GRAND DRAMATIC APRÈS DÉJEÛNER.
SINCE the practice of giving entertainments to those who entertain the public has been adopted by those who got up the recent déjeûner to Mr. G. V. Brooke, it was determined by the friends of Mr. Stentor—the great interpreter of Fitzball—to invite that gentleman to a grand Spanish onion feast, which came off at the Cinder Cellars and Dust-hole of harmony, near the New Cut, Lambeth.
The room was hung with some of the best specimens from the theatrical gallery of Marks, and a magnificent portrait of Hicks, as Ivanhoe, picked out with tinfoil, and filled in with real red satin, occupied the centre of the wall over the seat of the Chairman. This masterly work of art was appropriately supported on its right by the well-known engraving of Mr. G. Almar, as the Knight of the Cross; and on its left by the highly finished etching of Mr. Crowther, as the Fiend of the Sepulchre. A group of Pantomime characters faced the door; and an equestrian piece representing "Miss Woolford in her favourite act of The Reaper," formed a pendant over the chimney-piece.
The supper was of the choicest kind, and embraced all the delicacies of the season that could be procured at the figure per head, which was fixed at the moderate tariff of ninepence, in order to embrace as many lovers of art—and onions—as possible. The pièce de résistance was a bit of the roast beef of old England, to which Ireland contributed her national potato, while Scotland sent her broth, and Wales was represented by a magnificent Welch rabbit. Nor was the Continent behind-hand in doing honour to the feast, for in peaceful proximity to the onion of Spain, stood the roll of France, the sausage of Germany, a flask of Lucca's luscious oil, and a few of the world-renowned sprouts of Brussels. After the cloth—and the crumbs—had been removed, the Chairman proposed the health of Mr. Stentor, who had made the voice of the drama heard in the midst of the hoots of a threepenny gallery, and who had fought more combats, assisted more defenceless females, unmasked more villains, and danced more hornpipes than any man in Europe.
When the applause had subsided, Mr. Stentor rose and modestly alluded to his own proud position. He expressed the highest reverence for his art, and declared that he felt almost awe-stricken when he trod the same boards that had been indented by the honoured heels of Hicks, and looked upon the same sky-borders that had been shaken by the screams of Cartlitch. He, Mr. Stentor, had had the honour of acting in the same company with those great men, and he must say that he felt his bosom swell when he remembered that the great Crowther had hung upon it when, as the tortured Khan, he lamented his "lost child;" and when he, Mr. Stentor, remembered that that "child" was no other than the illustrious Hicks, he, Mr. Stentor, felt that he had indeed, in the words of the immortal Amherst (J. H.), been "in goodly company." He, Mr. Stentor, would not hope to equal these great men, nor would he ask that the mantle of any of them should fall upon him; but if either of them should have an old coat to spare, he did humbly ask that he might be allowed to aspire to wear it.
Mr. Stentor's speech was received with the most enthusiastic clatter of pint pots, which lasted for several minutes.
The Chairman then pronounced a most impressive eulogium on Widdicomb, which was received in solemn silence.
This was responded to by a Shaksperian jester and clown to the ring, the friend and adviser of Widdicomb, who, among other advice, advised him to sit still and say nothing.
The Chairman, in the course of the evening, observed that "the drama could never be in a decline while it had the support of such lungs as those of his friend Stentor."
After the health of Mr. Biddles, of the Bower Saloon, who acknowledged the compliment with a neat nod, the party broke up at a late hour.