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

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 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.

"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.

We have thus endeavored to give impressions from memory of certain parts in which Burton was specially famous; and they seem to us, on account of their versatility and range of humorous spirit, to be conspicuous examples of that varied power which led us to style the comedian an expounder of the Humor of the Drama in all its aspects. If the sojourn on earth of old Robert Burton was intended to give the world an "Anatomy of Melancholy," surely the mission of the later Burton was to lay bare the whole body of mirth.

MR. BURTON IN COMEDY AND SHAKESPEARE.

As we think of the many parts in which it was our good fortune to see Mr. Burton, we are led into a reflection on the surprising versatility displayed by them; and we question whether the record of any comedian embraces a repertory so extensive, so varied, and so distinguished for general ability. The performances we are about to recall, though exhibiting many humorous features in common, were each a distinct conception; and the execution of each was a dramatic portrait by itself, artistic in measure, faithful in delineation, and felicitous in the expression of points of character. The Burtonian element—in the shape of by-play, gesture, accent, facial device, mimetic effect—was visible in the composition, as a matter of course, contributing to the picture's expansion, deepening its tints and emphasizing its characteristics,—added touches that were the actor's stamp and sign-manual. We have cited Sleek and Toodles as strongly contrasting parts, and so indeed they were; but we might easily adduce instances of versatility quite as striking, and would do so were it not more than likely that they will appear to our readers as our memories progress. It is said that the celebrated William Farren used to style himself a "cock salmon," the only fish of his kind in the market; and if unique dramatic distinction lies in that piscatorial image, most assuredly Mr. Burton was a cock salmon of the first water.

We cannot hope to remember every thing we saw Mr. Burton play, yet we think our recollection will embrace a fair array of those characters in comedy and divers pieces which he alone in his generation seemed adequately to fill, and which were such a boon of delight to the audiences of long ago.

There was his Micawber, in the dramatization of "David Copperfield," which succeeded "Dombey and Son,"—equal to if not surpassing his Cuttle; an inimitable reproduction of the novelist's creation, full of humorous point, and sustained with an indescribable airy complacence and bland assumption of resource, that made it a perfect treat to lovers of Dickens; and those who saw "David Copperfield" may well rejoice, for they hold in memory Burton's Micawber, Johnston's Uriah Heep, and Mrs. Hughes' Betsy Trotwood!

There was Bumble, the beadle, in "Oliver Twist," a very funny piece of acting, and especially so in the well-known scene with Mrs. Corney, where, in excess of tenderness, he tells her that "any cat, or kitten, that could live with you ma'am, and not be fond of its home, must be a ass ma'am." And then when the matron is called away and the beadle remains, his proceedings are described by Dickens thus: "Mr. Bumble's conduct on being left to himself was rather inexplicable. He opened the closet, counted the teaspoons, weighed the sugar-tongs, closely inspected the silver milk-pot to ascertain that it was of the genuine metal, and, having satisfied his curiosity on these points, put on his cocked hat cornerwise, and danced with much gravity four distinct times round the table. Having gone through this very extraordinary performance, he took off the cocked hat again, and spreading himself before the fire with his back toward it, seemed to be mentally engaged in taking an exact inventory of the furniture." We deem it enough to say that Mr. Burton's management of the foregoing "business" left nothing to be desired.

We may note, in the mention of "Oliver Twist," that Nancy Sykes was played by the late Fanny Wallack, with a fidelity of purpose and a pathetic abandon that made it painful to witness.

To continue with Dickens: there were Squeers and Sam Weller, both capital in their way—the last, however, lacking, as it seemed to us, in true Wellerian flavor; but the Squeers was marked by an appreciative recognition of the schoolmaster's grim traits; and the scene at Dotheboys Hall was admirably given; Mrs. Hughes, as Mrs. Squeers, "made up" to the life, and irresistible in her distribution of the treacle.

