THOMAS COOKE—who is there, having open ears, that does not know something of the versatile and ingenious Tom Cooke?—was born in Dublin, and was ready with his violin, at the age of seven, to play a concerto in public. Expert with hand, tongue, and pen, he has performed _three times three_ successive solos, on as many different instruments, in one night, for his benefit—and, in moments of composure, has _written_ for all of them. At a very early age, he became director and leader of the music at the Theatre Royal, Dublin; from which condition he suddenly transformed himself into that of a singer, and enjoyed a success of several seasons at the English Opera-House, in London, as vocalist and composer. His next course of exertion was at Drury Lane, as singer, and afterwards as musical director, leader, and composer, in which latter triple capacity he pursued a long and steady career. The violin was eminently useful in his hands, if it cannot be said to have been, in the highest degree, brilliant. “Tom Cooke,” observed a chronicler, some time since, in one of the magazines, “is certainly the most facetious of fiddlers, and is the only person at present connected with theatres, who smacks of the olden days of quips and cranks. Some of his conundrums are most amusing absurdities.” After assigning to him, by a somewhat venturesome decision, the authorship of the receipt for getting a _vial-in_ at a chemist’s[58], the same writer gave two other specimens of Cooke’s powers of jest, as thus:— Once, whilst rehearsing a song, Braham said to Cooke, who was leading, “I drop my voice there, at night”—intimating that he wished the accompaniment to be more _piano_. “_You_ drop your voice, do you?” said Cooke; “I should like to be by, and pick it up.” During the run of the Tragedy of Manfred, he remarked, “How Denvil keeps _sober_ through the play, I can’t think; for he is _calling for spirits_, from the first scene to the last!” Some few years have now elapsed, since this well-remembered professor was borne to that spot where—instead of the achievements of talent, or the humours of character—a few meagre words, and a date or two, comprise usually _all_ that is told to the stray pedestrian, or the passing wind!