roarious bursts of laughter all over the house. The singer, also, being so convulsed by the oddity of the mysterious accompaniment, with great difficulty proceeded with the song, which was encored partly for the novelty which attended it; and the same result of universal laughter rewarded the subterraneous musician, who, with great skill, gave most fanciful variations to his repeated efforts, for the increased diversion of his hearers.* Many, many such pranks were at that period of life successfully enacted by the young Theodore; some of which he has since ascribed to Daly, in the halftrue, half-fictitious history of Gilbert Gurney. These off-sets of an untamed and irrepressible vivacity in perfect leisure, were generally performed spontaneously, and mostly without any of the persons acted upon being at the time aware of the perpetrator.

A more elaborate and difficult undertaking, however, than either of those just recorded was fulfilled by Theodore in one of these idle hours of youth. It was his invariable habit, whether engaged formally, or destined. to take a chop alone at a coffee-house, or an unceremonious dinner with a friend, to put on a dinner dress, which in that day rigorously demanded shoes neither boots with their shining, then unknown, adjunct, patent-blacking, nor black silk neckcloths, being, as now, admitted into an evening drawing-room. It happened one winter's day that Theodore had made up his mind to dine tête-à-tête with a bachelor friend, who it was understood was to be found at home

always on a particular day of the week; and arriving at the house of this friend, to whom we will on this occasion lend the name of Perkins, he found him prepared to step into a hackney-coach to attend a dinner engagement elsewhere. Theodore, quite upset in his plan by this untoward arrangement, entered the coach with Mr. Perkins, inquiring, as they drove off, whither he was going, with the view of accompanying him in his visit, if to the house of any mutual friend; for Theodore had reason to know that he would be

welcomed with gladness wherever he was known. It, however, happened that Perkins was going to a more formal engagement than Hook chose to partake in; and the rain pouring hard at the moment, the dinnerless wight was puzzled what to do with himself,-sportively declaring, however, that he would stop somewhere to dine, before Perkins was set down at his destination; and just as he made this declaration the crawling hack passed a genteel-looking house, where by the fire-light in the diningroom (the curtains of which had not yet been closed) a table was laid with about a dozen covers; and Hook, remarking that it looked very inviting, put his head out of the window of the coach, crying, "Stop, stop!" adding, as he turned to his friend, "I'll dine here;" and instantly prepared to alight as the coachman let down the steps.

"What!" inquired Perkins, "do you, then, know the people who live there ?"

"Oh, no!" replied Theodore, with his droll, murmuring chuckle of a laugh," I haven't the remotest idea who they may be; but I'll dine with them, nevertheless. I dare say they'll have no objection; so call for me on your return home, and you will find me snugly domiciled."

"Nonsense!" exclaimed his incredulous friend; "you would not think of introducing yourself in such a manner to strangers? I won't be lieve you have nerve for such a proceeding."

This was enough. Perkins's doubt acted as a challenge. Theodore's mind was made up to "the stickingplace;" and a wager's risk decided the point. He promised Perkins that he would not only dine at the house in question, but make it indisputable to his friend, if he would call for him on his return home, that he had not previously known the owner of the house. "Inquire for me," said Hook,

on your way back, and you will find me." He then descended, and immediately knocked at the door of the house, where his friend in utter amazement saw the intruder enter, and then drove off.

