A SKETCH OF TRANSITORY LIFE
Methinks， for a person whose instinct bids him ratherto pore over the current of life than to plunge into itstumultuous waves， no undesirable retreat were a toll-housebeside some thronged thoroughfare of the land. In youth，perhaps， it is good for the observer to run about the earth，to leave the track of his footsteps far and wide， to minglehimself with the action of numberless vicissitudes， and，finally， in some calm solitude to feed a musing spirit onall that he has seen and felt. But there are natures tooindolent or too sensitive to endure the dust， the sunshineor the rain， the turmoil of moral and physical elements， towhich all the wayfarers of the world expose themselves.
For such a man how pleasant a miracle could life be madeto roll its variegated length by the threshold of his ownhermitage， and the great globe， as it were， perform itsrevolutions and shift its thousand scenes before his eyeswithout whirling him onward in its course！ If any mortalbe favored with a lot analogous to this， it is the tollgatherer.
So， at least， have I often fancied while loungingon a bench at the door of a small square edifice whichstands between shore and shore in the midst of a longbridge. Beneath the timbers ebbs and flows an arm of thesea， while above， like the life-blood through a great artery，the travel of the north and east is continually throbbing.
Sitting on the aforesaid bench， I amuse myself with aconception， illustrated by numerous pencil-sketches in theair， of the toll-gatherer’s day.
In the morning—dim， gray， dewy summer’s morn—thedistant roll of ponderous wheels begins to mingle withmy old friend’s slumbers， creaking more and more harshlythrough the midst of his dream and gradually replacing itwith realities. Hardly conscious of the change from sleepto wakefulness， he finds himself partly clad and throwingwide the toll-gates for the passage of a fragrant load ofhay. The timbers groan beneath the slow-revolving wheels；one sturdy yeoman stalks beside the oxen， and， peeringfrom the summit of the hay， by the glimmer of the halfextinguishedlantern over the toll-house is seen the drowsyvisage of his comrade， who has enjoyed a nap some tenmiles long. The toll is paid； creak， creak， again go thewheels， and the huge hay-mow vanishes into the morningmist. As yet nature is but half awake， and familiar objectsappear visionary. But yonder， dashing from the shore witha rattling thunder of the wheels and a confused clatterof hoofs， comes the never-tiring mail， which has hurriedonward at the same headlong， restless rate all through thequiet night. The bridge resounds in one continued peal asthe coach rolls on without a pause， merely affording thetoll-gatherer a glimpse at the sleepy passengers， who nowbestir their torpid limbs and snuff a cordial in the brinyair. The morn breathes upon them and blushes， and theyforget how wearily the darkness toiled away. And beholdnow the fervid day in his bright chariot， glittering aslantover the waves， nor scorning to throw a tribute of hisgolden beams on the toll-gatherer’s little hermitage. Theold man looks eastward， and （for he is a moralizer） framesa simile of the stage-coach and the sun.
While the world is rousing itself we may glance slightlyat the scene of our sketch. It sits above the bosom ofthe broad flood—a spot not of earth， but in the midst ofwaters which rush with a murmuring sound among themassive beams beneath. Over the door is a weatherbeatenboard inscribed with the rates of toll in letters so nearlyeffaced that the gilding of the sunshine can hardly makethem legible. Beneath the window is a wooden benchon which a long succession of weary wayfarers havereposed themselves. Peeping within-doors， we perceivethe whitewashed walls bedecked with sundry lithographicprints and advertisements of various import and theimmense show-bill of a wandering caravan. And there sitsour good old toll-gatherer， glorified by the early sunbeams.
He is a man， as his aspect may announce， of quiet soul andthoughtful， shrewd， yet simple mind， who of the wisdomwhich the passing world scatters along the wayside hasgathered a reasonable store.
Now the sun smiles upon the landscape and earthsmiles back again upon the sky. Frequent now are thetravellers. The toll-gatherer’s practised ear can distinguishthe weight of every vehicle， the number of its wheels andhow many horses beat the resounding timbers with theiriron tramp. Here， in a substantial family chaise， settingforth betimes to take advantage of the dewy road， comea gentleman and his wife with their rosy-cheeked littlegirl sitting gladsomely between them. The bottom of thechaise is heaped with multifarious bandboxes and carpetbags，and beneath the axle swings a leathern trunk dustywith yesterday’s journey. Next appears a four-wheeledcarryall peopled with a round half dozen of pretty girls， alldrawn by a single horse and driven by a single gentleman.