EXTRACTED FROM AN OLD MS. FOUND IN TRINITY COLLEGE,

CAMBRIDGE.

Ir was on a pleasant evening towards the end of March, in the year 1632, that two young men in the academical dress walked leisurely along the high road leading from Cambridge to Huntingdon. They appeared to be two students who had extended their evening promenade rather beyond the limits usually attained by pedestrians -a circumstance which possibly had escaped their observation from the earnestness with which they pursued their conversation. Although they wore the gowns of bachelors of arts, they appeared to be both very young, hardly exceeding the general age of under-graduates of the present day. They seemed about the same age, differing consider. ably in personal appearance-one being much taller than the other, and the hair of the taller darker than that of his companion. Of both, the limbs seemed well-proportioned, nervous, and active, like those of men who though as it seemed students by profession, had not neglected the use of all kinds of atheletic exercises.

They had walked for the last few minutes in silence, when the shorter spoke.

"And so pirns abuses my verses?"

"He passes upon them the judgment I have mentioned," replied the

other.

"The traitor knave! the faitour!" rejoined the first, half angrily, half contemptuously. "Straitforward honourable conduct no one would expect from such a pompous knave? but such scoundrelly duplicity I should have scarcely looked for, even from oкpirns.”

"Did he praise them before you ?"

"To the skies; and the foul churl strongly pretended to advise me to continue to write verses or poetry, as he was pleased to call it. But he is beneath my anger, or even my contempt!"

"He seemed to think you had got an overweening conceit of your own powers, John; that there is a harshness, or a ruggedness about your versification which renders it utterly hopeless that you should ever write such verses as Flip or Fritter."

"I should be very sorry to write such verses !" replied the somewhat irritated poet, and walked on for the next five minutes in silence, which was broken by his taller companion; who as he spoke pulled a manuscript from his pocket.

"But after all, John," he said "you must confess that the verses which I am going to read you, to say the least of them, are somewhat harsh."

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Why, Neville !" exclaimed his friend, "where in Heaven's name did you get that manuscript? I had no idea that my papers were going about the University in this manner. I should be glad to afford entertainment to it, and I am, as you know, far from being insensible to Fame; but I confess I had rather be excused affording this species of entertainment to the old lady, and her

brood of sucklings; and the Fame I court is not precisely of this nature."

"I am not at liberty to tell you where, or from whom I procured this manuscript of your opuscula, John; but in God's name, my dear fellow, hear, and now the ostium, the inspiration of production is over-judge whether this be not enough to set the teeth--the delicate, white, pearly teeth-of all the nine on edge, and make them flee far away from thee for ever."

"What, the―hem! read on, then. Harry Neville may speak as he pleases to John Milton."

Neville opened the MS., and turning over a leaf or two, read as fol, lows:

"ON THE UNIVERSITY CARRIER.

"Here lies old Hobson! death has broke his girt,
And here, alas! hath laid him in the dirt:
Or else, the ways being foul, twenty to one
He's here stuck in a slough, and overthrown.
Twas such a shifter, that if truth were known,
Death was half glad when he had got him down ;
For he had any time this ten years full,

Dodged with him betwixt Cambridge and the Bull."

"Oh, jam satis! pr'ythee have done, friend Neville," exclaimed Milton.

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Well, you confess this to be but indifferent, my learned friend; and thats is not quite so much in the wrong, is not quite so unjust in his sage criticism as you seemed to opine but now," observed his companion with rather a provoking grin upon his countenance.

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"I confess no such thing, Master Neville !" replied the poet stoutly; ❝o pirns is, though a pompous one, as thorough-bred a donkey as ever shook long ears, brayed, and looked grave. And as for my verses on poor old Hobson, they don't run quite so smoothly as some of those of your namby-pamby prize poets; they are not, to be sure, such as are composed, as Shakspeare says,

"To caper nimbly in a lady's chamber,
To the lascivious pleasing of a lute;"

but they are what I deemed suited to the subject and occasion; in short, what I intended them to be-that is enough. And by-the-by, talking of Shakspeare, reminds me of some verses that I wrote on him the other day. I think I have them with me; and I will set them off against those you have just read."

He took a paper from his pocket, and began to read.

"ON SHAKSPEARE.

