The Average Undergraduate generally takes a respectable position as a College oarsman or cricketer, though he may fail to attain to the University Eight or to the Eleven. He passes his examinations with effort, but still he passes them. He recks not of Honours. The "poll" or the pass contents him. Sometimes he makes too much noise, occasionally he dines too well. In London, too, his conduct during vacations is perhaps a little exuberant, and he is often inclined to treat the promenades at the Leicester 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'Abbé Constantin_ may now have a chance. Eminently good, but not absolutely saintly. Is there any chance of the _Abbé_ 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.