o peddle out a lot of
huckleberries. See, there, a man trundling a wheelbarrow-load of
lobsters. And now a milk-cart rattles briskly onward, covered with
green canvas and conveying the contributions of a whole herd of cows,
in large tin canisters.

But let all these pay their toll and pass. Here comes a spectacle that
causes the old toll-gatherer to smile benignantly, as if the
travellers brought sunshine with them and lavished its gladsome
influence all along the road. It is a barouche of the newest style,
the varnished panels of which reflect the whole moving panorama of the
landscape, and show a picture, likewise, of our friend with his visage
broadened, so that his meditative smile is transformed to grotesque
merriment. Within sits a youth fresh as the summer morn, and beside
him a young lady in white with white gloves upon her slender hands and
a white veil flowing down over her face. But methinks her blushing
cheek burns through the snowy veil. Another white-robed virgin sits in
front. And who are these on whom, and on all that appertains to them,
the dust of earth seems never to have settled? Two lovers whom the
priest has blessed this blessed morn and sent them forth, with one of
the bride-maids, on the matrimonial tour.--Take my blessing too, ye
happy ones! May the sky not frown upon you nor clouds bedew you with
their chill and sullen rain! May the hot sun kindle no fever in your
hearts! May your whole life's pilgrimage be as blissful as this first
day's journey, and its close be gladdened with even brighter
anticipations than those which hallow your bridal-night! They pass,
and ere the reflection of their joy has faded from his face another
spectacle throws a melancholy shadow over the spirit of the observing
man. In a close carriage sits a fragile figure muffled carefully and
shrinking even from the mild breath of summer. She leans against a
manly form, and his arm enfolds her as if to guard his treasure from
some enemy. Let but a few weeks pass, and when he shall strive to
embrace that loved one, he will press only desolation to his heart.

And now has Morning gathered up her dewy pearls and fled away. The sun
rolls blazing through the sky, and cannot find a cloud to cool his
face with. The horses toil sluggishly along the bridge, and heave
their glistening sides in short quick pantings when the reins are
tightened at the toll-house. Glisten, too, the faces of the
travellers. Their garments are thickly be