At the time fixed Mr. Perkins

stopped again at the door which he had seen close upon his adventurous friend a few hours before, and, timidly inquiring whether "Mr. Hook was there," he was respectfully requested to alight, and forthwith ushered up-stairs; at the top of which he was met by the master of the house, who politely assured him that any friend of Mr. Hook's was most welcome. He then conducted him into the drawing-room, whence joyous sounds of merriment had previously reached his ear as he ascended the staircase; and were now easily understood, for he beheld Theodore seated, quite at his ease, surrounded by a delighted circle of ladies and gentlemen, who had neither eyes nor ears for any thing but the charming person before them. Perkins was dumb with admiration and confusion; but no one observed his embarrassment—indeed, no one saw him enter, so much were all absorbed by another object. The master of the house, however, reluctantly withdrew his attention from the hero of the scene occasionally, and sacrificed his own pleasure now and then to politeness and the new-comer. By what Mr. Perkins elicited from his host, he was soon satisfied that Hook's visit there was purely unexpected,—the master of the house congratulating himself upon the fortunate mistake of Mr. Hook; adding, that he was the most fascinating person he had ever known. And by degrees Mr. Perkins became informed of the process by which his friend had established himself within the house.

It appeared that on the opening of the street-door, after he had been let out of the hackney-coach, Theodore gave his name, with his hat and cane, to the servant, following the announcement of it into the drawingroom, where, looking about him with affected surprise, of which the host and hostess evidently partook in no small degree, he inquired whether he was not in the house of Mr. - ? and was immediately answered in the negative,

Bless me!" cried the astonished youth, "surely I've made no mistake! This is No. 8 ?"

"Assuredly, that was the number."
"And this is
Street, is it

not?" further inquired the uncon

scious stranger.

VOL. XXIV. NO. CXLIII.

"Oh, certainly," was the response. "And does not Mr.- live here?" He was again answered in the negative.

"How very extraordinary!" exclaimed Theodore. "If, then, he does not live here, I have forgotten the street in which my friend's note mentioned he had taken a house. What a dilemma! I must give up all hope of finding him out to-day. He's at this moment, doubtless, waiting dinner for me; and wait he must, for I haven't the slightest recollection of his address if this be not it. Unfortunately, too, the carriage that set me down has driven off with a friend whom I requested to take me up again on his way home at night. Very awkward, indeed!"

Many apologies succeeded this unlooked for embarrassment, and were met with as many polite assurances from the master of the house that there was no occasion for them. Hook requested, perceiving, as he said, that it still poured with rain, that a servant might be permitted to call him a coach; and in the interval the intruder talked very pleasantly, so pleasantly, that before the coach arrived, the gentleman of the house having telegraphed with his wife, and been answered satisfactorily in the same manner-just as Hook requested the additional favour that a message might be delivered to his friend Perkins when he called, to account to him for not meeting him there, and was retreating with a graceful bow, the master of the house interposed a polite hope that, as all chance of Mr. Hook's engagement being fulfilled was out of the question, he would honour him by taking a seat at his dinner-table on that occasion, and await his friend's arrival, who doubtless would be much disappointed at not finding him there. To this hospitable proposal the modest Theodore offered some faint scruples, but at length hesitatingly assented after a more earnest entreaty, seconded by the handsome mistress of the house; and the unexpected guest, with the hospitable lady on his arm, descended in secret triumph to the dinner-room, where it is sufficient to say the guest rapidly developed his engaging powers, and insensibly won all hearts. The ladies quitted the table tardily,

M M

with visible reluctance; the gentlemen remained at it longer than courtesy to the drawing-room expectants justified. Theodore's wit flew about like diamond-sparks, and lighted up by its hilarious influence all eyes with joyous admiration and delight; and before he and his friend left the house, he riveted the affections of all present by rehearsing, in extemporaneous verse (for which he possessed such wonderful facility), to a lively air, the incidents of his eventful visit, amazing and enrapturing his hospitable entertainers and their friends by his wonderful talents and engaging manners; and as he took his leave, they all crowded around him with even affectionate adieux; while his host and hostess declared this accident to have been the most fortunate of their lives; at the same time begging Mr. Hook to consider them his fast friends, and to drop in upon them, when not more formally invited, as he had by chance done that lucky day. Many such instances as the foregoing might be told, did not limited time preclude further relations of Mr. Hook's wondrous power, not only in the manner described, but at all periods and occasions of his life, in not only making friends of strangers, but of converting even prejudice into partiality.

