The younger Richard Graves (1715-1804), a contemporary of Shenstone and Whitfield at Pembroke, has sketched, in his own person, the unstable undergraduate of sixteen, in his progress from set to set. It is a very lasting type. “Having brought with me,” he writes, “the character of a tolerably good Grecian, I was invited to a very sober little party, who amused themselves in the evening with reading Greek and drinking water. Here I continued six months, and we read over Theophrastus, Epictetus, Phalaris’ _Epistles_, and such other Greek authors as are seldom read at school. But I was at length seduced from this mortified symposium to a very different party, a set of jolly, sprightly young fellows, most of them west-country lads, who drank ale, smoked tobacco, punned, and sang bacchanalian catches the whole evening. I began to think them the only wise men. Some gentlemen commoners, however, who considered the above-mentioned very low company (chiefly on account of the liquor they drank), good-naturedly invited me to their party; they treated me with port wine and arrack punch; and now and then, when they had drunk so much as hardly to distinguish wine from water, they would conclude with a bottle or two of claret. They kept late hours, drank their favourite toasts on their knees, and in short were what were then called ‘bucks of the first head.’” IV THE LOWNGER I rise about nine, get to Breakfast by ten, Blow a Tune on my Flute, or perhaps make a Pen; Read a Play till eleven, or cock my lac’d Hat; Then step to my Neighbour’s, till Dinner to chat. Dinner over, to _Tom’s_ or to _James’s_ I go, The News of the Town so impatient to know: While _Law_, _Locke_ and _Newton_, and all the rum Race That talk of their Modes, their Ellipses, and Space, The Seat of the Soul, and new Systems on high, In Holes, as abstruse as their Mysteries lye. From the Coffee-house then I to Tennis away, And at five I post back to my College to pray: I sup before eight, and secure from all Duns, Undauntedly march to the _Mitre_, or _Tuns_; Where in Punch or good Claret my Sorrows I drown, And toss off a Bowl to the best in the Town: At one in the Morning, I call what’s to pay, Then Home to my College I stagger away. Thus I tope all the Night, as I trifle all Day. From the _Oxford Sausage_. V I have taken from Glanvil’s _Vanity of Dogmatizing_ the original version of the story of Matthew Arnold’s Scholar Gypsy.