Chapter III: Part 3

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.

CHARACTERS. PLAYS.

HOST, }
FALSTAFF,} in "The Merry Wives of Windsor."
DROMIO, in "The Comedy of Errors."
DR. OLLAPOD, }
SIR ROBERT BRAMBLE,} in "The Poor Gentleman."
MUNNS, in "Forty Winks."
JOB THORNBERRY, in "John Bull."
LAUNCELOT GOBBO, in "The Merchant of Venice."
HARROP, in "The Innkeeper's Daughter."
BOTTOM, in "A Midsummer Night's Dream."
CALIBAN, in "The Tempest."
SIR TOBY BELCH, in "Twelfth Night."
CAPT. CUTTLE, in "Dombey and Son."
TIMOTHY TOODLE, in "The Toodles."
AMINADAB SLEEK, in "The Serious Family."
VAN DUNDER, in "The Dutch Governor."
TRIPLET, in "Masks and Faces."
BOB ACRES, in "The Rivals."
DR. PANGLOSS,}
LORD DUBERLY,} in "The Heir-at-Law."
BILLY LACKADAY, in "Sweethearts and Wives."
PILLICODDY, in "Poor Pillicoddy."
TOBY TRAMP, in "The Mummy."
TONY LUMPKIN, in "She Stoops to Conquer."
CHAS. GOLDFINCH, in "The Road to Ruin."
JACQUES STROP, in "Robert Macaire."
SEPTIMUS PODDLE, in "Take That Girl Away."
JEM BAGGS, in "The Wandering Minstrel."
SLASHER, in "Slasher and Crasher."
JOHN UNIT, in "Self."
GREGORY THIMBERWELL, in "State Secrets."
BONNYCASTLE, in "The Two Bonnycastles."
JEREMIAH CLIP, in "The Widow's Victim."
DIMPLE, in "Leap Year."
MEGRIM, in "Blue Devils."
FELIX FUMER, in "The Laughing Hyena."
LA FLEUR, in "Animal Magnetism."
TOM RIPSTONE, in "Evil Genius."
TOM NODDY, in "Tom Noddy's Secret."
SNOBBINGTON, in "A Good Night's Rest."
PETTIBONE, in "A Kiss in the Dark."
PAUL PRY, in "Paul Pry."
JOE BAGS, in "Wanted 1000 Milliners."
SIR OLIVER SURFACE,}
SIR PETER TEAZLE, } in "The School for Scandal."
MEDDLE, in "London Assurance."
THOMAS TROT, in "Paris and London."
WORMWOOD, in "The Lottery Ticket."
WADDILOVE, in "To Parents and Guardians."
SQUEERS, in "Nicholas Nickleby."
MICAWBER, in "David Copperfield."
JOHN MILDMAY, in "Still Waters Run Deep."
SUDDEN, in "The Breach of Promise."
CALEB QUOTEM, in "The Review."
PEDRO, in "Cinderella."
SCHNAPPS, in "The Naiad Queen."
MR. BUMBLE, in "Oliver Twist."
PETER SPYK, in "The Loan of a Lover."
MOCK DUKE, in "The Honeymoon."
SIR WM. FONDLOVE, in "The Love Chase."
CODDLE,}
DOVE, } in "Married Life."
DOMINIE SAMPSON, in "Guy Mannering."
PETER, in "The Stranger."
MR. GILMAN, in "Happiest Day of My Life."
GRAVES, in "Money."
DUKE'S SERVANT, in "High Life Below Stairs."
SAM WELLER, in "Pickwick."
DON WHISKERANDOS, in "The Critic."
SIMPSON, in "Simpson & Co."
TOUCHSTONE, in "As You Like It."
TOM TAPE, in "Sketches in India."
TONY BAVARD, in "The French Spy."
SCRUB, in "Now-a-Days."
BROWN, in "Kill or Cure."
FLUID, in "The Water Party."
NICHOLAS RUE, in "Secrets Worth Knowing."
MR. FLARE, in "Such As It Is."
FREDERICK STORK, in "The Prince's Frolic."
MR. TWEEDLE, in "The Broken Heart."
GALOCHARD, in "The King's Gardener."
SNOWBALL, in "The Catspaw."
WAGGLES, in "Friend Waggles."
EUCLID FACILE, in "Twice Killed."
JENKINS, in "Gretna Green."
BULLFROG, in "The Rent Day."
BOX, in "Box and Cox."
MRS. MACBETH, in "Macbeth Travestie."
CHRISTOPHER STRAP, in "Pleasant Neighbors."
OLD RAPID, in "A Cure For the Heartache."
COL. DAMAS, in "The Lady of Lyons."
VERGES, }
DOGBERRY,} in "Much Ado About Nothing."
JOHN SMITH, in "Nature's Nobleman."
