four years of Christ Church, Norwich, assisted by the Rev. Mr., afterwards Bishop Wainwright, then rector of Christ Church, Hartford, who, with his lady, and other friends from that city, had kindly come on to be present at the marriage.
It had been my resolution to utter audibly the responses required of me. Yet I was not aware, until hearing the clear, impressive enunciation of him who stood by my side, that my lips gave no sound. The power of articulation fled. The presence of the throng had no influence. It did not enter my mind. I seemed wrapped in a dream, and to have no personal identity with surrounding things. The congratulations that succeeded the ceremony, the world of flowers that were pressed upon me and showered around, seemed cheering and beautiful; but I could not think them mine. It seemed an illusion, though without the loss of self-command. What first restored full consciousness, was the blessing of an old lady of ninety—Madam Lathrop, a connection of my earliest benefactress—and the fervent glance of her still lustrous black eye. Her voice touched the sealed fountains of other years, and I was again myself.
The country through which we journeyed was interspersed with thriving villages, and gorgeous in its summer drapery. Here and there early haymakers loaded the air with fragrance. Rocks robed themselves in laurel, and the wild strawberry blushed as it ran to
