Among the attractions of the small colleges, I must not omit to mention the chapel of Jesus College, which has lately undergone a thorough restoration, and presents one of the most beautiful specimens of revived mediævalism in art which I have ever seen. It is the work of an accomplished gentleman of the college, assisted to some extent by the voluntary contributions of undergraduates. Nothing of the kind which I saw in Oxford can compare with this exquisite Oratory. I went to Christ’s college and saw Milton’s mulberry—a pleasant memorial of his best days; the days when he was the “lady of his college” for youthful comeliness, and the man of his college for the genius that produced Lycidas, and for the unsoured feelings that could yet appreciate “the high embowed roofs,” and the “studious cloisters” by which he was there surrounded. Happy would it have been for him, had he kept that youthful heart! The mulberry is propped up like an old man on his staff, and shielded from the weather by a leaden surtout, but must soon cease to be the last living thing that connects with the name of Milton. What a place is Cambridge, when its minor colleges suggest such names! As I passed what was formerly Bennet college, I thought of Cowper’s lines on his brother. There, too, was Pembroke, suggesting thoughts of Bramhall and of Andrewes—of Andrewes whom even Milton could praise, albeit he was a prelate. There was Peterhouse, reminding me of good old Cosin. More than all—there was little Caius (pronounced _Keys_) where Jeremy Taylor, the poor sizar and the barber’s son, passed so often to and fro, beneath its quaint old gates, bearing a soul within him, which in after years he poured forth, like another Chrysostom, and made a treasure for all time. I am sorry to say there is another college there, which suggests the odious name of Cromwell, the man who kindled the fiery coals in which the golden heart of Taylor, and the hearts of thousands more, were well refined, and seven times purified.