Their garments are thickly bestrewn with dust； theirwhiskers and hair look hoary； their throats are chokedwith the dusty atmosphere which they have left behindthem. No air is stirring on the road. Nature dares draw nobreath lest she should inhale a stifling cloud of dust. “A hotand dusty day！” cry the poor pilgrims as they wipe theirbegrimed foreheads and woo the doubtful breeze whichthe river bears along with it. — “Awful hot！ Dreadfuldusty！” answers the sympathetic toll-gatherer. They startagain to pass through the fiery furnace， while he re-entershis cool hermitage and besprinkles it with a pail of brinywater from the stream beneath. He thinks within himselfthat the sun is not so fierce here as elsewhere， and that thegentle air doth not forget him in these sultry days. Yes， oldfriend， and a quiet heart will make a dog-day temperate.
He hears a weary footstep， and perceives a traveller withpack and staff， who sits down upon the hospitable benchand removes the hat from his wet brow. The toll-gathereradministers a cup of cold water， and， discovering his guestto be a man of homely sense， he engages him in profitabletalk， uttering the maxims of a philosophy which he hasfound in his own soul， but knows not how it came there.
And as the wayfarer makes ready to resume his journey hetells him a sovereign remedy for blistered feet.
Now comes the noontide hour—of all the hours，nearest akin to midnight， for each has its own calmnessand repose. Soon， however， the world begins to turnagain upon its axis， and it seems the busiest epoch of theday， when an accident impedes the march of sublunarythings. The draw being lifted to permit the passage of aschooner laden with wood from the Eastern forests， shesticks immovably right athwart the bridge. Meanwhile， onboth sides of the chasm a throng of impatient travellersfret and fume. Here are two sailors in a gig with the topthrown back， both puffing cigars and swearing all sortsof forecastle oaths； there， in a smart chaise， a dashinglydressedgentleman and lady， he from a tailor’s shop-boardand she from a milliner’s back room—the aristocrats of asummer afternoon. And what are the haughtiest of us butthe ephemeral aristocrats of a summer’s day？ Here is a tinpedlerwhose glittering ware bedazzles all beholders like atravelling meteor or opposition sun， and on the other sidea seller of spruce beer， which brisk liquor is confined inseveral dozen of stone bottles. Here conic a party of ladieson horseback， in green ridings habits， and gentlemenattendant， and there a flock of sheep for the market，pattering over the bridge with a multitude nous clatter oftheir little hoofs； here a Frenchman with a hand-organ onhis shoulder， and there an itinerant Swiss jeweller. On thisside， heralded by a blast of clarions and bugles， appears atrain of wagons conveying all the wild beasts of a caravan；and on that a company of summer soldiers marchingfrom village to village on a festival campaign， attended bythe “brass band.” Now look at the scene， and it presentsan emblem of the mysterious confusion， the apparentlyinsolvable riddle， in which individuals， or the great worlditself， seem often to be involved. What miracle shall set allthings right again？
But see！ the schooner has thrust her bulky carcasethrough the chasm； the draw descends； horse and footpass onward and leave the bridge vacant from end to end.
“And thus，” muses the toll-gatherer， “have I found it withall stoppages， even though the universe seemed to be at astand.” The sage old man！
Far westward now the reddening sun throws a broadsheet of splendor across the flood， and to the eyes ofdistant boatmen gleams brightly among the timbers ofthe bridge. Strollers come from the town to quaff thefreshening breeze. One or two let down long lines and haulup flapping flounders or cunners or small cod， or perhapsan eel. Others， and fair girls among them， with the flushof the hot day still on their cheeks， bend over the railingand watch the heaps of seaweed floating upward withthe flowing tide. The horses now tramp heavily along thebridge and wistfully bethink them of their stables. Rest，rest， thou weary world！ for to-morrow’s round of toil andpleasure will be as wearisome as to-day’s has been， yet bothshall bear thee onward a day’s march of eternity. Now theold toll-gatherer looks seaward and discerns the lighthousekindling on a far island， and the stars， too， kindling in thesky， as if but a little way beyond； and， mingling reveries ofheaven with remembrances of earth， the whole processionof mortal travellers， all the dusty pilgrimage which he haswitnessed， seems like a flitting show of phantoms for histhoughtful soul to muse upon.