The Sun.
London, England, 1860-07-26 00:00:00

.D.RURY-DANE• TILEA7RE.

Last night a grand performance was given at this house
in aid of the fund being collected for the family of the late
Mr. Robert Brough, to which nearly the principal
theatres contributed their assistance. The farce of " Cruel
to be Kind" was played by the Princess's company ; a
selection from the Strand appeared in the " Last of the
Pigtails ;" the " Milkmaid Scene" from the " Willow
Copse" was given by Mrs. A. Mellon, Mr. Toole, and Mr.
P. Bedford, from the Adelphi ; and Mr. Buckstone and
certain members of his troupe appeared in " Fitzsmythe of
Fitzsrnythe
In addition to the professional performers, several ama-
teurs trod the boards. Mr. Leicester Buckingham recited
the late Mr. R. Brough's delightful little poem of " Godiva"
with admirable dramatic effect, and Mr. G. A. Sala de-
livered the following earnest address written by himself
for the occasion :
In triumph comes the Hero of the Day—
Strong in the council, stronger in the fray ;
See in his car the conqu'ror—not the slave ;
See o'er his head the silken banners wave,
Hear the loud trumpet's clanging blast procla'm
The grandeur of his exploits and his name.
He comes 1 He comes 1 his brow with laurel crown'd ;
Behind his chariot captive kings are bound.
The town his advent surges forth to greet ;
Maidens strew flowers 'neath his horses' feet;
The rev'rend senator and holy priest
Are proud to sit beneath him at the feast' •
The peasant leaves his plough, the dame her bower,
To hail with shouts the Cmsar of the hour. •
Yes ; Fame and Fortune now are in his hands.
Who help'd to win them ? Yonder strong-limb'd bands,
The well bronz'd legions tramping slowly by,
Who marched with him to conquer or to die—
Some have returned, unconquered, now, to share
In ev'ry gift our gratitude can spare.
At such proud moments darts there through one head
One transient thought of yon poor conscript, dead ?
Of yonder pale fac'd, well nigh beardless boy,
Whom Nature seem'd to rear but to destroy ?
He fought and bled. His valour helped to swell
The glorious triumphs Cmsar bears so well.
Nov his cold corse in some dark trench is laid,
Or sleeps beneath some hedg'row's pitying shade.
Too weak to cope in conflicts rude and rough,
So thousands die, and so died Robert Brough.
He was our conscript : fought the fight for years—
Fought it in sickness, poverty, and tears ;
Till Heaven was pleased his spirit to release,
And hush those troubled waters into peace—
To still that heart and sheath that dinted sword,
To " break the bowl" and " loose the silver cord."
He was our conscript : fearless in the strife,
And patient in that long disease—his life.
He drew the glaive, for justice, honour, truth ;
Y. e fell a vet'ran, though in years a youth.
He mov'd your mirth—nay, sometimes, too, your tears ;
He wore your harness, bore your shield for years.
His wit and fancy brought him nought but bread.
Your soldier yet deserves a mite, though dead.
The conscript's widow weeps, his children mourn;
'Tis yours to help the feeble, the forlorn.
He never sought a mean or base reward;
He never craved the bounty of my lord.
We crave it now. For alms we humbly sue ;
We hinge the knee, we bow the head, to you.
We ask your charity. Not for ourselves—
He needs it not who sternly digs and delves.
But can those babies work ? Can your poor girl
Battle with life, its warfare, and its whirl ?
Ladies and gentles, we are in your hand,
Upon your pitying hearts we take our stand.
Grant us your sympathy, your voices too,
Bear with us kindly. Think that all we do
To win your praise, to deprecate your blame,
Is humbly done in friendship's sacred name.
Perhaps the most interesting feature of the evening was
the performance of Mr. Brough's earliest dramatic effort, the
burlesque of the " Enchanted Isle," the male characters in
which were entirely sustained by amateurs—Messrs. George
Cruickshank, L. Buckingham, F. Talfourd, and J. Hol-
lingshead being among the number. The part of Miranda
was played by Miss Fanny Stirling, who made her debut in
public, and who acquitted herself with a vivacity and a
verve which fully merited the ovation awarded to her. Prior
to the burlesque the following prologue, written by Mr.
Shirley Brooks, was spoken by Mrs. Stirling :
A loftier language, and a graver tone
Than mine, have made our mournful story known.
Yet pardon some few words that intervene
As lighter prologue to a mirthful scene.
Some tribute-words you'll let me pay, the while
Our stage prepares to win your favouring smile.
Who have more right to smiles than those who cheer
To smiles the faces pale with sorrow's tear ?
From that rich treasury whence the richest draw
The boldest " instance" and the wisest " saw;"
From those grand pictures, bright with freshest youth,
Where endless fancy decks eternal truth ;
From him who read all hearts and hopes and fears,
As Newton read the mysteries of the spheres ;
From that proud garden, whose exhaustless beds
Have furnished garlands for a thousand heads—
Our young, lost, poet borrowed, as of right,
The forms to fill the scene we show to-night.
Yet, be it said, and those who knew him best
Would with their readiest voice my words attest,
He borrowed from that store-house rich and free,
Not in irreverence, but with frankest glee—
Not as a giber, with his length of ear,
Who seeks in noblest thoughts some theme for jeer,
But as a child, who laughingly will dare
Assume in sport a father's walk and air.
There is a volume—might I wish it read,
'Tis Falstaff's Life—by him whose life hath fled
That book our poet's memory bravely guards
From charge of mockery of the Bard of Bards.
So, on to •night's Revival deign to smile—
Laugh at the whims of his Enchanted Isle;
Remember that the work presented here
(Shared by a brother whom you scarce can cheer)
Was the first product of the buoyant brain
That toil'd so well—that ne'er shall toil again
The earliest laurel—the first victory won
In that gay field of fancy, wit and fun,
Where lie was sought, for many a joyous day,
Nor sought in vain—till wasting life gave way.
For your kind presence in those crowded ranks,
There are four hearts that owe you deeepest thanks—
But one is overcharged and hushed—and three
Scarce know their debt—accept their thanks from me.
We give, 0 gladly, friends, our art, and you
Your generous aid. 'Tis all that each call do.
Every line of this admirable address was delivered with
thorough earnestness and point, and was received by the
audience with acclamation.
The house was very well filled, and we hope to hear that
the fund has largely benefited by the performance.
rri. I