EPHRAIM JENKINSON, in "The Vicar of Wakefield."
MICHAEL, in "Love in Humble Life."
TETTERBY, in "The Haunted Man."
MR. MENNY, in "Socialism."
PIERRE DE LA ROCHE, in "The Midnight Watch."
SPHINX, in "The Sphinx."
TOM BOBOLINK, in "Temptation."
PICADILLY, in "Burton's New York Directory."
JUSTICE WOODCOCK, in "Love in a Village."
BILL, in "Peep From the Parlor Windows."
HARESFOOT, in "Life Among the Players."
NOGGS, in "The Mormons."
MARC ANTONY BAROWN, in "A Great Tragic Revival."
SIGNOR TOPAZ, in "Fascination."
VANDAM, in "Wall Street."
COL. ROCKET, in "Old Heads and Young Hearts."
VON FIEZENSPAN, in "The Slave Actress."
JONAS BLOT, in "The Poor Scholar."
EPAMINONDAS, in "Genevieve."
ANTHONY GAB, in "The Witch Wife."
BONUS, in "Laugh When You Can."
WILLIAM RUFUS, in "Helping Hands."
COL. GOLDIE, in "'Tis Ill Playing with Edged Tools."
BERRYMAN, in "False Pretences."
DICK, in "Ellen Wareham."
SUCKLING, in "Education."
SPATTERDASH, in "The Young Quaker."
BOB CLOVER, in "Married an Actress."
OLD REVEL, in "School for Grown Children."
GILES GRIZZLE, in "Stag Hall."
BALTHAZAR, in "Player's Plot."
WILLIAM LINK, in "The Fox-Hunt."
BLANQUET, in "The Lancers."
BRAINWORM, in "Every Man in His Humor."
MANUEL COGGS, in "Married by Force."
RATTAN, in "The Beehive."
GREGORY GRIZZLE, in "My Wife and Umbrella."
DELPH, in "Family Jars."
TEWBERRY, in "A Heart of Gold."
JUPITER, in "Apollo in New York."
COUNT VENTOSO, in "Pride Must Have a Fall."
DR. LACQUER, in "Our Set."
DE BONHOMME, in "A Nice Young Man."
SIR HIPPINGTON MIFF, in "Comfortable Lodgings."
MAXIMUS HOGSFLESH, in "Barbers at Court."
FRIGHT, in "Crimson Crimes."
INFANTE FURIBOND, in "Invisible Prince."
MR. GREENFINCH, in "Duel in the Dark."
TIMOTHY QUAINT, in "Soldier's Daughter."
SIR SIMON SLACK, in "Spring and Autumn."
PEEPING TOM, in "All at Coventry."
TRISTAM SAPPY, in "Deaf as a Post."
CODGER, in "You're Another."
TACTIC, in "My Fellow Clerk."
TONY NETTLETOP, in "Love in a Maze."
TOBIAS SHORTCUT, in "The Spitfire."
BOB TICKET, in "An Alarming Sacrifice."
JEREMY DIDDLER, in "Raising the Wind."
JACK HUMPHREYS, in "Turning the Tables."
MAW-WORM, in "The Hypocrite."
DAFFODIL TWOD, in "The Ladies' Man."
GOLIGHTLY, in "Lend Me Five Shillings."
CHRISTOPHER CROOKPATH, in "Upper Ten and Lower Twenty."
GHOST, in "Hamlet Travestie."
DIGGORY, in "The Spectre Bridegroom."
BENJAMIN BUZZARD, in "The Two Buzzards."
MARMADUKE MOUSER, in "Betsey Baker."
CRACK, in "The Turnpike Gate."
BILLY BLACK, in "100-Pound Note."
CAPT. COPP, in "Charles the Second."
MARALL, in "New Way to Pay Old Debts."
TOBIAS SHORTCUT, in "The Cockney."
PETER POPPLES, in "Man of Many Friends."
ADAM BROCK, in "Charles the Twelfth."
RICHARD PRIDE, in "Janet Pride."
POLONIUS, }
FIRST GRAVE-DIGGER, } in "Hamlet."
FIRST WITCH, in "Macbeth."
SIR GEORGE THUNDER, in "Wild Oats."
GUY GOODLUCK, in "John Jones."
MARPLOT, in "The Busybody."
JOE SEDLEY, in "Vanity Fair."
GIL, in "Giralda."
QUEEN BEE, in "St. Cupid."
DABCHICK, in "How to Make Home Happy."
SHADOWLY SOFTHEAD, in "Not So Bad As We Seem."
SMYTH, in "Mind Your Own Business."
SIR TIMOTHY STILTON, in "Patrician and Parvenu."
CARDINAL MAZARIN, in "Youthful Days of Louis XIV."
TWINKS, in "Mrs. Bunbury's Spoons."

