Women seldom give supper parties, “all by themselves they” after the fashion of that “grande dame de par le monde” of whom we have spoken elsewhere.  A woman’s dinner-party may succeed now and then by way of a joke, but it is a joke that is not often repeated.  Have we not lately seen how an institution with a graceful English name, started in London for women and women only, has just so far relaxed its rigid rule as to allow men upon its premises between certain hours, and this relaxation we are told has been conceded in consequence of the demand of numerous ladies.  Well, well, if men can on the whole get on better without the society of women than women can without the society of men it is no doubt because they are rougher creatures, moulded of a coarser clay, and are more entertained by eating and drinking, smoking and the telling of tales than women are.

If all the men whom the Whartons labelled as wits and beaux of society could be gathered together they would make a most excellent club in the sense in which a club was understood in the last century.  Johnson thought that he had praised a man highly when he called him a clubbable man, and so he had for those days which dreamed not of vast caravanserai calling themselves clubs and having thousands of members on their roll, the majority of whom do not know more than perhaps ten of their fellow members from Adam.  In the sense that Dr. Johnson meant, all these wits and beaux whom our Whartons have gathered together were eminently clubbable.  If some such necromancer could come to us as he who in Tourguenieff’s story conjures up the shade of Julius Caesar; and if in an obliging way he could make these wits and beaux greet us:  if such a spiritualistic society as that described by Mr. Stockton in one of his diverting stories could materialise them all for our benefit:  then one might count with confidence upon some very delightful company and some very delightful talk.  For the people whom the Whartons have been good enough to group together are people of the most fascinating variety.  They have wit in common and goodfellowship, they were famous 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.