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.