RECOLLECTIONS
OF
MR. BURTON'S PERFORMANCES

"_And now what rests but that we spend the time
With stately triumphs, mirthful comic shows._"
--SHAKESPEARE.

RECOLLECTIONS.

When Burton opened in Chambers Street, he was forty-four years old, in the prime of life, his powers mature and approaching culmination. Let us endeavor to give a portrait of the comedian as he appeared at this time. Above the medium height; rotund in form, yet not cumbersome; limbs well proportioned; deep-chested, with harmonious breadth of shoulder; neck short and robust; large and well-balanced head; the hair worn short behind, longer in front, and brushed smartly toward the temples; face clean-shaven; complexion bordering on the florid; full chin and cheeks; eyes seemingly blue or gray, beneath brows not over heavy, and capable of every conceivable expression; nose straight, and somewhat sharply inclined; mouth large, the lips thin, and wearing in repose a smile half playful, half trenchant. Such is the picture memory draws, the likeness in some degree confirmed by engravings in our possession. Outlined thus, and in his proper person, he seemed in general aspect to blend the suave respectability of a bank president with the easy-going air of an English country squire. We shall have occasion to refer in due course to the marvellous changes that were possible to that face and form, when the man became the actor and walked the stage with Momus, with Dickens, and with Shakespeare. Prominent among his physical attributes was a clear, strong voice, capable of a great variety of intonations, and his delivery was such that no words of his were ever lost in any part of the house.

Before entering the wide field of our memories, we wish to offer some observations respecting the comedian's mental equipment, and to consider briefly the features of his unrivalled powers. We have no doubt but that the classical education of his youth had much to do with his early preference for the tragic muse. His mind, imbued with admiration for classic form and color, was fed with divine images, which, while replete with grace and beauty, bore still the impress of Greek austerity. He inclined naturally, therefore, toward the conception of that which was the predominating influence in his mental training. At the same time, after eschewing his predilections for tragedy, he found that the classic discipline had created a receptivity of mind in the highest degree important to his future study; and that quickened apprehension proved of inestimable value in his subsequent introduction to Shakespeare, the old dramatists, and in all his intellectual excursions.

Yielding to him, then, this vantage-ground of culture, let us glance at the attributes of his genius, which entitle him, as we think, to the claim made for him--namely, one of the greatest actors in his line the stage has known. We need not specify that line further than to say that it passes with the title of "low comedy"; but Burton's versatility was so extraordinary, his repertory so extended, his conceptions so forcible, that the theatric nomenclature seems insufficient to define and measure the scope and range of his abilities. His impersonations, especially those Shakespearian, were often of too high an order to be classed under the accepted notion of low comedy. Let us style him an expounder and representative of the Humor of the Drama in all its aspects, and we shall come nearer to what he really was. For an all-embracing perception of humor revealed itself perpetually in his acting. As the imagination of Longfellow transformed to organ pipes the musketry of the Springfield Arsenal, so would Burton change dull inanities into vital and joyous images. This informing power, this native faculty of rising superior to the part assumed, and investing it with undreamed-of humorous interest, was an instinct of his genius, and gave to all his embodiments an originality and a flavor peculiarly his own. The character mattered not. It might be _Nick Bottom_ or _Paul Pry_, _Cuttle_ or _Micawber_, _Doctor Ollapod_ or _Charles Goldfinch_, _Sleek_ or _Toodle_. There was the complete identification, the superlative realization of the author's meaning; but the felicitous interpretation, the by-play, the way of saying a thing, the facial expression--his own and no other man's,--the Burtonian touch and treatment. In the extravagance of farcical abandon no one ever was funny as he. In comic portraits like _Toby Tramp_ or _Jem Baggs_, he absolutely exhaled mirth; and we cannot help thinking how perfectly Hazlitt describes him in writing of Liston: "His farce is not caricature; his drollery oozes out of his features, and trickles down his face; his voice is a pitch-pipe for laughter." "We have seen Burton," says Wemyss, "keep an audience in roars of inextinguishable laughter, for minutes in succession, while an expression of ludicrous bewilderment, of blank confusion, or pompous inflation, settled upon his countenance." And this was penned by Wemyss at a time when _Cuttle_, _Micawber_, _Sleek_, and _Toodle_ were yet to be.

In thus indicating Burton's natural gifts, we must not lose sight of the study and knowledge necessary to their development and to the achievement of his fame. Let it not be supposed that his famous delineations were so many intuitions, easily shaped and clothed by him into substantial dramatic form. Easy, indeed, they might appear in the handling--for it was characteristic of the great comedian never to seem to entirely expend himself,--he always suggested a reserved force;--but this facile rendering was attained at the expense of as much intellectual attrition as Moore declared the melodious numbers of his verse often cost him.

The late Dr. John W. Francis relates a conversation with the famous George Frederick Cooke, respecting the actor's impersonation of _Sir Pertinax Macsycophant_, and in reply to the question, how he acquired so profound a knowledge of the Scotch accentuation, Cooke said: "I studied more than two and a half years in my own room, with repeated intercourse with Scotch society, in order to master the Scottish dialect, before I ventured to appear on the boards in Edinburgh, as _Sir Pertinax_, and when I did, Sawney took me for a native. It was the hardest task I ever undertook." How do we know how many years of thoughtful application the comedian's masterpieces expressed?

Mr. Burton was a student and man of the world as well as actor, and the supremacy of his performances was due to his close and comprehensive study of his author, his acquaintance with dramatic composition, his artistic sense, his thorough knowledge of the stage, his varied experience, his human insight,--the rest, like Dogberry's reading and writing, came by nature.

