was overworked in every sense. He had recourse to the only remedy, and
in drinking he found a temporary relief from anxiety, and a short-lived
sustenance. There is no doubt that this man, who had amused London
circles for many years, hastened his end by drinking.

It is not yet thirty years since Theodore Hook died. He left the world
on August the 24th, 1841, and by this time he remains in the memory of
men only as a wit that was, a punster, a hoaxer, a sorry jester, with an
ample fund of fun, but not as a great man in any way. Allowing
everything for his education--the times he lived in, and the unhappy
error of his early life--we may admit that Hook was not, in character,
the worst of the wits. He died in no odour of sanctity, but he was not a
blasphemer or reviler, like others of this class. He ignored the bond of
matrimony, yet he remained faithful to the woman he had betrayed; he was
undoubtedly careless in the one responsible office with which he was
intrusted, yet he cannot be taxed, taking all in all, with deliberate
peculation. His drinking and playing were bad--very bad. His improper
connection was bad--very bad; but perhaps the worst feature in his
career was his connection with 'John Bull,' and his ready giving in to a
system of low libel. There is no excuse for this but the necessity of
living; but Hook, had he retained any principle, might have made enough
to live upon in a more honest manner. His name does, certainly, not
stand out well among the wits of this country, but after all, since all
were so bad, Hook may be excused as not being the worst of them.
_Requiescat in pace_.



SYDNEY SMITH.