Another choice spirit of the Garrick was the aforesaid Hill, "Tom Hill," as he was called by all who loved and knew him. He "happened to know everything that was going forward in all circles--mercantile, political, fashionable, literary, or theatrical; in addition to all matters connected with military and naval affairs, agriculture, finance, art, and science--everything came alike to him." He was born in 1760, and was many years a drysalter at Queenhithe, but about 1810 he lost a large sum of money by a speculation in indigo; after which he retired upon the remains of his property, to chambers in the Adelphi. While at Queenhithe, he found leisure to make a fine collection of old books, chiefly old poetry, which were valued at six thousand pounds. He greatly assisted two friendless poets, Bloomfield and Kirke White; he also established _The Monthly Mirror_, which brought him much into connection with dramatic poets, actors, and managers, when he collected theatrical curiosities and relics. Hill was the Hull of Hook's clever novel, _Gilbert Gurney_, and the reputed original of Paul Pry, though the latter is doubtful. The standard joke about him was his age. He died in 1841, in his eighty-first year, though Hook and all his friends always affected to consider him as quite a Methuselah. James Smith once said that it was impossible to discover his age, for the parish-register had been burnt in the fire of London; but Hook capped this:--'_Pooh, pooh!_--(Tom's habitual exclamation)--he's one of the Little Hills that are spoken of as skipping in the Psalms.' As a mere octogenarian he was wonderful enough. No human being would, from his appearance, gait, or habits, have guessed him to be sixty. Till within three months of his death, Hill rose at five usually, and brought the materials of his breakfast home with him to the Adelphi from a walk to Billingsgate; and at dinner he would eat and drink like an adjutant of five-and-twenty. One secret was, that a 'banyan-day' uniformly followed a festivity. He then nursed himself most carefully on tea and dry toast, tasted neither meat nor wine, and went to bed by eight o'clock. But perhaps the grand secret was, the easy, imperturbable serenity of his temper. He had been kind and generous in the day of his wealth; and though his evening was comparatively poor, his cheerful heart kept its even beat. Hill was a patient collector throughout his long life. His old English poetry, which Southey considered the rarest assemblage in existence, was dispersed in 1810; and, after Hill's death, his literary rarities and memorials occupied Evans, of Pall Mall, a clear week to sell by auction: the autograph letters were very interesting, and among the memorials were Garrick's Shakspeare Cup and a vase carved from the Bard's mulberry-tree; and a block of wood from Pope's willow, at Twickenham.