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 If still unpublished, it is to be hoped that it will not remain so for long.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 hæreditas. 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.
Your Own Baron de Book Worms.
THEORY AND PRACTICE.
Brief Tragi-Comedy for the Times.
Act I.—A West End Club Smoking Room. Philosophic Philanthropists discovered disposing of question of the hour.
First Philosophic Philanthropist (putting down Times). Well, I'm sure nothing could be more satisfactory, and it's all clearly set down here. Not a single soul in the Metropolis need pass the night in the streets. Here's the whole thing set out, chapter and verse. It seems the Police take the matter in hand, and there's a decent night's lodging provided for every single tramp who's in want of it.
Second Philosophic Philanthropist. Just so. Of course one knows there's no end of exaggerated clap-trap talked about the matter. The thing's as simple as can be. They're drafted off to the Casual Wards, where there is clean, wholesome, and comparatively comfortable accommodation; and the system works perfectly, and is capitally organised.
First Philosophic Philanthropist (warmly). Capitally!