A busy time indeed is the term before going out to the “Questionists Candidates for Honors.” Ants, bees, boatcrews spirting at the Willows, jockeys nearing the post and getting the last half inch out of their nags (though this last simile is perhaps more appropriate to the private tutors than to their pupils), are but faint types of their activity. They even break in upon their cherished hours of exercise. Lucky is the man who lives a mile off from his private tutor, or has rooms ten minutes' walk from chapel; he is sure of that much constitutional daily. They have little appetites for their not very tempting dinners, and grudge themselves their usual hours of sleep. The Classical men are rather the busiest; they have a double burden to undergo, and a most critical achievement before them—to get up Mathematics enough to pass, without sacrificing the time necessary to keep up their Classics to the proper point—the minimum of knowledge in the one case, the maximum of acquisition in the other. Of those rarce aves who are aiming, and with a fair prospect, at success in both Triposes, one hardly knows what to think.