It is a habit with old play-goers, when over their cakes and ale, to recall the "palmy days" of the drama, and to say: "Ah, you should have seen ----; he was a great artist--none equal to him nowadays. Ah, the stage has declined since the old time." We do not wholly believe in the drama's decadence, but as we enter upon our Recollections we feel that _there_ were our palmy days, and the years seem long between. Twenty-four have passed since the comedian died, and there has been no sign of a successor to the mask and mantle. And it may be twice--nay, thrice twenty before the actor shall arise who will compel us to recall the triumphs of Burton for the sake of comparison.

MR. BURTON IN FARCE.

A man like Mr. Burton, endowed with keen humorous perception and the mimetic faculty, competent to express easily and with unction every phase of mirthful extravagance suggested by fancy and flow of spirit, must occasionally yield to the imperious demands of his nature, and, perforce, when so pressed, he opens the safety-valve of play and gives escape to his excess of humor.

In this connection, we are reminded of Sydney Smith, as an example of humorous irrepressibility. Restraint seldom fettered the expression of the witty suggestions of his fancy. It was as natural in him to be gay and mirthful as it was to breathe. His humor welled from a perpetual spring. It was like the profanity of the Scotchman who didn't swear at any thing particular, but just stood in the middle of the road and "swore at large." There is a story that the divine, arriving first at a gathering of notables, was ushered into the drawing-room, which was hung with mirrors on all sides. Seeing himself reflected at all points, he looked around and observed: "Ah, a very respectable collection of clergymen!" Now his only auditor was the servant; but the thought came and was at once expressed. Of course, Sydney Smith could be serious when he wished, as all know who are familiar with his life and works; but he had his play-ground at Holland House and in kindred coteries, where his buoyant spirit worked its own sweet will. When the clergyman of lugubrious aspect called upon poor Tom Hood, the story goes that the humorist could not help remarking: "My dear Sir, I'm afraid your religion doesn't agree with you!"--and we are quite willing to believe the story to be one of "Hood's Own," for it has all the flavor of the author who gave us "Laughter from Year to Year." Instances might be multiplied of this humorous self-abandonment; but we are growing digressive. The train of reflection, however, leads us to the belief that Burton's merry-making powers needed occasionally an avenue of escape; and the safety-valve, in his case, was often found in the farces his acting made so popular--those exhibitions of fun and drollery in which, through the lens of memory, we now intend to view him.

The farce, by the way, is a thing of the past. It may almost be said that as a form of the acting drama, at least in America, it has been passed to the limbo of disuse. Rarely, if ever, do our programmes nowadays bear the old, familiar formula: "To conclude with the laughable Farce of ----." We are no longer invited to laugh at the droll situations and funny dialogues contained in the many pieces of Buckstone, Mathews, and Morton; yet all will admit their efficacy to beguile a lagging hour, and to smooth away the obtrusive wrinkle from the proverbial brow of care. Such, certainly, was the power they exerted in other days; and perhaps it is to be lamented that the frolic atmosphere diffused by those comic productions is ours no more to make merry and revel in. "Custom exacts, and who denies her sway?" remarks Colman, the younger; and for many years the design of our managers, in catering for the public, has comprehended the representation of one play only for the performance of an evening; setting it elaborately, bestowing upon it a wealth of scenic embellishment, and presenting it generally with a due regard to strength and fitness of cast. Many of the standard comedies have been thus illustrated--notably "The School for Scandal" and "She Stoops to Conquer"; the comedies of Robertson--"Home," "Caste," "School," "Ours,"--have been so rendered at Wallack's, and at the same theatre that play of charming improbabilities, "Rosedale," has enjoyed a periodic return. "Led Astray," acted so long at the Union Square Theatre; Mr. Daly's many successful adaptations, and the Irish dramas of Mr. Boucicault; "The Two Orphans"; "The Banker's Daughter"; "Hazel Kirke";--all these, and more, are like examples. Mr. Jefferson's "Rip Van Winkle" suffices for an evening; so also does Mr. Raymond's _Col. Sellers_, and so also did Mr. Sothern's _Dundreary_. This new departure may be a very good departure, for it gives us perfection in the details of scenery and costume, and concentrates the managerial resources in one splendid whole; and we may add, that a theatrical system is to be commended when it permits the audience to get comfortably home and to bed before midnight. But, all the same, if Burton were living and acting, the farce would hold its own; and every auditor would remain to the fall of the curtain, for the last glimpse of that face, the last word and action of that comedian who held such sway over the risibilities of mankind.

If among our readers there should be any old play-goers, they cannot fail to remember how often they dropped in for an hour's hilarity with "The Wandering Minstrel," or "Poor Pillicoddy." For, as previously stated, it was a circumstance by no means unusual to see fresh arrivals lining the walls of the theatre, drawn thither by the potent magnet of Burton in the farce. It was a matter of almost as much consequence to know what afterpiece was on the bill as what comedy. Often, indeed, the effect produced by Burton in some exceptionally droll part had become so widely known, that to see him in it was the prime object of a visit to the theatre; and if to the question--"What does Burton play to-night?" the answer named _Toby Tramp_, _Madame Vanderpants_, or the like, it was enough: "Let us go!" was the eager exclamation.

