city, and to those whose circumstances kept them in town. It was some consolation to be moved to mirth, and there never was any disaffection in Burton's summer constituency. But the theatrical tide was setting uptown, and the rapid growth of the city counselled a removal to more available neighborhoods; and so, following the current, the manager bid farewell to the scene of so many triumphs, and leased the building originally known as Tripler Hall, calling it the Metropolitan, or, as stated by Ireland, "Burton's New Theatre," where he opened September 8, 1856, with "The Rivals."
The Chambers Street Theatre was opened July 10, 1848, and was closed September 6, 1856. The eight years of its existence are replete with fascinating dramatic history, and are a copious and important contribution to the annals of the stage. It was the school of many an actor who rose to fame, and the most famous actors of the time were seen upon its boards. It was the birthplace of plays and characters never excelled in their effect upon an audience, and its record is graced by a noble and poetic celebration of Shakespeare's immortal works. And who shall say how many hearts were lightened, and spirits cheered, by the good genius of mirth that presided there?
1856-1860
It goes without saying that the New Theatre, to those who had been accustomed to the cosiness of Chambers Street, was not Burton's. The home feeling so peculiar to the other house could not readily be reproduced in the spacious auditorium of the Metropolitan. The far-reaching stage seemed alien and unreal, and the lofty walls were cold and unfamiliar. There were changes in the company, too; old favorites were missing, and a kindred interest was not awakened by new-comers. But the manager was there, and with wonted energy began the campaign. The first season was prosperous, and many of the well-known Chambers Street pieces were revived and given with effect. Daniel Setchell made his appearance September 25, 1856, and grew rapidly in public favor. This comedian at a later date essayed the part of Aminadab Sleek; but, as Ireland observes, "Burton's Sleek alone filled the public mind," and the effort was not encouraged. The Irish comedian, John Collins, was seen about this time, and in November Dion Boucicault and wife opened an engagement. January 13, 1857, Burton played Dogberry for the first time in New York, and the same year (May 14th) Edwin Booth appeared at the New Theatre as Richard III. It was in this year (October) that Burton was seen in Albany for the first time, playing a round of his famous parts; and it is interesting to note that the present Joe Jefferson, then at Laura Keene's, "during the absence of Burton," to quote Ireland again, "was recognized as the best low comedian in town." Burton also appeared in Boston for the first time in 1857, opening in Captain Cuttle. His reception was so extraordinary in warmth and enthusiasm that he lost control of himself and could not speak for several minutes. This engagement was at the Boston Theatre, and every night the house was crammed. He visited Boston again in 1858, and with the same gratifying success.
It is not impossible that these starring tours suggested to Burton a new and prosperous field of activity, and perhaps some physical symptom dictated relief from the strain and responsibility of management. From whatever cause, after another season of varying fortune, the Metropolitan was given up (1858), and he commenced a starring tour with the highest success, "his name and fame," says Ireland, "being familiar in every quarter of the Union, and more surely attractive than any other theatrical magnet that could be presented."
In conjunction with Mrs. Hughes and a few members of his former company, he opened an engagement at Niblo's, July 4, 1859, playing to crowded houses. His last appearance in New York was at the same theatre, on the occasion of his benefit, October 15, 1859, playing Toodle in the afternoon, and Mr. Sudden, Toby Tramp, and Micawber in the evening, supported by Mrs. Hughes as Mrs. Toodle, Mrs. Trapper, and Betsy Trotwood. "On the day and evening of his benefit," says Ireland, "more than six hundred persons who had paid for tickets received their money back from the box-office, not being able to obtain admission."
On Saturday, December 3, 1859, Mr. Burton started for Hamilton, Canada, to fulfil an engagement there and at Toronto. A terrible snow-storm was met on the way; the train was blocked; and the delay and discomfort consequent were almost unendurable. While recovering from the exposure and fatigue, Mr. Burton wrote the following letter to his children, and we are kindly permitted to make use of it in this volume. It will be read with interest, not only for its feeling, but for its graphic vigor of narration and humorous spirit. And we believe it was the last letter he ever wrote.
