It is with a strange unsatisfied feeling, that the native of a mountainous country takes his second or his third constitutional at Cambridge. The first time he goes abroad to see the scenery of the neighbourhood, he is most probably in academical habit; and whilst his shoulders feel the gown's gentle clasp, and its crisp new folds rustle fondly round him, it is little wonder if his thoughts—and perhaps his eyes—do not wander very far off it; and the cap commonly fits close enough to keep him in continual remembrance of the laurels which he hopes will one day encircle his temples. But imagine all this fresh feeling at an end: he takes a walk, with attention alive to all that is new, and a temper ready to admire all that may be beautiful. At last he reaches a slight eminence (a few such there are, and a very slight elevation will afford him an extensive prospect)—and looks round. He sees perhaps nothing which is destitute of beauty; but his eye wanders restlessly over the plain, then from the horizon, up to the sky,—then to the plain again,—and he feels unsatisfied without knowing for why. The truth is, he misses the hills which surrounded the home of his boyhood, and among which he has dwelt perhaps eighteen summers without knowing how much he loved them.