What a piece of fun was _Toby Tramp_, in "The Mummy"! How many who are living now will laugh as they recall the appearance of Burton in that close-fitting garment, covered with hieroglyphics! The plot is simple and easily told. _Toby_ is an itinerant player, needy and shabby, out at elbow and out of money; and agrees for a cash consideration to personate a mummy, already sold and promised to an old antiquarian. As we think of the scene in which the bargain is concluded we remember how full of stage strut and quotation Burton was, and how he embraced the opportunity to present a specimen of _Toby's_ histrionic quality, selecting the familiar soliloquy of _Richard_, and giving it as he (_Toby_) declared Shakespeare ought always to be interpreted. He commenced:

"Now is the winter of our discontent"--

and with the words turned up his coat-collar, blew his fingers, shivered, and was frozen generally. Continuing then:

"Made glorious summer by this sun of York"--

he instantly thawed, threw open his coat, puffed, and from his brow wiped the perspiration. And so he went through the whole. At the words "Grim-visag'd war," a gloomy and malignant frown darkened his features, which changed, as he pronounced "hath smooth'd his wrinkled front," to a bland expression of peace;--and the climax was reached when at the lines:

"He capers nimbly in a lady's chamber,
To the lascivious pleasing of a lute"--

he executed a fantastic dance, thrumming the while an imaginary guitar.

This burlesque, for aught we know, may have been an interpolation, a contribution of Burton himself to the fund of merriment--one of the instances, in fact, where he dropped the rein and let Momus have his way. But however it came, the travesty created unbounded amusement, and put the audience in the best possible humor; yet we feel how pointless is our sketch to even suggest the facial power, the comic attitudes, the air, the touches of drollery, born of the whole scene; and our readers must summon their imagination to help our failure.

The next scene is the antiquarian's museum, and the mummy is brought in. After the necessary raptures consequent upon such a unique possession, the professor withdraws and the stage is left alone. There lies the mummy in his case, and a pause succeeds. The intent audience observe a slight movement in the box. Slowly the head of Burton is raised, and he glances warily around the room. Raising himself to a sitting posture in the case, he turns toward the audience his marvellous face, on which rests an expression of doleful humiliation. We shall never forget how, finally, he rose to his feet, stepped out of the case, walked abjectly to the foot-lights, looked his disguise all over with intense concern, and then turned to the house--by this time scarcely able to contain itself--and said, with the accent of self-reproach and mortification--"I'm ---- if I'm not ashamed of myself!"

Situations follow, affording full opportunity for the display of Burton's humorous characteristics; but we need not pursue them in detail. He frightens everybody as a mummy; makes love as a mummy; devours the antiquarian's dinner; has his tragic bursts;-- in short, leaves nothing to be desired on the part of those who paid their money to laugh and be jolly with him.

_Mad. Vanderpants_ was another uproarious creation, more laughable even, in some ways, than "The Mummy." _Joe Baggs_ (Burton) is a lawyer's clerk, and during the absence of his employer on a journey, arranges a programme of deviltry for himself and comrade (T. B. Johnston). _Baggs_ becomes _Mad. Vanderpants_, and his companion _Miss Smithers_, her assistant, and they advertise for "A Thousand Milliners." Burton's "make-up" was one of the most astonishing things we ever saw, and Johnston's was by no means lacking in artistic finish. The milliners arrive (that is a representation), and then ensues an hour of unparalleled fun and frolic. The manner of Burton in sustaining the character and in replying with complacent air to the numerous questions asked by the deluded damsels, was so supremely ludicrous that we pause in writing to laugh at the remembrance. Some work is wanted, and the window shades are unceremoniously torn down and given to the milliners. "What shall we do with it?" ask they. "Do?" replied Burton, with imperturbable gravity, "Why, you can hemstitch it up one side, and back-stitch it down the other--and then gusset it all around!" The fun waxes fast and furious, when suddenly the employer returns. The _dénouement_ can be imagined; we cannot describe it;--but those who remember Burton's mimetic power, and his faculty to express abject terror and kindred emotions, can well understand what a scene of indescribable riotous humor it was. And we cannot omit, in referring to this farce, to mention the admirable support given by the lamented Mrs. Hughes, who, as one of the milliners, contributed largely to the general success by her conscientious acting.

How can we, in this allotted space, deal justly with our crowding memories? What shall we say of _Jem Baggs_, in "The Wandering Minstrel"?--that minstrel whose entrance on the stage was heralded by a sounding strain certainly never before heard on sea or land, and whose appearance, as he emerged from the wing, continuing still the dirge-like air, was a signal for a gleeful burst all over the house. How paint his introduction, under a mistaken identity, into musical society; the situation that follows; his song of "All Around My Hat"; the comic incidents that strew the too-fleeting hour of his career?

How view him as _Pillicoddy_, awaiting with supreme anguish the "turning up" of his wife's "first," through all the phases of ludicrous bravado and comic despair?

