And the young bride wept no more; she was with him she loved--she was his for ever.
She forgot the rest.

The hope--the heart of sixteen--spoke brightly out through the blushes that mantled over her fair cheeks.

The bridegroom's frank and manly countenance was radiant with joy.

As he waved his hand to Caleb from the window the post-boy cracked his whip, the servant settled himself on the dickey, the horses started off in a brisk trot,--the clergyman was left alone.
To be married is certainly an event in life; to marry other people is, for a priest, a very ordinary occurrence; and yet, from that day, a great change began to operate in the spirits and the habits of Caleb Price.

Have you ever, my gentle reader, buried yourself for some time quietly in the lazy ease of a dull country-life?
Have you ever become gradually accustomed to its monotony, and inured to its solitude; and, just at the time when you have half-forgotten the great world--that mare magnum that frets and roars in the distance--have you ever received in your calm retreat some visitor, full of the busy and excited life which you imagined yourself contented to relinquish?
If so, have you not perceived, that, in proportion as his presence and communication either revived old memories, or brought before you new pictures of "the bright tumult" of that existence of which your guest made a part,--you began to compare him curiously with yourself; you began to feel that what before was to rest is now to rot; that your years are gliding from you unenjoyed and wasted; that the contrast between the animal life of passionate civilisation and the vegetable torpor of motionless seclusion is one that, if you are still young, it tasks your philosophy to bear,--feeling all the while that the torpor may be yours to your grave?
And when your guest has left you, when you are again alone, is the solitude the same as it was before?
Our poor Caleb had for years rooted his thoughts to his village.