HOOK'S EXTEMPORE VERSES.
Theodore Hook, in his twentieth year, gave evidence of the possession of a talent, compared with which mimicry in its perfection, available enough as an auxiliary, sinks into insignificance—that of the improvisatore. Men of mark are found bearing testimony to the inspirations of his genius; marvellous at the early age referred to, but far surpassed by his later performances. Coleridge, for example, at the termination of a somewhat prolonged revel held at the cottage of Mr. Mansel Reynolds, is said to have proclaimed, in his declamatory manner, that he had never met a man who could bring such various and amazing resources of mind to bear on the mere whim or folly of the moment; while the poet Campbell spoke of him as "a wonderful creature," who sang extempore songs, "not to my admiration, but to my astonishment." Those who have been in the habit of attending public meetings, or have listened to the harangues, so glibly "done into English" by next morning, of the orators of St. Stephen's, cannot fail to have remarked how rarely even respectable prose is delivered where opportunity for preparation has been wanting. But in the art, if art it may be called, of pouring forth extemporaneous poetry, music and words, rhyme and reason, all impromptu, Hook stood alone—rival he had none; of course he had his imitators:
"The charming extempore verses of Twiss's,"
for example, will not readily be forgotten; another gentleman, also, found reason to remember his attempt at rivalry. Ambitious of distinction, he took an opportunity of striking off into verse immediately after one of Hook's happiest efforts. Theodore's bright eye flashed, and fixed on the intruder, who soon began to flounder in the meshes of his stanza, when he was put out of his misery at once by the following couplet from the master, given, however, with a good-humoured smile that robbed it of all offence:—
"I see, sir, I see, sir, what 'tis that you're hatching;
But mocking, you see, sir, is not always catching."
There can be no doubt as to the perfect genuineness of these marvellous efforts of the human intellect; the word was given and the "numbers came," gushing fresh and sparkling from the fount. His companions at the table, and the observations that had fallen from them, afforded not unfrequently matter for his good-natured muse. But as often a subject impossible in any way to have been anticipated, was proposed by one of the company, generally the most incredulous, and with scarce a moment's consideration, he would place himself at the piano-forte, run over the keys, and break forth into a medley of merriment, of which, unhappily, no idea can be conveyed, for the benefit and conversion of the sceptic.
The names of those present were frequently woven into the rhyme, or made to supply points to the verse. He is said once to have encountered a pair of most unmanageable patronymics, those of Sir Moses Ximenes, and Mr. Rosenagen, a young Dane; the line antiphonetic to the former has escaped us; the latter, reserved till near the conclusion, was thus played upon:—
"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."