How depict him in "Turning the Tables"? or in "The Siamese Twins"? or in "That Blessed Baby"? How see him as _Mr. Dabchick_, in "The Happiest Day of My Life"? or as _Megrim_, in "Blue Devils," and ever so many more?

And yet we ought to linger on each one; for we have never seen them since, and it may be we may never see them again--certain is it that we shall never see them so performed. And only for the sake of refreshing a memory of something greater would we wish to behold them now.

In concluding this imperfect tracing of recollection, we are conscious of many deficiencies; one of these a few final words may supply.

We have said nothing of the individualization of Burton's many characters in farce. It is true that the native hue and flavor of the comedian's humor were so strong, and his physique so pronounced, that he himself was always more or less apparent in whatever guise; but it would be a great mistake to suppose that in the parts above named there was no essential difference, with respect to portraiture. There was a difference, and it was clearly marked. Each was a picture by itself--each a distinct characterization; and in the development the author was often left so far behind that the actor became the creator. But this loyalty to ideal perception denotes, as it seem to us, that even in farcical abandon his delineations were shaped and governed by his artistic sense.

MR. BURTON IN PARTS HE MADE SPECIALLY FAMOUS.

The familiar picture of John Philip Kemble in the character of _Hamlet_, standing at _Ophelia's_ grave, in sad retrospection over the skull of Yorick, always impressed us as a revelation of the fact that an actor's fame is bequeathed to posterity in the traditions of effect produced by a few celebrated embodiments, and is forever associated with those special triumphs. That Kemble was a supreme representative of the impressive school, that he merited the glowing eulogium contained in Campbell's eloquent verses, there will be no question; but when we think of him or read of him, the figure of the Dane looms up in sombre majesty, and we are haunted by the avenging spirit of Elsinore.

The picture of Edmund Kean, as _Richard_, kneeling at the feet of _Lady Anne_, with the words, "Take up the sword again, or take up me," upon his lips, impresses us in the same way; and any thought of that great tragedian conjures an attendant vision of the dark and aspiring _Gloster_.

When, in the years to come, the name of Jefferson is spoken, will not imagination linger on _Rip Van Winkle's_ long slumber amid the everlasting hills? and will not Sothern and Raymond appeal to a future generation as _Dundreary_ of the glaring eye, and _Sellers_ of the uplifted arm? And we have no doubt that Mr. Burton is, in the memory of those now living who saw him, and will be to those who shall know him from tradition and dramatic annals, the actor who was so inimitable as _Captain Cuttle_, _Aminadab Sleek_, and _Timothy Toodles_. And no wonder. The mere mention of them opens the flood-gate of recollection, and we seem to hear far down the aisles of time the free, glad laughter of delighted audiences. If, haply, in our memories hitherto we have struck in some heart the chord of reminiscence, surely now we may hope to prolong the strain. For, among the many who are still here to tell of their nights at Burton's, few, perchance, will revert to _Bob Acres_ or _Goldfinch_, _Nick Bottom_ or _Autolycus_; while all, at the comedian's name, will at once summon the images of _Cuttle_, _Sleek_, and _Toodles_.

In view of the extraordinary popularity of these performances, we shall treat now of certain parts made specially famous by Mr. Burton, and present in another group a view of other and various characters in his comedy repertory.

A favorite part, and one which always delighted us, was that prince of stage busybodies, _Paul Pry_. The character as Poole drew it affords unusual scope for the exhibition of comic power, and in Burton's hands its humorous possibilities were made the most of. The play was frequently on the bills, and always drew a house that followed the comedian through all his mirth-moving entanglements in a state of hilarious enjoyment. The more we think of it, the more we are disposed to class _Paul Pry_ as one of Burton's masterpieces, so rich was it in certain phases of humor and so replete with droll suggestiveness. It may not, perhaps, be generally known that Mr. Burton was the second comedian who played the part in England, and it was a favorite of the renowned Liston, whose impersonation of it won him fame and fortune. There is a story to the effect that at the last rehearsal of the comedy, previous to its presentation at the Haymarket, Liston was undecided as to his costume; and while on the stage, still doubtful and uncertain, a workman entered on some errand, wearing a large pair of Cossack trousers, which, it being a wet day, he had tucked into his wellingtons. The appearance of the trousers struck Liston, who adopted the idea; and hence the origin of the dress peculiar to _Pry_. We remember very well the general effect of Burton's "make-up"; can recall various details; but the point of the trousers is not clear; so a better memory than ours must determine whether or no Liston's notion was perpetuated by his successor.

We see Burton now, as he entered upon the scene at _Doubledot's_ inn with: "Ha! how d' ye do, Doubledot?" and we hear him asking with ingratiating audacity question after question, pausing for an answer after each one, and in no wise put out at getting none,--"never miss any thing for the want of asking, you know." Then his lingering departure, and _Doubledot's_ fervent: "I've got rid of him at last, thank heaven!" No, he returns. "I dropped one of my gloves" (looking about). _Doubledot_ waxes impatient and speaks his mind. "Mr. Doubledot," said Burton, swelling with insulted dignity, "I want my property; I want my property, sir. When I came in here I had two gloves, and now--ah--that's very odd; I've got it in my hand all this time!" (hasty exit). How little it seems in the telling. The air of anxiety on returning, and the eye-glass brought into play; the look of injured innocence, the indignant assertion, and then the sudden collapse--cannot be reproduced in words.

