he debars himself from joviality during the time of his preparation, but he judiciously combines study with amusement—­never stirring without his translation in his pocket, and even, if he goes to the theatre, beguiling the time between the pieces by learning the literal order of a new paragraph.  Every school possesses circulating copies of these works:  they have been originally purchased in some wild moment of industrious extravagance by a new man; and when he passed, he sold them for five shillings to another, who, in turn, disposed of them to a third, until they had run nearly all through the school.  The student grinds away at these until he knows them almost by heart, albeit his translation is not the most elegant.  He reads—­“Sanus homo, a sound man; qui, who; et, also; bene valet, well is in health; et, and; suae spontis, of his own choice; est, is,” &c.  This, however, is quite sufficient; and, accordingly, one afternoon, in a rash moment, he makes up his mind to “go up.”  Arrived at Apothecaries’ Hall—­a building which he regards with a feeling of awe far beyond the Bow-street Police Office—­he takes his place amongst the anxious throng, and is at last called into a room, where two examiners politely request that he will favour them by sitting down at a table adorned with severe-looking inkstands, long pens, formal sheets of foolscap, and awfully-sized copies of the light entertaining works mentioned above.  One of the aforesaid examiners then takes a pinch of snuff, coughs, blows his nose, points out a paragraph for the student to translate, and leaves him to do it.  He has, with a prudent forethought, stuffed his cribs inside his double-breasted waistcoat, but, unfortunately, he finds he cannot use them; so when he sticks at a queer word he writes it on his blotting-paper and shoves it quietly on to the next man.  If his neighbour is a brick, he returns an answer; but if he is not, our friend is compelled to take shots of the meaning and trust to chance—­a good plan when you are not certain what to do, either at billiards or Apothecaries’ Hall.  Should he be fortunate enough to get through, his schedule is endorsed with some hieroglyphics explanatory of the auspicious event; and, in gratitude, he asks a few friends to his lodgings that night, who have legions of sausages for supper, and drink gin-and-water until three o’clock in the morning.  It is not, however, absolutely necessary that a man should go up himself to pass his Latin.  We knew a student once who, by a little judicious change of appearance—­first letting his hair grow very long, and then cutting it quite short—­at one time patronizing whiskers, and at another shaving himself perfectly clean—­now wearing spectacles, and now speaking through his nose—­being, withal, an excellent scholar, passed a Latin examination for half the men in the hospital he belonged to, receiving from them, when he had succeeded, the fee which, in most cases, they would have paid a private teacher for preparing them.