of those enchanting, irresponsible beings from a border-land.

Well, poor thing, she found herself hardly placed in a world and a century that does not understand such people, and if my brother was any good or comfort to her, I suppose I ought not to lament over him. He has had a long trial, but no doubt there were moments now and then when he regretted nothing. And I am sure that even now, when

he is leaving his country and his friends and his old associations, and going away to try what dis tance and change will do to make a man of him again, he will not once wish that these ten years had been spent differently. His mother and I may look sadly on them, but he is satisfied; and as for her, neither love nor hate nor devotion nor cruelty can reach her any more.

THE gift of improvisation is rare in England; but when it is met with, it smacks of the soil, and has a distinctly national form, as different as possible from what one finds in Italy, which has from time immemorial been the recognised home of the improvisatore. The Italian creature is a rhapsodist of a serious cast, who pours forth romantic platitudes in 'unpremeditated song,' and strings together graceful, and sometimes impassioned, verses in the irregular metres to which the most musical of languages so readily lends itself. The English improvisatore has seldom much of the divine frenzy of the poet in his composition; he is a humorist, a wit, sometimes only a wag, who can reel off comic 'patter' in verse with the sole object of creating a laugh. He needs conviviality to inspire him, and cachin nation to encourage him. neither case, probably, would it be advisable to have a shorthand writer present to take down the impromptu lucubrations for sober perusal on the morrow. For improvisation is only a species of intellectual legerdemain, meant to astonish and dazzle for the moment by the suddenness of its spontaneity, not to bear the test of deliberate criticism. Though we fancy the improvisations of Metastasio would bear the test better than those of Theodore Hook. Of all artists the improvisatore is the one whose triumphs are most evanescent. His virtues, in England, at any rate, are writ in wine, and of his powers it is possible to form only the vaguest

In

idea from the impressions of those who, when they heard him, were themselves more or less elated by vinous enthusiasm. But beyond doubt, the talent is a most fascinating one, and secures its possessor a social popularity and fame which no other species of lion,' however brilliant his gifts, can hope to attain.

Now, unquestionably the greatest of English improvisatori was Theodore Hook; and, indeed, as far as our knowledge goes, England has never had any really successful performer in this way except the author of Gilbert Gurney. For men like Charles Sloman and other professional improvisatori, though undeniably clever, lacked the abandon and prolific ingenuity of Hook.

He

first gave evidence of the possession of this marvellous faculty in his twentieth year, and one of his earliest displays in improvisation was at the complimentary banquet given to Sheridan in Drury Lane Theatre. From that moment he became a lion' of society. No dinner-party, among those who prided themselves on such entertainments, was considered complete without Theodore Hook. And he must have been extremely attractive and fascinating as a young man. His slim graceful figure, his fine head covered with clustering black curls, his wonderful play of feature, the compass and music of his voice, his large brilliant eyes, capable of every expression, from the gravest to the most grotesquely comical, the perfect grace and aptness of every attitude and gesture, com

bined to make him the idol of every circle which was fortunate enough to secure his presence. His fame spread like wildfire. The Prince Regent heard him with delight at the Marchioness of Hertford's, in Manchester-square, and declared emphatically afterwards that something must be done for Hook,' whence that unfortunate Mauritius appointment. People used to give him subjects the most unpromising. Campbell, who calls him a wonderful creature, who sang extempore songs, not to my admiration, but to my astonishment,' once gave him

'Pepper and Salt' as a topic, and
confesses that 'he seasoned the
impromptu with both-very Attic
salt.' His skill in introducing
the names of the company present
was remarkable.
On one occa-
sion there was a Danish gentle-
man in the room named Rosen-
hagen, and a bet was made that
Hook would have to omit such
an intractable patronymic from
his song; but he amazed and
amused them all by thus cleverly
solving the problem :

'Yet more of my muse is required,
Alas, I fear she is done!
But no, like a fiddler that's tired,
I'll Rosen-agen and go on.'

Of course he failed occasionally; either early in the evening or very late, he did it but indifferently. When the call was well-timed, and the company such as excited his ambition, it is impossible to conceive anything more marvellous than the felicity he displayed. He accompanied himself on the pianoforte, and the music was frequently, though not always, as new as the verse. He usually stuck to the common ballad measures; but one favourite sport was a mimic opera, and then he seemed to triumph without effort over every variety of metre and complication of stanza. About the complete

VOL. XLII. NO. CCLII.

extemporaneousness of the whole there could rarely be the slightest doubt; if he knew who were to be there, he might have come provided with a few palpable hits; but he did the thing far the best when stirred by the presence of strangers; and, as Mrs. Mathews observes in the life of her husband (Charles the elder), the staple was almost always what had occurred since he entered the room, or what happened to occur whilst he was singing. The first time,' says a friend of John Gibson Lockhart, from whose admirable sketch of Theodore Hook we quote, the first time I ever witnessed it (i.e. Hook's talent for improvisation) was at a gay young bachelor's villa near Highgate (the residence of the late Frederick Mansell Reynolds), when the other lion was one of a very different breed, Mr. Coleridge. Much claret had been shed before the Ancient Mariner proclaimed that he could swallow no more of anything, unless it were punch. The materials were forthwith produced; the bowl was planted before the poet, and as he proceeded in his concoction, Hook, unbidden, took his place at the piano. He burst into a bacchanal of egregious luxury, every line of which had reference to the author of the Lay Sermons and the Aids to Reflection. The room was becoming excessively hot. The first specimen of the new compound was handed to Hook, who paused to quaff it, and then, exclaiming that he was stifled, flung his glass through the window. Coleridge rose, with the aspect of a benignant patriarch, and demolished another pane. The example was followed generally. The window was a sieve in an instant; the kind host was farthest from the mark, and his goblet made havoc of the chandelier. The roar of laughter was

SS