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.