The piece is full of diverting situations, but nothing was more natural than that Burton should improve on and add to them. His bright instinct kindled the dry fagots of a scene till they fairly crackled with merriment. Certain "business," humorous amplification of dialogue, a diffusion of comic incident, that we vividly recall, are not to be found in the printed "Paul Pry"; and the conclusion of the second act, especially, where the pistols are used with such ludicrous effect, all that was Burton's own. The pistols lay on the table, left there by _Col. Hardy_, and _Pry_ is alone. Burton took them up, one in each hand. He regarded the weapons fixedly. Then, with solemn enunciation: "I never fought a duel; but if I was called out," extending an arm, "I say if I was called out"--bang! went one of the pistols, and down dropped Burton, the picture of fright, when bang! went the other, and the curtain fell on the comedian sitting in abject terror, a smoking pistol in each hand, gazing in every direction for succor, and wildly ejaculating "Murder!" Then, at the close of the play, when _Pry_ reminds _Col. Hardy_ that, thanks to him (_Pry_), things, after all, have resulted to the satisfaction of everybody, the _Colonel_ relaxes his sternness somewhat and says: "Well, I will tolerate you; you shall dine with me to-day." "Colonel," replied Burton, with airy condescension, "I'll dine with you every day."

It was a rare pleasure to see Placide and Burton in their respective parts; and as once again we think of them the Chambers Street stage is before us, and the garden scene; and we see _Col. Hardy_ place the ladder against the wall, mount it and peer cautiously over, and then hastily descend, saying: "I have him; there he is, crouching on the ground with his eye at the key-hole"; see him quietly approach the gate, suddenly open it, and once again as of old, Burton tumbles in, umbrella and all, with "How are you, Colonel! I've just dropped in!"

He will never more drop in for us, nor does it seem likely that in our day another _Paul Pry_ will appear. The play may have been performed in New York since the comedian's death, and we seem dimly to remember that it was; but we have no recollection beyond the simple circumstance. We feel sure, however, that public interest in it ceased with the departure of its last great representative; and equally sure that in the memory of those who saw it, Burton's _Paul Pry_ remains a famous creation of delightful humor.

What shall we say of _Captain Cuttle_? How many readers and lovers of Dickens thronged the theatre in the old days to witness that wonderful reproduction? and how many to whom Dickens was but a name were led by the impersonation to study the pages of the great novelist? It is certain that Burton by his sympathetic and admirable portrayal awakened a fresh interest in the enchanting story, so potent to excite intellectual pursuit is fine and sagacious interpretation. "Dombey and Son" was one of the great triumphs of the Chambers Street Theatre, and not to have seen it constituted an offence against public sentiment utterly without palliation. That it was Charles Dickens dramatized by John Brougham was enough of itself to claim respectful attention; and when Burton added the crowning effect of his acting of _Cuttle_, then indeed was the dramatic feast complete. Nothing could be clearer than that the comedian had made careful and conscientious study of his author, and nothing surer than that the portrait was conceived in an appreciative and loving spirit. If those familiar with the character as depicted by Dickens discerned at times certain felicitous touches in Burton's delineation which suggested an originality of method and treatment, the points were due, we think, to the genius of the novelist acting upon the actor's imagination, and kindling it to the expression of cognate verisimilitude.

What a memory it is to linger on! How the form comes back, clad in the white suit; the high collar, like a small sail, and the black silk handkerchief with flaring ends loosely encircling it; the head bald at top, a shining pathway between the bristling hair on each side; the bushy eyebrows arching the reverential eyes; the knob-environed nose; the waist-coat with buttons innumerable; the glazed hat under his left arm; the hook gravely extended at the end of his right. "May we never want a friend in need, or a bottle to give him! Overhaul the Proverbs of Solomon, and when found make a note of," we hear him saying; and then we follow him through those inimitable scenes which cannot be easily forgotten by those who witnessed them. The scene where he cheers up _Florence_, and makes such dexterous play with his hook, adjusting her bonnet and manipulating the tea--and yet exhibiting a simple and natural pathos with it all; where he sits in admiring contemplation of _Bunsby_, while that oracular tar delivers his celebrated opinion respecting the fate of the vessel, with the memorable addendum: "The bearings of this observation lays in the application on it"; the scene with the _MacStingers_, and the _Captain's_ despair; the timely intervention of _Bunsby_; the despair changed to wondering awe; and then all the suggestive by-play consequent upon his delivery by _Bunsby_ from the impending _MacStinger_ vengeance;--all this, and much more than we can describe, passes by like a panorama in memory. Burton's _Captain Cuttle_ occupies a conspicuous place in the gallery of famous dramatic pictures, and there it will long remain.[11] As we think of it in all the details which made it so perfect an embodiment, it seems a pity that Dickens himself never saw it. We can fancy that had he chanced to be in New York when "Dombey and Son" was the theatrical sensation, and had dropped in at Chambers Street, an auditor all unknown, he would have made his way behind the scenes, and to Burton's dressing-room, and with both hands would have grasped the comedian's hook and enthusiastically shaken it.

