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.