Mr. Hook's memory was always miraculous. When about eighteen, he undertook for a wager to repeat the names and trades upon the shopfronts situated on one side of Oxford Street, after passing down a certain portion of it. This undertaking he accomplished, failing only in the due succession of one house. But it being afterwards observed by one of the party, that Mr. Hook might possibly have been partially acquainted with the shops previously, he engaged, after the perusal of the front page of a newspaper, to rehearse every advertisement that stood in its columns. This he also performed without a single mistake. Although Mr. Hook had great animal spirits, he did not possess equal vivacity at all times; on the contrary, he was subject, as most men of genius are, to deep and bitter depressions of mind, most

belief in supernatural agency, and would listen to a ghost-story with a pallid cheek and awe-inspired interest. Early in life, he wrote a novel called The Man of Sorrow, in which this weakness was manifest; and though, as his judgment strengthened, he conquered much of this tendency, yet to the last years of his existence he cherished many of his early impressions. As a trivial instance, it may be mentioned that he never would enter upon any undertaking of importance, if he could help it, on a Friday. He had, however, a remarkable insight into the weaknesses and follies of others, and was not unobservant of his own. He penetrated into the depths of the most wily; and detected the small intents of little minds with the most whimsical facility, dragging them from their shallow hiding-places, and laying them bare upon the surface with infinite humour, to their owner's surprise and dismay. He held a professed enmity with what he described ! under the expressive head of humbag, -every evidence of which he assailed with all the vigour of his powerful ridicule, inexorably putting the right names upon wrong things.

It has been observed that Mr. Hook continued his intimacy and friendship with Mathews, with few intermissions, up to the period of the comedian's death. One interruption, however, there was, which threatened to be fatal to their future good understanding. It occurred about the year 1827, when Mr. Hook, in one of his humorous veins, was irresistibly tempted to work upon some traditional accounts, picked up, of the strolling players of other days (for the race must have been extinct be fore he was born), and to publish their supposed "sayings and doings" in that admirable series in the story of Gervaise Skinner. His friend Mathews had, perhaps, more of the esprit de corps in him than most actors of his day. He had always loved the art itself; he esteemed many persons belonging to it; and could not bear to see it degraded either by its own members, or by the invidious report of the prejudiced or To find his own fi

The

dence. He knew that Mr. Hook could never have associated with any but the gentlemen of the stage; and it seemed unaccountable-nay, Mathews at the time thought unpardonable-thus with malice prepense to hold them up to public ridicule and contempt. By clothing the characters in Gervaise Skinner in the garb of London performers, and identifying their conceited ignorance, their depraved and vulgar habits with the educated and honourable portion of the community, the author certainly acted injuriously, not only to the profession generally, but to his friends particularly. So Mathews thought and felt, and a coolness, or rather a warmth, ensued. comedian was irate at what he considered an outrage upon good fellowship. It must be confessed that the unprincipled and meretricious habits of the men and women in Gervaise Skinner are unredeemed by the undisputed "fun" arising from their imputed vanities and technical follies; and Mr. Hook's pen was too forcible to need its being steeped in gall in order to give it pungency. Whatever might be the author's feeling in writing this story, Mathews tacitly resented its publication. The consequence was, that a long interval ensued ere Mr. Hook's charming society again gladdened his friend's habitation. At length the offender, conscious of the cause, could no longer bear the effect, and the following generous, pleasant, and charac teristic letter was one morning delivered to Mathews, during a temporary illness, which confined him to his house:

"CHARLES MATHEWS, Esq., Ivy Cottage, Kentish Town.

"Cleveland Row, Thursday, March 5, 1829.

