demned criminal. At last Thursday
arrives, and at a quarter to four, any person who takes the trouble to
station himself at the corner of Union-street will see various groups of
three and four young men wending their way towards the portals of
Apothecaries' Hall, consisting of students about to be examined,
accompanied by friends who come down with them to keep up their spirits.
They approach the door, and shake hands as they give and receive wishes of
success. The wicket closes on the candidates, and their friends adjourn to
the "Retail Establishment" opposite, to _go the odd man_ and pledge their
anxious companions in dissector's diet-drink--_vulgo_, half-and-half.

Leaving them to their libations, we follow our old friend Mr. Joseph Muff.
He crosses the paved court-yard with the air of a man who had lost
half-a-crown and found a halfpenny; and through the windows sees the
assistants dispensing plums, pepper, and prescriptions, with provoking
indifference. Turning to the left, he ascends a solemn-looking staircase,
adorned with severe black figures in niches, who support lamps. On the top
of the staircase he enters a room, wherein the partners of his misery are
collected. It is a long narrow apartment, commonly known as "the
funking-room," ornamented with a savage-looking fireplace at one end, and
a huge surly chest at the other; with gloomy presses against the walls,
containing dry mouldy books in harsh, repulsive bindings. The windows look
into the court; and the glass is scored by diamond rings, and the shutters
pencilled with names and sentences, which Mr. Muff regards with feelings
similar to those he would experience in contemplating the inscriptions on
the walls of a condemned cell. The very chairs in the room look
overbearing and unpleasant; and the whole locality is invested with an
overallishness of unanswerable questions and intricate botheration. Some
of the students are marching up and down the room in feverish
restlessness; others, arm in arm, are worrying each other to death with
questions; and the rest are grinding away to the last minute at a manual,
or trying to write minute atomic numbers on their thumb-nail.

The clock strikes five, and Mr. Sayer enters the room, exclaiming--"Mr.
Manhug, Mr. Jones, Mr. Saxby, and Mr. Collins." The four depart to the
chamber of examination, where the medical inquisition awaits them, with
every species of mental torture to screw their brains instead of their
thumbs,