How his direct descendant, the Bullingdon man, must envy him his magnificent opportunities of making a brave show! Not for him the silk gown, the bully cocked hat. The best he can do in imitation is the amazing dinner jacket which he sometimes sports at the theatre, under which one finds not the accepted form of dress shirt but a peculiar form of abortion which is neatly ruffled at “bosom and wrists.” In place of the Spanish leather shoes the last word to-day is apparently buckskin. The “delicate jaunt in the gait” has been retained--the result being caused now by a union of “Eton slouch” and “Oxford manner.” The head still smells of essence--honey and flowers at Hatt’s, brilliantine at Martyr’s. These great-minded people think alike not only in point of dress but of the manner of killing time. “The Lownger” summed up the process as carried out in the eighteenth century-- “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 Low, 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 Halls as abstruse as their mysteries lie. 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.”