"My dear Mathews,-You are now about one of the oldest acquaintances I have (or just now have not); some of my happiest hours have been passed in your company. I hate mincing (except in a case of real). There is a difference not perhaps existing between us, but between you now and yourself at other times. They (on) say that you have been annoyed with one of my tales, as if any man except a pacha had more than one; and our good-natured friends bless them-make out that you are personally

affected by some of the jokes about the Fagglestones, and other imaginary personages. Now, I verily believe, that if I had read that story to you before it was published, you would have enjoyed it more than any body who has read it; since to ridicule the bad part of a profession can be no satire upon the good; and, as I have said somewhere before, Lawrence might as well be annoyed at the abuse of sign-painters, or Halford angry at a satire upon quacks, as you, personally, with any thing reflecting upon the lower part of the theatrical world.

"From you yourself I verily believe I culled the art of ridiculing the humbugs of the professions. However, why you should suppose that I, after having for years (in every way I could) contributed -needlessly, I admit to support your talents, merits, and character, professional and private, could mean to offend you, I cannot imagine. I can only say, that nothing was further from my intention than to wound your feelings or those of any other individual living, by what seemed to me a fair travestie of a fair subject for ridicule, and which, I repeat, never could apply to you, or any man in your sphere or station. Now, the upshot of all this is this, where not the smallest notion of personal affront was contemplated I think no personal feeling should remain. If you think so, come and call upon me, or tell me when I may pay you a visit. If you don't think so, why say nothing about it, and burn this letter; but do whichever of these things you may, rest assured, I do not forget old associations; and that I am, and shall be, my dear Mathews, as much yours as And now, having said my say, I remain yours most truly,

ever.

"THEODORE E. HOOK."

To a sterner nature than his to whom it was addressed such an ingenuous appeal must have proved irresistible. Mathews's heart opened once more to the man to whom he was really much attached; and it was settled that Hook should come to the cottage the following day. He did so, and the friendship thus wounded healed without a scar.

For a man living so entirely in the world-Mr. Hook was not altogether what might be called a man of the world-he retained and cherished a youthful romance of character that was totally at variance with his general bearing and tone of conversation, and inconsistent and incompatible with his habits and associations;

and he would have been utterly ashamed to elicit this inherent quality except to those who had known him long and intimately, and with whom he had no dread of its incurring ridicule. Past scenes and the attachments of early days, however broken in upon or suspended by the chances and changes of this life, the distractions of time and circumstance, continued to keep a tenacious and remarkable hold upon his memory and affections. During his long term of intimacy with Mr. Mathews, living with him on the most familiar terms of social equality, he professed for him the regard of a younger brother; and at his death manifested even a feminine sensibility of sorrow at the event.

Many able pens will do ample justice to the memory of Theodore Hook. It might well be shewn that his unlooked-for and lamented death is not only a social, but in some measure a political loss. Mr. Hook was a consistent Tory from his earliest youth; and though-as it has herein been previously mentioned-in lite

rature the sun of his genius "shewed but half his beams," yet as the originator and continual editor of the John Bull paper his powers were to a great extent conspicuous, not only in the leading and more important columns of that publication, but in the witty and playful portions. Of the latter, Mrs. Ramsbottom's unique correspondence must be mirthfully remembered by all its readers.*

Besides the John Bull, his novels, and the biography of Sir David Baird (the only work he prided himself upon), Mr. Hook's editorship and contributions added weight and attraction, during the last years of his life, to the New Monthly Magazine. But he is gone! Alas, Theodore! thou art "pale in the tomb! in the winter-house! Thy friends have bent the red eye over thy grave! They shall seek thee in their halls, but they shall not find thee. Thou shalt come at times to their dreams; thy voice shall remain in their ears; but they shall see thee no more!"

"Tread lightly o'er his ashes, ye men of genius, for he was your kinsman."

September 13.-Johnson is known to have projected, though at what period of his life is uncertain, a work to shew how small a quantity of real

POPE: Imitat. of Hor. Ep. 1.

fiction there is in the world, and that the same images, with slight changes or modifications, have been employed in succession by all the authors who