Hamilton, Canada;
Sunday, December 4, 1859.My Darling Children:
Here I am, in this provincial city of the Western wilderness, snowed up, 500 miles away from my dear home and my precious treasures. Such a day and night as we had yesterday I hope never to go through again. You remember how warm it was on Friday? positively hot; and on the next morning the weather was cold as New Year's, but clear and brisk, and the icy tone of the atmosphere seemed to agree with me. We reached Albany in good order, and started at twelve on the long trip to the Suspension Bridge, over 300 miles, with a light fall of snow, blown about in every direction by a very low sort of a high wind. As we got on our way we found the snow getting deeper, and the flats of the Mohawk River covered with ice. We dined at Utica—a pretty fair meal, with cold plates and Dutch waiters, who looked cold too. When we changed cars at Rochester the wind blew ferociously, and the snow fell heavily, so much so that some fears were expressed that a drift might form on some part of the road and prevent our progress for a while. At the Suspension Bridge, at half-past twelve in the night, I had to get out of the car and wade ankle deep in snow to the open road beside the baggage-car, and pick out and give checks for our wagon-load of trunks, seeing them safely deposited in another car for transportation into Canada. I thought this was a hard job, but it was nothing to what I had to do in Canada, and really a pleasant little episode compared with my doings hereafter. We crossed the Suspension Bridge within sight of the Falls of Niagara, but we saw them not. The wind howled as we passed over that fearful gulf, and drowned the roaring of the Falls and the rumbling of the rapids as they boiled along some 170 feet below us. I confess that I rejoiced in reaching terra firma, even on the cold, inhospitable land of Canada. Well, we thought we were snugly housed for the balance of our journey, some forty-four miles to Hamilton, where we intended to rest for the night (at two in the morning) and pass a cheerful Canadian Sunday in our own rooms looking at the snow, when we were roused from our seats: "Change cars and re-check your baggage." Out we turned, bundles, bags, shawls, top-coat, brandy bottle, cough mixture, papers, books, and growls, leaving behind my old travelling cap, which I have had for years, and is now gone for ever. When I got out I had to jump into a bed of snow up to my knees, wade a quarter of a mile through the unbroken whiteness to a stand of cars inhumanly situated far from the shelter of the dépôt or the lee of any building whatever. There, in that snow, without any feeling in my feet, the wild wind whistling no end of Verdi overtures with ophicleide accompaniment in the snort of various engines, I had to select my nine packages, see them weighed, have them checked, wait while the numbers of the checks were written down, copied off for me, and a receipt written for the payment imposed on me for extra baggage. If I had not been so miserably perished with cold, I could have felt some pity for the poor officials who had to do all this, not only for me, but for some twenty others, and in the open air too. But it seemed that I had all the baggage in the car. "Who owns 57,467?" "I do." "Why, you have baggage enough for a dozen." And it was so. The nine boxes looked like ninety in the confused atmosphere of steam and drifting snow. "That's all right, sir." "Then why don't you put the trunks in the baggage car?" "So we will when they have passed the customs"!!!!!!!
Yes, my darlings, at that hour, past midnight, in the open snow-storm, with a wind that killed old Cuttle's "What blew each indiwiddiwal hair from off yer 'ed," in a blinding drift of frozen crystals biting each feature and driving their minute but piercing angles into every pore, I had to wait the presence and the pleasure of Victoria's excisemen, to say whether my baggage might or might not pass duty free into her infernal dominions. I had one cheerful and pleasant thought that filled my bosom with religious delight while I waited. I remembered playing Harrop in the drama of "The Innkeeper's Daughter,"—he is an old smuggler, and shoots the exciseman. I remembered that when I fired the pistol and the victim dropped, I exclaimed "He's done for!" and the audience laughed and applauded! Yes, the discriminating public applauded me for killing that exciseman! Oh, was it to do again! How well I could kill that Canadian gauger here, in the snow-storm, at midnight, on the banks of the mad Niagara! Don't be alarmed, darlings. I didn't kill him. He came at last, booted up to his middle, with a Canadian capote and hood, and a leather belt buckled tightly around his waist. But, despite his Canadian costume, the Cockney stuck out boldly all over him. He had a roast-beef-and-porter look, red cheeks, and big English