[11] Ireland, in referring to certain qualities of Burton's acting, says: "While in homely pathos, and the earnest expression of blunt, uncultivated feeling, he has rarely been excelled. His grief at the supposed death of Walter Gay, or poor Wally, as Captain Cuttle affectionately called him, was one of the most touching bits of acting ever witnessed, and has wrung tears from many an unwilling eye."

"The Serious Family" and "The Toodles"! What memories of joyous, laughing hours the names awaken! Never, we venture to say, were playhouse audiences regaled with so surpassing a feast of mirth as that spread by Burton in his performance of those renowned specialities--_Aminadab Sleek_ and _Timothy Toodles_. No comedian, we believe, of whom we have any record, excelled those efforts in variety of mimetic effect, facial expression, and display of comic power. That in them the extreme limit of humorous demonstration was reached, the public generally acknowledged. The two plays had their regular nights, and thousands flocked, week after week, to the banquet of jollity, all unsatisfied, though again and again they had revelled there. No greater contrast could be offered an audience than that presented by the two pieces of acting. The sanctimonious and lugubrious _Sleek_; the effusive and rubicund _Toodles_! Coming one after the other, in every way so different, the instance of versatility made a deep impression, and prompted a thought on the flexibility of human genius. We are reminded at this moment of an incident which occurred one evening in connection with "The Serious Family," which added an unexpected feature to the entertainment. Burton did not appear in the first piece, and the audience, eager for _Aminadab_, were glad when the orchestra ceased. But the prompter's bell did not tinkle. After a pause the orchestra played again, and again finished. Still no bell. Signs of impatience began, and as the delay continued the hubbub increased. An attempt on the part of the musicians to fill the gap was received with evident displeasure. At last, when nearly half an hour had elapsed, the bell sounded, and the curtain rose on the familiar group of _Sleek_, _Lady Creamly_, and _Mrs. Torrens_. Applause broke out all over the house; but with it were mingled a few ill-humored hisses. Burton left his place at the table and came forward to the foot-lights. There he stood in the well-known suit of pepper and salt, the straight gray hair framing the solemn visage of _Sleek_. Then, in his own proper voice, he explained the cause of the delay--a mishap of travel,--expressed his regret, and begged the indulgence of the audience. A storm of approval followed his speech, in the midst of which he resumed his place, instantly assuming his character; and as the applause died away another voice succeeded, the voice of _Sleek_, in nasal tone, saying: "We appeal to the disciples of true benevolence, and the doers of good deeds, without distinction of politics or party," etc. The effect of the transition was irresistible; and the loss of time was forgotten in the gain of a new delight. And now another story of "The Serious Family" comes to mind, and it is too good to be lost. Playing in Atlanta, Georgia, he found a wretched theatre, without appointments or properties. At the conclusion of the overture the prompter ran to Burton with the announcement that there was no bell to ring up the curtain. "Good gracious, what a place! Here, my lad," he said to a little fellow who acted as call-boy, "run out and get us a bell--any thing will do--a cow bell, if you can't get any thing better." Away went the boy, the orchestra vainly endeavoring to quiet the audience with popular airs. Back came the boy, pale and breathless, gasping out: "There ain't a bell in the whole town, sir!"

"What's to be done now?" asked the prompter.

"Shake the thunder!" No sooner said than done. Up went the curtain, and "The Serious Family" commenced amidst the most terrific peal heard in that theatre for many a year.

It goes without saying that Burton's _Sleek_ and _Toodles_, especially the latter, though founded on another's outlines, were so built upon and humorously amplified, that in diverting dramatic effect they were clearly his own creations, and owed their importance to the impress of the actor's transforming power. When we read "The Serious Family" as written by Morris Barnett, clever though it be, we see at once where the author ends and the actor begins; and as for "The Toodles," it is sufficient to say that the _Timothy Toodles_ of Burton was never dreamed of by the playwright.

How shall we describe to those who were born too late to witness them, these famous performances of the great comedian? We feel that all description must fail in giving any idea of the infinite variety and scope of comic humor they exhibited. We might, indeed, for they are vivid in remembrance, take our readers through the many scenes, and show them _Sleek_, from the entrance of _Captain Maguire_, in the first act, to Burton's enraged exit in the last; picturing, as we go, the situations without parallel in droll device and mirth-moving complication; show them _Toodles_, from his arraignment of _Mrs. Toodles_ for her multifarious and preposterous bargains, not forgetting the _door-plate_ of _Thompson_--_Thompson_ with a _p_--nor "he had a brother,"--to his inimitable tipsy scene and the memorable soliloquy, "That man reminds me";--but, however exhaustive the relation in words, after all was said, we should still hopelessly leave the effect to be guessed at with the help of imagination.