Sitting on the aforesaid bench , I amuse myself with a conception , illustrated by numerous pencil-sketches in the air , of the toll-gatherer 's day . In the morning -- dim , gray , dewy summer 's morn the distant roll of ponderous wheels begins to mingle with my old friend 's slumbers , creaking more and more harshly through the midst of his dream , and gradually replacing it with realities . Hardly conscious of the change from sleep to wakefulness , he finds himself partly clad and throwing wide the toll-gates for the passage of a fragrant load of hay . The timbers groan beneath the slow-revolving wheels ; one sturdy yeoman stalks beside the oxen , and , peering from the summit of the hay , by the glimmer of the half-extinguished lantern over the toll-house , is seen the drowsy visage of his comrade , who has enjoyed a nap some ten miles long . The toll is paid , -- creak , creak , again go the wheels , and the huge haymow vanishes into the morning mist . As yet , nature is but half awake , and familiar objects appear visionary . But yonder , dashing from the shore with a rattling thunder of the wheels and a confused clatter of hoofs , comes the never-tiring mail , which has hurried onward at the same headlong , restless rate , all through the quiet night . The bridge resounds in one continued peal as the coach rolls on without a pause , merely affording the toll-gatherer a glimpse at the sleepy passengers , who now bestir their torpid limbs , and snuff a cordial in the briny air . The morn breathes upon them and blushes , and they forget how wearily the darkness toiled away . And behold now the fervid day , in his bright chariot , glittering aslant over the waves , nor scorning to throw a tribute of his golden beams on the toll-gatherer 's little hermitage . The old man looks eastward , and -LRB- for he is a moralizer -RRB- frames a simile of the stage coach and the sun . While the world is rousing itself , we may glance slightly at the scene of our sketch . It sits above the bosom of the broad flood , a spot not of earth , but in the midst of waters , which rush with a murmuring sound among the massive beams beneath . Over the door is a weather-beaten board , inscribed with the rates of toll , in letters so nearly effaced that the gilding of the sunshine can hardly make them legible . Beneath the window is a wooden bench , on which a long succession of weary wayfarers have reposed themselves . Peeping within doors , we perceive the whitewashed walls bedecked with sundry lithographic prints and advertisements of various import , and the immense showbill of a wandering caravan . And there sits our good old toll-gatherer , glorified by the early sunbeams . He is a man , as his aspect may announce , of quiet soul , and thoughtful , shrewd , yet simple mind , who , of the wisdom which the passing world scatters along the wayside , has gathered a reasonable store . Now the sun smiles upon the landscape , and earth smiles back again upon the sky . Frequent , now , are the travellers .
The toll-gatherer 's practised ear can distinguish the weight XXXXX every vehicle , the number of its wheels , and how many horses beat the resounding timbers with their iron tramp .
While as at for from of on over that to