"What needs my Shakspeare for his honour'd bones
The labour of an age in piled stones?

Or that his hallow'd relics should be hid

Under a starry pointing pyramid ?

Dear son of memory, great heir of fame,

What need'st thou such weak witness of thy name?

Thou in our wonder and astonishment

Hast built thyself a live-long monument,

For whilst to the shame of slow-endeavouring art,

Thy easy numbers flow, and that each heart

Hath from the leaves of thy unvalued book
Those Delphic lines with deep impression took;
Then thou our fancy of itself bereaving,

Dost make us marble with too much conceiving;
And so sepulchered, in such pomp dost lie,

That kings for such a tomb would wish to die!",

"Ah, those,those, John, I am bound to confess, are certainly somewhat of a higher key, a nobler strain!" exclaimed Neville; "but then again, I could set against those something almost as bad, if not worse than old Hobson, the carrier's immortal monody."

"Immortal! ay, immortal. You speak it in derision, Neville; but I promise you I look for the bard's and the sage's immortality." "Ha! ha! ha! That's a good jest, John. You talk as coolly about being an immortal poet as our sage friend, Lyttleton, does about being Lord Keeper. Both events will come to pass, no doubt, in the fullness of time. But Lyttleton has some excuse; there is some substance, some solidity in his aim and object; but yours is a shadow, a thing of air, et præterea nihil. However, not to talk of these things which raise a frown upon your brow, man, let us talk of love; and talking of love, old companion, there is the tree under which thou wert asleep when that fair and divine nymph, whom thou hast determined to deify, and enroll among the inhabitants of high Olympus, if indeed she be not already one of the Muses or Graces, -thought fit to produce that fine compliment upon your closed eyes, which has kept your active and soaring imagination upon the stretch ever since."

Neville's companion did not seem much to relish this last sally of his friend. He coloured considerably; and shewed one or two symptoms of impatience and uneasiness, while the other stood laughing as he looked at the tree.

"Why, John," continued Neville, "you should purchase this tree and a few yards of ground about it, and build a temple to the goddess of Romance. Your ancients had no such goddess though, nor any so deserving of adoration. However at all events, you should erect a shed over the spot where you were lying when the fair nymphs left their car, and

Here he was interrupted by the clatter of a horse's hofs, and turning their heads, they beheld a horseman advancing at full speed on the road from Huntingdon. The appearance of this person was remarkable, though to a common and superficial observer, not very prepossessing. His dress, considering the period, was plain even to slovenliness. Although he had a sword by his side, and pistols in his belt, his sword swung awkwardly, and was without a sword-knot,-a heinous omission in the etiquette of dress at that period, and his pistols were stuck in a belt which was without any of the embroidery or other ornament upon which the gallants of the time piqued themselves. He was mounted however upon a strong and spirited horse, which bore the marks, when he approached the two students, of having been hard ridden. The countenance of the rider was hard-featured and strongly marked, and whether from habitual exposure to the weather, or its natural complexion, or the present hard exercise, was considerably flushed. Yet it was not a common face by any means; and the resolution and thought depicted in the full broad forehead the well-opened, hard eye, the not

very symmetrical, but boldly-cut sagacious-looking nose, and the firm, strongly-marked lines of the mouth, gave to that countenance a noble and even refined expression. If any body doubts this, we refer him to the portrait by Walker, now in the British Museum,* or to the copy of it published in the "Gallery of Portraits." His enemies would seem to have had the painting of his countenance as well as of his character, and to have dealt with both after the same fashion.

On perceiving the two young men, whom we have already introduced to the reader, the horseman drew in his horse suddenly. As he did this with somewhat of a jerk, like a man who starts suddenly from a fit of absence, the high-spirited animal reared backward almost beyond the perpendicular, irritated by the check he had received from the nervous arm of his rider. There was a short but furious contest between the horse and rider, which the advantages of curb, and scourge and spur, added to complete self-possession, soon decided in favour of the latter, and the strong black horse, in which extraordinary muscular power was combined with great speed, stood panting and trembling, but in all his limbs motionless, before them.

