Square Variety Palaces as though he had purchased them.  But, on the whole, he does but little harm to himself and others.  He is truthful and ingenuous, and although he knows himself to be a man, he never tries to be a very old or a very wicked one.  In a word, he is wholesome.  In the end he takes his degree creditably enough.  His years at the University have been years of pure delight to him, and he will always look back to them as the happiest of his life.  He has not become very learned, but he will always be a useful member of the community, and whether as barrister, clergyman, country gentleman, or business man, he will show an example of manly uprightness which his countrymen could ill afford to lose.

* * * * *

Finis.—­The last nights on earth at the Haymarket are announced of A Village Priest.  May he rest in piece.  The play that immediately follows is, Called Back; naturally enough a revival, as the title implies.  But one thing is absolutely certain, and that is, that A Village Priest will never be Called Back.  Perhaps L’Abbe Constantin may now have a chance.  Eminently good, but not absolutely saintly.  Is there any chance of the Abbe being “translated?”

* * * * *

[Illustration:  The smells.

(EDGAR ALLAN POE “UP TO DATE.")]

  I.

    Look on London with its Smells—­
      Sickening Smells! 
  What long nasal misery their nastiness foretells! 
    How they trickle, trickle, trickle,
    On the air by day and night! 
  While our thoraxes they tickle. 
  Like the fumes from brass in pickle,
   Or from naphtha all alight;
  Making stench, stench, stench,
  In a worse than witch-broth drench,
  Of the muck-malodoration that so nauseously wells
    From the Smells, Smells, Smells, Smells,
      Smells, Smells, Smells—­
  From the fuming and the spuming of the Smells.

  II.

    Sniff the fetid sewer Smells—­
      Loathsome Smells! 
  What a lot of typhoid their intensity foretells! 
  Through the pleasant air of night,
    How they spread, a noxious blight! 
    Full of bad bacterian motes,
      Quickening soon. 
  What a lethal vapour floats
  To the foul Smell-fiend who glistens as he gloats
      On the boon. 
    Oh, from subterranean cells
  What a gush of sewer-gas voluminously wells! 
      How it swells! 
      How it dwells
    In our houses!  How it tells
    Of the folly that impels
    To the breeding and the speeding
    Of the Smells, Smells, Smells,
    Of the Smells, Smells, Smells, Smells,
      Smells, Smells, Smells—­
  To the festering and the pestering of the Smells!

  III.