All these portraits from the pages of Dickens were so many meritorious presentments of the novelist's creations, and would have won enduring fame for an actor of smaller calibre; the truth is, in Mr, Burton's case, that his Bumble, Squeers, and Weller were but dimly seen, owing to the greater glory of his Cuttle and Micawber.

We saw Mr. Burton as Bob Acres, in "The Rivals"; as Tony Lumpkin, in "She Stoops to Conquer"; as Goldfinch, in "The Road to Ruin"; as Doctor Ollapod, in "The Poor Gentleman"; as Sir George Thunder, in "Wild Oats"; as Job Thornberry, in "John Bull"; as Sir Oliver Surface, in "The School for Scandal"; as Graves, in Bulwer's "Money"; as the Mock Duke, in "The Honeymoon"; as Adam Brock, in "Charles XII."; as Van Dunder, in "The Dutch Governor"; as John Smith, in "Nature's Nobleman"; as Mr. Sudden, in "The Breach of Promise"; as Thomas Trot, in "Paris and London"; as Don Ferolo Whiskerandos, in "The Critic" of Sheridan; as Triplet, in "Masks and Faces";—certainly a gallery of dramatic portraits that would put to the test the highest order of ability; and we feel bound to say that Burton passed the ordeal well deserving the encomiums that were bestowed upon his efforts. It would be too much to expect that all these delineations were even in points of conception and execution; yet all were entitled to respectful consideration, and many were masterpieces. We will endeavor to go through them briefly, in remembrance of the happy hours we owe to their joyous influence.

The recent appearance of Jefferson as Bob Acres has aroused a new interest in the character, and from all accounts the performance was more than equal to expectation, and has enhanced the reputation of the comedian. We hope to have the pleasure of seeing Mr. Jefferson in due time, and we fancy that his acting of Acres would refresh somewhat our recollection of Burton in the part. As it is, however, we cannot vouch for a clear memory of Burton's Acres. We saw it but once, and then early in life, when we were new to the theatre; and all we seem to remember is that he was very funny with his curl papers, and his "referential or allegorical swearing," and that the duel scene was very amusing. It was the opinion of Hazlitt that Sheridan overdid the part, and accordingly he goes on to say: "It calls for a greater effort of animal spirits and a peculiar aptitude of genius in the actor to go through with it, to humor the extravagance, and to seem to take a real and cordial delight in caricaturing himself." This criticism is not without force; but whatever may have been Burton's conception, we are certain that a bright intelligence informed it, and that in the portrayal a requisite display of "animal spirits" was not lacking. If, among the audience that greeted Jefferson, there chanced to be any old play-goers of tenacious memory who had seen Burton, let us hope that they improved the occasion by pleasant reminiscence.

Tony Lumpkin was a very comic piece of acting, and made the people laugh immoderately; but we confess that the character has little charm for us. Burton used to sing the song of "The Three Jolly Pigeons" (in the ale-house scene) with more expression than melody; but he threw into it a great deal of frolic spirit and made it quite a feature.

In our youthful days, when witnessing "The Road to Ruin," we knew very well the moment when we should hear the voice of Goldfinch outside; and we remember his bustling entrance, in sporting frock, buff waiscoat, and top boots, whip in hand, and his rattling flow of horse-talk; his strut and his "that's your sort!" It is said that Lewis, of Covent Garden, (the original Goldfinch,) "gave to that catch-phrase a variety of intonation which made it always new and effective"; and Burton certainly played upon it adroitly. His delivery of the text was full of point and animation, and his articulation admirable. "Why, you are a high fellow, Charles," says Harry Dornton. "To be sure!" replies Goldfinch, "know the odds—hold four-in-hand—turn a corner in style—reins in form—elbows square—wrist pliant—hayait!—drive the Coventry stage twice a week all summer—pay for an inside place—mount the box—tip the coachy a crown—beat the mail—come in full speed—rattle down the gateway—take care of your heads!—never killed but one woman and a child in all my life—that's your sort!" We hear Burton's voice, we see his face and his gestures now!

