"Here Hobson lies among his many betters, A man unlearned, yet a man of letters; His carriage was well known, oft hath he gone In Embassy 'twixt father and the son: There's few in Cambridge, to his praise be't spoken, But may remember him by some good Token. From whence he rid to London day by day, Till Death benighting him, he lost his way: His Team was of the best, nor would he have Been mired in any way but in the grave. And there he stycks, indeed, styll like to stand, Untill some Angell lend hys helpyng hand. Nor is't a wonder that he thus is gone, Since all men know, he long was drawing on. Thus rest in peace thou everlasting Swain, And Supream Waggoner, next Charles his wain." The couplet printed below touches a pretty note of imagination, and is wholly free from that suspicion of affected scholarly superiority to a common carrier, with which all the others, especially Milton's, are super-saturated-- "Hobson's not dead, but Charles the Northerne swaine, Hath sent for him, to draw his lightsome waine." Charles's Wain, referred to in these two last examples, is, of course, that well-known constellation in the northern heavens usually known as the Great Bear, anciently "Charlemagne's Waggon," and more anciently still, the Greek Hamaxa, "the Waggon." Coming, as might be expected, a considerable distance after Milton and the others in point of excellence, are the epitaphs printed in a little book of 1640, called the _Witt's Recreations, Selected from the Finest Fancies of the Modern Muses_. Some of them are a little gruesome, and affect the reader as unfavourably as though he saw the authors of these lines dancing a saraband on poor old Hobson's grave-- "Hobson (what's out of sight is out of mind) Is gone, and left his letters here behind. He that with so much paper us'd to meet; Is now, alas! content to take one sheet. He that such carriage store was wont to have, Is carried now himselfe unto his grave: O strange! he that in life ne're made but one, Six Carriers makes, now he is dead and gone." XXV THE Market Hill is, as already hinted, the centre of Cambridge. The University church is there. There, too, the stalls of the Wednesday and Saturday markets still gather thickly, and on them the inquisitive stranger may yet discover butter being sold, as from time immemorial, by the yard. Here a yard of butter is the equivalent of a pound, and the standard gauge of such a yard--the obsolete symbol of a time when the University exercised jurisdiction over the markets as well as over the students--is to this day handed over to the Senior Proctor of the year on his taking office. It is a clumsy cylinder of sheet iron, a yard in length and an inch in diameter. A pound of butter rolled out to this measurement looks remarkably like a very yellow candle of inordinate length. [Illustration: MARKET HILL, CAMBRIDGE.]