Behold the mark is gained, which announces to the traveller that the measure of his journey is run out, and a peculiar train of feeling is kindled at the sight. Should the traveller be a son of the University, returning after a long absence from this home of his student's affections, with him anticipation is distinctly modified by experience and recollection. The bridge at Trumpington Ford is the critical scene of a well known legend; the pathway before him was the line for promenaders–of those who sought recreation in seeing others, and were pleased to purchase it at the price of being seen; of the student confined by a zeal impatient of cessation to limited time and space, and delicately desirous of dry footing. He remembers when first, with the deference of a freshman, he learnt that here was the Senior Wrangler's walk. Imagination peoples the scene with its proper characters. That stone is not the rude monument of barbarian calculation, standing on some wide void plain, such as doubtless once was here, a landmark to the way-worn and way-lost passenger; it bears traces of the hand of art and of the design of science, and declares the march of civilization.

On the right hand he recognises the common, ‘empty’ as ever, though once mentioned, in a proposal for supplying the town with water, for the site of a reservoir–one of the few remaining traces of the open field of Cambridge, and continually threatened by the conduit-stream above.