We were always fond of Colman's "Poor Gentleman," and we took great delight in seeing Burton as Doctor Ollapod. As all know, the character affords wide scope for diverting treatment. The incidents are many and droll—and we think Burton turned every thing to the best account. Henry Placide played the part more artistically; but it was not possible for him to expound its humorous nature with the richness that came easily to Burton. We never think of Colman's comedy without a feeling of grateful pleasure; for its representation at various times gave us Burton and Placide as Ollapod; Burton as Sir Robert Bramble; Dyott, as Worthington; Mrs. Hughes as Lucretia McTab; and Johnston as Humphrey Dobbins.

We have referred in another place to Sir George Thunder and Job Thornberry; and we need not dwell upon them further than to say that both gave glimpses of that versatile power to which we have alluded, and both were full of the comedian's characteristic ability.

We suppose that Sir Oliver Surface would not be deemed a part exactly in Mr. Burton's "line"; and yet, as we remember it, he invested the character with a simple dignity, and played it with manly directness and feeling.

Our memory of Mr. Graves and the Mock Duke is dim and distant; but if our readers desire another example of versatility, we commend the two parts as furnishing a most conspicuous instance.

We have never seen "Charles XII." and "The Dutch Governor" since we saw Burton as Adam Brock and Van Dunder; but we assure the play-goers of to-day that the dramas were well worth seeing long ago when Liston played in them, and equally so when his great successor appeared in them at a later period. Burton rarely played Adam Brock, and we cannot remember seeing it more than once, when it impressed us greatly. "The Dutch Governor," on the contrary, was a favorite attraction at the Chambers Street Theatre, and Burton's Van Dunder was a rich feast of mirthful enjoyment.

Pardey's "Nature's Nobleman," purporting to be an American comedy, was first produced at Burton's in 1851. The prologue, which was spoken by the manager, contained these lines:

Whether or no the comedy gave us "the men and the moustachios that we see," or provided "some pictures of the time," we shall not pretend to say;—one would think so, since Blake, Burton, Bland, Dyott, Mrs. Hughes, Mary Taylor, Miss Weston, and Caroline Chapman were in the cast,—but, at all events, it gave us Burton's John Smith, which was well worth a journey to see. John Smith is "gentleman" to the Earl of Leamington (Dyott), who is making an American tour. The Earl gives his attendant a two-months' holiday to enjoy himself; and Smith, having dressed within an inch of his life, is taken for the Earl, and yields to the temptation to pass himself off as such. Out of this complication arise situations ludicrous in the extreme, through which Burton moved, the dispenser of mirth without end. His "make-up," his air, his self-sufficiency, his ignorance,—of which he is grotesquely unconscious,—his blundering malapropos speeches, his frequent social collapses and absurd attempts at recovery, his facial expression at mental mishap and irresistible by-play consequent, his constant display of mimetic power, his voice, look, manner,—all together made a picture of varied humor, which kept the house in hearty laughter from his entrance to the curtain's fall.

Mr. Sudden, in Buckstone's "Breach of Promise," was still another of those peculiar parts upon which Burton lavished his supreme gift of humor; and we owe to its diverting exposition many a gladsome hour.

Funny, too, beyond measure, were Thomas Trot and Don Whiskerandos; we see the first in the many comic incidents during the voyage from Paris to London; and we see Don Whiskerandos "quit this bustling scene" by rolling himself with marvellous celerity out of sight in the folds of the stage carpet.

We have reached the end of our string, with the exception of Triplet, and should love to linger in description on the blended humor and pathos of the impersonation. Let it suffice that not even Mr. Fisher's admirable presentment can dim the recollection of Burton's masterly delineation.

And now let us in our remaining space recall our memories of the Shakespearian parts in which we saw the great actor.

