Peeping in at the door," &c.
The last time I saw Hook was in the lobby of Lord Canterbury's house after a large evening party there. He was walking up and down, singing with great gravity, to the astonishment of the footmen, "Shepherds, I have lost my hat."—Rogers's Table Talk.
"GOOD NIGHT."
Wherever Hook came he was a welcome guest; and his arrival was the signal for hilarity and festivity. The dining-room and the drawing-room were alike his theatres; the former was enlivened by the jest and song, the latter by music and improvisation, of which he was master beyond any man that perhaps England ever beheld. Our untractable language was to him as easy as the fascile Italian, and whether seated at the genial board, with a few choice companions, or at the pianoforte, surrounded by admiring beauty, his performances in this way were the delight and admiration of all who heard them. They were, indeed, very extraordinary. Some of them might have been printed as finished ballads; and others, though not so perfect in parts as metrical compositions, were so studded with bright conceits, and often so touched with exquisite sentiment and pathos, that their effect upon the audience was evinced by shouts of laughter, or starting tears.
We remember one beautiful example of the latter. At a party at Prior's Bank, Fulham, it was morning before the guests departed, yet Hook remained to the last, and a light of other days brightened his features as he again opened the piano and began a recitative. Another extempore song had been begged by a bevy of lovely dames, and Hook hastened to comply with their request—the subject this time being "Good Night." The singer had proceeded through a few verses, and at length uttered a happy thought, which excited a joyous laugh in a fair young boy standing by his side. At this moment one of the servants suddenly opened the drawing-room shutters, and a flood of light fell upon the lad's head. The effect was very touching, but it became a thousand times more so as Hook, availing himself of the incident, placed his hand upon the youth's brow, and in tremulous tones uttered a verse of which only the concluding lines are remembered:—
"For you is the dawn of the morning,
For me is the solemn good night."
He rose from the piano, burst into tears, and left the room. Few of those who were present saw him afterwards.