“On general principles,” said Raleigh, “Johnson is right.  We invite these people here to see our club-house, not to give them an exhibition of our metrical powers, and I think all exercises of a formal nature should be frowned upon.”

“Very well,” said Shakespeare.  “Go ahead.  Have your own way about it.  Get out your brow and frown.  I’m perfectly willing to save myself the trouble of writing a poem.  Writing real poetry isn’t easy, as you fellows would have discovered for yourselves if you’d ever tried it.”

“To pass over the arrogant assumption of the gentleman who has just spoken, with the silence due to a proper expression of our contempt therefor,” said Dryden, slowly, “I think in case we do have a ladies’ day here we should exercise a most careful supervision over the invitation list.  For instance, wouldn’t it be awkward for our good friend Henry the Eighth to encounter the various Mrs. Henrys here?  Would it not likewise be awkward for them to meet each other?”

“Your point is well taken,” said Doctor Johnson.  “I don’t know whether the King’s matrimonial ventures are on speaking terms with each other or not, but under any circumstances it would hardly be a pleasing spectacle for Katharine of Arragon to see Henry running his legs off getting cream and cakes for Anne Boleyn; nor would Anne like it much if, on the other hand, Henry chose to behave like a gentleman and a husband to Jane Seymour or Katharine Parr.  I think, if the members themselves are to send out the invitations, they should each be limited to two cards, with the express understanding that no member shall be permitted to invite more than one wife.”

“That’s going to be awkward,” said Raleigh, scratching his head thoughtfully.  “Henry is such a hot-headed fellow that he might resent the stipulation.”

“I think he would,” said Confucius.  “I think he’d be as mad as a hatter at your insinuation that he would invite any of his wives, if all I hear of him is true; and what I’ve heard, Wolsey has told me.”

“He knew a thing or two about Henry,” said Shakespeare.  “If you don’t believe it, just read that play of mine that Beaumont and Fletcher—­er—­ah—­thought so much of.”

“You came near giving your secret away that time, William,” said Johnson, with a sly smile, and giving the Avonian a dig between the ribs.

“Secret!  I haven’t any secret,” said Shakespeare, a little acridly.  “It’s the truth I’m telling you.  Beaumont and Fletcher did admire Henry the Eighth.”

“Thereby showing their conceit, eh?” said Johnson.

“Oh, of course, I didn’t write anything, did I?” cried Shakespeare.  “Everybody wrote my plays but me.  I’m the only person that had no hand in Shakespeare.  It seems to me that joke is about worn out, Doctor.  I’m getting a little tired of it myself; but if it amuses you, why, keep it up. I know who wrote my plays, and whatever you may say cannot affect the facts.  Next thing you fellows will be saying that I didn’t write my own autographs?”