As the means of information respecting Cambridge are in everybody’s hands, and as the picturesque of its colleges and grounds is familiar from engravings, I shall spare my reader the trouble of details which might seem a repetition of those of Oxford. In St. John’s college, which its own men are accused of considering the University, I found the chapel, though small and plain, a most attractive place. Its “non-juror windows,” and other memorials, revive many historical names. I know not why the Johnians have received the Pindaric epithet of Swine, but so it is; and the peculiarly pretty bridge, spanning the Cam, which unites its quadrangles and halls, has accordingly won the sportive name of the “Isthmus of _Sues_.” In the very pleasant grounds adjacent, I plucked a leaf from the silver-beech, said to have been planted by Henry Martyn, and breathed a blessing on his memory. A fellow of Trinity kindly devoted himself to showing me the attractions of his college, and they are very great. The library is a Valhalla of literary heroes, the sons of Trinity, whose busts adorn the alcoves: and the statue of Byron, by Thorwaldsen, is a superb addition to its treasures of art, which, on the whole, will do no harm here, excluded as it was from Westminster Abbey, by a virtuous abhorrence of the bold blasphemer whom it represents, and thus stamped as deep with infamy as it is otherwise clothed with attractiveness. Among the relics of the collection, there were two which any man must behold with reverence: a lock of Sir Isaac Newton’s hair, and the original manuscripts of Paradise Lost, and of Lycidas! Then to the chapel—that chapel which ever since I read “the Records of a Good Man’s Life,” in school-boy days, I had longed to see, and where I had often wished it had been my lot to pray, in college life. In the ante-chapel, there was that statue of Newton, so beautifully described by the author, as arresting the melancholy attentions of a consumptive youth, as he passed it, for the last time, in his surplice, and confessed that this had been too much his idol, in that house of God, filling his enthusiasm with the worship of genius, when he should have thought only of his Maker. I shall never forget the thrills of excited imagination with which I received some of my first impressions of Cambridge, in reading that story of Singleton: and now they all revived as I stood upon the spot.