for ever, and call the
lands after their own names.

'Yet man being in honour hath no understanding, but is compared to
the beasts that perish.'

Waiving the good taste, which was probably on a par in both cases,
the reader is left to decide which of the two texts was most
applicable.

Mrs. Lavington is Mrs. Lavington no longer. She has married, to the
astonishment of the world in general, that 'excellent man,' Mr.
O'Blareaway, who has been discovered not to be quite as young as he
appeared, his graces being principally owing to a Brutus wig, which
he has now wisely discarded. Mrs. Lavington now sits in state under
her husband's ministry, as the leader of the religious world in the
fashionable watering-place of Steamingbath, and derives her notions
of the past, present, and future state of the universe principally
from those two meek and unbiased periodicals, the Protestant Hue-
and-Cry and the Christian Satirist, to both of which O'Blareaway is
a constant contributor. She has taken such an aversion to Whitford
since Argemone's death, that she has ceased to have any connection
with that unhealthy locality, beyond the popular and easy one of
rent-receiving. O'Blareaway has never entered the parish to his
knowledge since Mr. Lavington's funeral; and was much pleased, the
last time I rode with him, at my informing him that a certain
picturesque moorland which he had been greatly admiring, was his own
possession. . . . After all, he is 'an excellent man;' and when I
met a large party at his house the other day, and beheld dory and
surmullet, champagne and lachryma Christi, amid all the glory of the
Whitford plate . . . (some of it said to have belonged to the altar
of the Priory Church four hundred years ago), I was deeply moved by
the impressive tone in which, at the end of a long grace, he prayed
'that the daily bread of our less favoured brethren might be
mercifully vouchsafed to them.' . . . My dear readers, would you
have me, even if I could, extricate him from such an Elysium by any
denouement whatsoever?

Poor dear Luke, again, is said to be painting lean frescoes for the
Something-or-other-Kirche at Munich; and the vicar, under the name
of Father Stylites, of the order of St. Philumena, is preaching
impassioned sermons to crowded congregations at St. George's,
Bedlam. How can I extricate them from that? No one has come forth
of it yet, to my knowledge, except by paths