"Give ye good day, or rather good even I should say, gentlemen and scholars," exclaimed the horseman, in a strong and deep but harsh voice, raising at the same time his unplumed hat with a cour tesy which though rude resembled more the present continental man. ners than those now prevailing in that illustrious university. young students somewhat more graciously returned his courteous salutation; and as they stepped up to the side of his horse, the shorter of the two said,

The

"Thou ridest with haste-post-haste. Why, Master Oliver, what taketh thee to Cambridge with such fiery expedition at this late hour of the day?"

"I might answer thee, Sir Bachelor of Arts," replied the horseman, "and peradventure it were good policy so to do, as the man in the foolish play-book answers, My horse, sir, my horse.'

"That were an answer," returned the other, "as unworthy of thee, Master Oliver, as it is to speak so slightingly of the works of Will Shakspeare. But I know well thou art no lover of the drama; the fine arts will not easily find a patron in thee."

"Peradventure not," was the harsh and laconic reply.

"But I perceive," continued the other, "that the object of thy speed is not for our ears; and as the evening closeth in, and it beginneth to wax late, we shall not detain thee, but bid thee God speed, seeing that thou probably hast business of import to transact before the morrow."

"Thou sayest true," was the answer. "But look ye, lads, we shall probably see each other again before gates close for the night. In the mean time, as my errand presseth, I am even fain to ride on."

He waved his hand, and clapped spurs to his horse as he spoke, and horse and rider were soon lost to the view.

"There he goes," exclaimed Neville, "on some grave piece of madness or another; and I think, John, we had better make the best of our way back also, for I perceive we have walked farther

This picture was presented by Cromwell to Colonel Rich, and bequeathed by his great grandson, Sir Robert Rich, Bart. to the British Museum.

than I had any idea of. I shall not be much surprised if we find some rare piece of work afoot in the town; for when our friend Oliver rides at that rate, there is generally something in the wind."

The other nodded assent, and they quickened their pace without

further preface.

They entered the suburb, and proceded along the straggling uneven street, still more so then than it is now, which slopes down between ancient and grotesque houses, or rather hovels, towards that narrow steep bridge across the Cam, which in our time, at least to the best of our recollection, was by them of the gown usually denominated-lucus a non lucendo-Magdalen Bridge, and by them of the town, aristocraticé, the snobs, the Great Bridge.

Daylight was beginning to wane as they passed the gates of Magdalen, crossed the aforesaid bridge, and proceeded arm in arm along the long and somewhat squalid street, then as now named Bridge Street. The country people were still making their way out of the town from market with all convenient speed, and now and then they met a man in cap and gown threading his way, likewise with all convenient speed, apparently to his college,-most probably a Magdalen man, Magdalen being the only college on the other side of the river; unless peradventure the youth contemplated a walk of devout meditation in the precincts of the castle,-a region perhaps more removed out of the ken of proctor "grim and rude " than certain other localities we could name in that quarter of the habitable globe. However this might be, those they met wearing cap and gown were few in number, until they reached that part of Bridge Street where St. John's Lane and Jesus' Lane joined it, then the wearers of cap and gown bore a much greater proportion than before to the other passengers. When they reached the corner of St. John's Lane, Neville said,

"I don't feel much inclined to read to night, John. Instead of turning up here towards Trinity, I think I shall walk on with you towards Christ's; perhaps we may see something more of Oliver."

"I am sure," replied Milton, "I don't wish to see anything more of him to-night; for I give you fair warning, though you may not feel disposed to read, I do; and therefore you know, Neville, you may come as far as the gate with me, but not a step farther."

"Very well, be it so. I do not wish to disturb your reading, though I do not feel disposed to read or write myself."

"Your case is a desperate one, Neville," said Milton laughing, "and you deep in love too. Why, Harry, man, you will never melt the hard heart of your cruel fair one without an occasional stave,-without an odd bit of varse now and then, as our friend Passive Obedience Bigbone would call it."

And who said to you that I was in love, John? I am sure I never did. For supposing even for a moment that I was in love, not a very likely event, I promise you, though, as Will Shakspeare says, 'By your smiling you seem to say so,' sup"here posing for a moment, I say for the sake of argument,' Neville's companion laughed outright, "that I were so, I am sure I deem far too highly of the ennobling passion, and I think I should also deem far too highly of the object that was able to inspire with such a passion the breast of Harry Neville, to make either a subject of University tittle-tattle. I see some one has been kind