_Monarchs I Have Met_, by BEATTY KINGSTON (CHAPMAN & HALL), is
a title which recalls the old story in SMITH'S _Irish Diamonds_,
and reproduced in another form by CHARLES LEVER, of the little
crossing-sweeper who ran home to his mother and recounted how he had
met WILLIAM THE FOURTH. "Mother, sure I've met the King this mornin'!
An' he spoke to me!!" "Did he now? Bless his Majesty! An' what might
the King have said to yez, PATSY?" "What did he say to me, is it?
Sure, he said, 'Get out of the way, ye dirty little blackguard!'"
Not that the Monarchs were so rude to Mr. BEATTY KINGSTON, whose
entertaining society was rather thrust on the Monarchs by his
employers than sought by the Royal Personages themselves. If Mr.
KINGSTON was entertaining in one sense, so were the Monarchs in
another. The first volume is especially festive. Within the first 183
pages there is more eating and drinking than in any other book I can
call to mind since _Pickwick_. These pages must be not only read, but
well digested. The writer congratulates himself on "not having let
anything escape him;" and certainly nothing eatable or drinkable
seems to have done so. He seems to be always smacking his lips over
reminiscences of the savory and the succulent--"Savory and More"
should be his motto--and it is sad to record that apparently--but I
trust I am mistaken in my deduction--he glories in iced champagne,
which is rank heresy, and an abomination to the true epicure. His
stories are told in an amusing, rough-and-ready, barrack-like,
swaggery-Germany-soldiery style; and _rien n'est sacre pour un
sapeur_. He witnesses the ceremony of anointing the King of Hungary,
and describes the function as the Primate "oiling" his Majesty, as if
the latter were having his locks Macassar'd, and the Archbishop were
the hair-dresser. Mr. BEATTY KINGSTON, according to the Book of B. K.,
or "the B. of B. K.," seems to have been generally entertained in the
"most sumptuous manner" wherever he went in Germany and Hungary--he
is very German, and always very Hung'ry--and writes of his sojourn
in these countries with a full heart. Then, in the second volume, he
finds himself in Rome, where there was "nothing fit to eat," "food
bad," "cookery abominable, and the wine worst of all." If the perusal
of the first part of the B. of B. K. causes many a mouth to water,
his wretched plight in the second will draw tears from the eyes of
the least sympathetic. He complains,--indeed, it is his first and most
important grievance,--"_Imprimis_, there was not a bit of clear ice to
be had in the Eternal City. Whatever liquid was cooled at all had to
be inserted in salt snow." What a cruel hardship for any man to
bear, especially a rollicking epicure who revels in "Roederer _carte
blanche_ of Alpine coldness." However, there was a good deal for him
to swallow in Rome, and for lack of better food, he seems to have
taken it in with all the alacrity of a dutiful Special with an
appetite for gossip. The book finishes with less solid eating, but
there is smoking perfumed golden tobacco, preserve-tasting, hot
coffee drinking, an interesting account of LESSEPS, and also of Prince
MICHAEL of Servia. Altogether, these are the volumes of a Voluble
Voyager, containing the amusing tales of a Talkative Traveller,
who can run on by the hour, with no one on the spot to interrupt or
contradict him.
I received, some time since, a charming little book, daintily bound in
vellum, called _The Joyous Neighbourhood of Covent Garden_, for which
I have to thank Mr. CHARLES EYRE PASCOE. It is styled "a literary
souvenir," and, I fancy, is not intended for publication. It was
brought out early this year, but at the time of its first appearance
I did not see it. If still unpublished, it is to be hoped that it will
not remain so for long. His account of EVANS'S in the days of PADDY
GREEN must revive in not a few of us whose memory is still "green,"
the reminiscences of many a cheery evening, though Mr. PASCOE seems
only to have visited EVANS'S when it was enlarged, and not in the good
stuffy old days, when PADDY GREEN himself took the chair. The author
says that Mr. JOHN GREEN was "the personification of a stout,
cheery, open-hearted, kindly English landlord." Not "English, you
know"--"PADDY" GREEN could not well be that, though he might, I admit,
"personify" the character. Anyone wishing to learn as much as he can
possibly carry away with him at a sitting should get Mr. PASCOE'S
book, and if it is not published, I only wish he may get it.
In the _Dublin Review_ (BURNS AND OATES) for this quarter, there is a
most interesting review of the various Jewish and anti-Jewish books,
which within the last two years have made a considerable stir on
the Continent, especially in France. The Ancient Hebrew Race are,
it appears, to possess the earth,--ultimately. In all persons with a
spark of genius, nay even with only a talent for music, for drama, for
any art whatsoever, there is--nay, say some enthusiastic Judaizers,
there must be--Jewish blood. Most Christians will be inclined to grant
the artfulness of the race, traditionally. The Jews claim every great
Genius. At this, _Mr. Punch_ will put his finger to his nose, and
meditate whether he too has not his share in the _damnosey haereditas_.
A footnote to the article quotes G. DE PASCAL as stating that,
"CROMWELL proposed to sell Ireland to the Jews for 2,000,000 sterling
a year." Then why didn't he do it? Because the Jews wouldn't buy it,
I suppose. If they had, at this present time the English Government
would have been dealing with the O'ROTHSCHILDS, the O'LEVYS, and so
forth, and on the National flag, the Harp of Erin would have become
the Jews' Harp. That SHAKSPEARE was a Jew, and that his real name was
MOSES, is a theory which the notes of the new edition of SHAKSPEARE,
now being brought out by Messrs. HENRY IRVING and FRANK MARSHALL, will
probably go some way towards establishing.