"A Midsummer-Night's Dream" was produced at Burton's in 1854, and the manager played Bottom. We well remember with what delight the play was received, and what a marked sensation was created by the scenery and stage effect. The public wondered how so much could be presented on so small a stage, and its accomplishment was a theme of general admiration. The fairy element was made a beautiful feature, and the spirit of poetry brooded over the whole production. The unanimity of the press in its encomiums on the revival was remarkable; and no more emphatic recognition of Burton's appreciation and knowledge of Shakespeare could be given than was expressed in that approving accord.

As we think of it now, it seems to us that Burton's idea of Bottom was the true one, and we enjoyed the performance immensely. It is very easy to make the character a sort of buffoon; but nothing, of course, was further than that notion from Burton's conception. Mr. Richard Grant White gives, in his "Shakespeare's Scholar," an admirable analysis of Bottom's characteristics, and at the close remarks: "As Mr. Burton renders the character, its traits are brought out with a delicate and masterly hand; its humor is exquisite." We remember his acting in the scene where the artisans meet for the distribution of parts in the play to be given before the Duke;—how striking it was in sustained individuality, and how finely exemplified was the potential vanity of Bottom. With what ingrained assurance he exclaimed: "Let me play the lion too; I will roar, that it will do any man's heart good to hear me; I will roar, that I will make the duke say, Let him roar again, let him roar again!" He was capital, too, in the scene of the rehearsal, and in his translation; and the love scene with Titania aroused lively interest. What pleased us greatly was the vein of engaging raillery which ran through his delivery of the speeches to the fairies, Cobweb, Peas-blossom, and Mustard-seed. It goes without saying, that as Pyramus in the tragedy Burton created unbounded amusement, and discharged the arduous part of the ill-starred lover with entire satisfaction to everybody.

Sir Toby Belch, in "Twelfth Night," was one of Burton's richest performances, and we remember it with the greatest pleasure. It was characterized by true Shakespearian spirit, and was acted with an animation and unctuous humor quite impossible to describe. The scene of the carousal wherein Sir Toby and Aguecheek are discovered; the arrival of the Clown with his "How, now, my hearts? Did you never see the picture of we three?" and Belch's greeting of "Welcome, ass,"—inaugurated an episode of extraordinary mirth, in which Burton moved the absolute monarch of merriment. The duel scene and the scene in the garden, when Malvolio reads the letter, were full of the comedian's diverting power; and we can recall no single instance of humorous execution which more perfectly fulfilled all conditions.

Burton played Touchstone and Dogberry, as has been mentioned; but it was never our good fortune to see him in either. We saw him as Caliban, in "The Tempest"; as Autolycus, in "Winter's Tale"; and as Falstaff, in "The Merry Wives of Windsor." His Caliban we have tried to forget rather than remember; it terrified us and made us dream bad dreams; but for all that, we know that it was a surprising impersonation. His Autolycus was a model of oily roguery, and another instance of that wondrous versatility of genius with which the comedian was endowed. Very dim in memory is Burton's Sir John Falstaff. We remember the scene in the Garter Inn, and the letters to the merry wives, and, of course, the dénouement of the clothes-basket, and the frolic at Herne's Oak,—but we cannot go into detail; and we always thought we should like Burton so much better in the Falstaff of "Henry IV." The mention of "Henry IV." reminds us that it was once produced at the Chambers Street Theatre, when Hackett played Sir John to Lester Wallack's Prince Hal; and in order that nothing might be lacking in honor to Shakespeare, Burton and Blake played the two Carriers in Scene I. of Act II. Fancy those two comedians with about twenty-five lines only between them in a play of five acts! But they must have covered themselves with glory.

We have endeavored in this retrospect to furnish a view of the comedian in a number of characters; and we think, however meagre our account, it still forcibly indicates the scope and range of Burton's abilities, and exhibits him in a wide scene of varied and striking dramatic power. We have depicted him in farce, in comedy, and in Shakespearian delineations; and it is not too much to say that generations will likely pass ere his fellow shall appear. We have heard and read of attempts being made by ambitious actors to revive his masterpieces, and that the efforts were highly commendable. Perhaps they were—