Part 5

"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.

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.

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