ch 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 Siecle". He is like Berowne in the comedy,
the merriest man--perhaps not always within the limits of becoming
mirth--to spend an hour's talk withal. There is no better key to the age
in which Hook glittered, than Hook's own stories. The London of that
day--the London which is as dead and gone as Nineveh or Karnak or
Troy--lives with extraordinary freshness in Theodore Hook's pages. And
how entertaining those pages are. It is not always the greatest writers
who are the most mirth provoking, but how much we owe to them. The man
must have no mirth in him if he fail to be tickled by the best of
Labiche's comedies, aye and the worst too, if such a term can be
applied to any of the enchanting series; if he refuse to unbend over "A
Day's Journey and a Life's Romance," if he cannot let himself go and
enjoy himself over Gilbert Gurney's river adventure. If the revival of
the Whartons' book were to serve no other purpose than to send some
laughter loving souls to the heady well-spring of Theodore Hook's
merriment, it would have done the mirthful a good turn and deserved well
of its country.

There is scarcely a queerer, or scarcely a more pathetic figure in the
world than that of Beau Brummell. He seems to belong to ancient history,
he and his titanic foppishness and his smart clothes and his smart
sayings. Yet is it but a little while since the last of his adorers, the
most devoted of his disciples passed away from the earth. Over in Paris
there lingered till the past year a certain man of letters who was very
brilliant and very poor and very eccentric. So long as people study
French literature, and care to investigate the amount of high artistic
workmanship which goes into even its minor productions, so long the name
of Barbey D'Aurevilly will have its niche--not a very large one, it is
true--in the temple. The author of that strange and beautiful story "Le
Chevalier des Touches," was a great devotee of Brummell's. He was
himself the "last of the dandies". All the money he had--and he had very
little of it--he spent in dandification. But he nev