whiskers. Again I had to go over my list, "great box, little box, bandbox, bundle," to the potentate of the tariff. I gave him my honor as a gentleman, etc., and then told him my profession, and, oh! my loves—oh! my darling children—what is fame? he had never heard of Mr. Burton, the comedian! Of course, after that, you agree with me that he ought to be killed at once, "without remorse or dread." And he had such an aggravating smell of hot steak and brandy-and-water. Now, I suppose you think that my Ledger story of intense interest, describing the agonies of a middle-aged (or more so) individual, is over. Not a bit of it. The fifth act is to come. We were jogging along in the cars, slowly crunching the hard snow on the rails, when we came gradually to a full stop. Presently whisperings were heard, occasional and inquisitive male passengers braved even the fury of the storm, and went abroad to see what was the matter, and in a few minutes we learned that there was a "break in the road." You will ask the meaning of the phrase—so did I, without avail. Gradually the passengers withdrew from the car (we had but one) and I was compelled to look for myself. There had been a collision, or rather an overtaking, for a fast passenger train ran into a freight train, and fearful work they made of it. I went back for Mrs. Hughes and the bags, coats, and books. Heaven knows how we got along, in such a fearful storm, knee-deep in snow and the track full of holes, with a yawning gulf on each side. When at last we reached our place of refuge, we found the car so high off the rail that it seemed impossible to mount it. Some gentlemen helped Mrs. Hughes in, with such exertions that I expected to see my dear old friend pulled into bits. Then your poor father was left to his fate. I got up—don't ask me how, but when I get home I'll climb into my bedroom window from the street, to show you how I did it. We had with us in the car an admiring friend from Detroit, who claimed relationship with me because his son married Niblo's niece. Well, we mustered in the car, wet, weary, excited, and chilled to the centre. Oh! my precious ones, didn't that brandy bottle come in well in that scene? How I let them smell it, and only smell it! How I took a drink and smacked my lips, and drank again, and didn't I win the heart of old Niblo's brother's daughter's husband's father by giving him a big drink? At last we started, slowly, backed into Hamilton at half-past four in the morning, with snow two feet deep in the streets. Half an hour's ride in a dilapidated article of the omnibus genus, and we were dumped at a place a cad called the "Hanglo-American 'Otel," recommended me by Miss Niblo's marital ancestor. A fire in my room, a quiet night's rest, a good breakfast (first-class venison steak), and I feel quite well. My feet were wet. My boots could hardly be pulled off, and in revenge to-day they won't be pulled on. Now am I not a brave old papa to carry a heart disease and a nervous cough through such scenes?
We are now forty miles from Toronto, whither we proceed at nine in the morning. I hear melancholy doings are prevalent at the place we are bound to, and this deep snow will not make it any better. If business is bad, I shall stay but one week, and go to Rochester for the second week.
I am afraid our plants at Glen Cove were badly hurt by the cold spell coming on so suddenly. I hope this weather has not increased your coughs. My cough is still troublesome, but I am every way better.
May the great God of goodness keep His blessing on all my children; may they keep in health, and in the spirit of love with each other, is the nightly prayer of
Their affectionate father,
W. E. Burton.
The last appearance of the comedian on any stage was at Mechanics' Hall, Hamilton, Canada, December 16, 1859. He played Aminadab Sleek and Goodluck in "John Jones." He returned from the trip in an almost exhausted condition, and, after lingering for nearly two months, suffering greatly, died of enlargement of the heart, February 10, 1860. Mr. Burton left a wife and three daughters, all of whom are living. His remains were interred in Greenwood Cemetery.
The following is a list of parts acted by Mr. Burton, and though probably there are many omissions, it fully justifies Ireland's observation that his repertory was extended almost indefinitely, and "carried into a range, where, if he was sometimes excelled by Placide and Blake, his rivalry was such as to demand every effort on their part to retain their generally acknowledged superiority." It may be mentioned that the parts of Aminadab Sleek and Timothy Toodle were acted by Burton respectively six hundred and six hundred and forty times.
LIST OF CHARACTERS PERFORMED BY MR. BURTON.
[RECOLLECTIONS]
OF
MR. BURTON'S PERFORMANCES
"And now what rests but that we spend the time With stately triumphs, mirthful comic shows."
—Shakespeare.