entertainers in their time; they add to the gaiety of nations still. The
Whartons have given what would in America be called a "Stag Party". If
we join it we shall find much entertainment thereat.

Do people read Theodore Hook much nowadays? Does the generation which
loves to follow the trail with Allan Quatermain, and to ride with a
Splendid Spur, does it call at all for the humours of the days of the
Regency? Do those who have laughed over "The Wrong Box," ever laugh over
Jack Brag? Do the students of Mr. Rudyard Kipling know anything of
"Gilbert Gurney?" Somebody started the theory some time ago, that this
was not a laughter-loving generation, that it lacked high spirits. It
has been maintained that if a writer appeared now, with the rollicking
good spirits, and reckless abandon of a Lever, he would scarcely win a
warm welcome. We may be permitted to doubt this conclusion; we are as
fond of laughter as ever, as ready to laugh if somebody will set us
going. Mr. Stevenson prefers of late to be thought grim in his fiction,
but he has set the sides shaking, both over that "Wrong Box" which we
spoke of, and in earlier days. We are ready to laugh with Stockton from
overseas, with our own Anstey, with anybody who has the heart to be
merry, and the wit to make his mirth communicable. But, it may be
doubted if we read our Lever quite as much as a wise doctor, who
happened also to be a wise man of letters, would recommend. And we may
well fancy that such a doctor dealing with a patient for whom laughter
was salutary--as for whom is it not salutary--would exhibit Theodore
Hook in rather large doses.

Undoubtedly the fun is a little old fashioned, but it is none the worse
for that. Those who share Mr. Hardcastle's tastes for old wine and old
books will not like Theodore Hook any the less, because he does not
happen to be at all "Fin de Siècle". He is like Berowne in the comedy,