It is a little remarkable,
           that
         -- though disinclined
              to talk overmuch of myself
                   and my affairs
                 at the fireside,
               and to
                   my personal friends --
            an autobiographical impulse
            should twice in my life
                  have taken possession of me,
           in addressing the public.

    The first time
        was three
              or four years since,
           when I favoured the reader
         -- inexcusably,
               and for no earthly reason
                 that either the indulgent reader
                      or the intrusive author
                    could imagine --
            with a description
               of my way of life
             in the deep quietude
                   of an Old Manse.

    And now
         -- because,
               beyond my deserts,
             I was happy enough
                  to find a listener
                      or two
                           on the former occasion --
            I again
              seize the public
                   by the button,
           and talk
               of my three years' experience
             in a Custom-House.

    The example of the famous
         "P. P. ,
               Clerk of this Parish,"
            was never more faithfully followed.

    The truth seems to be,
           however,
         that when
             he casts his leaves forth
                   upon the wind,
           the author addresses,
         not the many
             who will
                  fling aside his volume,
           or never take it up,
         but the few
             who will understand him better
                   than most
                       of his schoolmates or lifemates.

    Some authors,
           indeed,
         do far more than this,
           and indulge themselves
               in such
                 confidential
                    depths of revelation as
            could fittingly
                  be addressed
                      only and exclusively
                           to the one heart
                               and mind of perfect sympathy;
        as if the printed book,
           thrown at large
               on the wide world,
         were certain
              to find out the divided
                   segment of
                       the writer's own nature,
           and complete his circle
               of existence
             by bringing him
                   into communion with it.

    It is scarcely decorous,
           however,
         to speak all,
           even where we speak impersonally.

    But,
           as thoughts
            are frozen and utterance benumbed,
         unless the speaker stand
               in some true relation
             with his audience,
           it may be pardonable
               to imagine
             that a friend,
         a kind and apprehensive,
           though not the closest friend,
         is listening to our talk;
        and then,
           a native reserve
            being thawed
                   by this genial consciousness,
         we may prate
               of the circumstances
             that lie around us,
           and even of ourself,
         but still
              keep the inmost Me
                   behind its veil.

    To this extent,
           and within these limits,
         an author,
           methinks,
         may be autobiographical,
           without violating
               either the reader's rights
              or his own.

    It will be seen,
           likewise,
         that this Custom-House sketch
            has a certain propriety,
           of a kind
              always recognised in literature,
         as explaining
             how a large portion
                   of the following pages
                came into my possession,
           and as
              offering proofs of the
                 authenticity
                    of a narrative therein contained.

    This,
           in fact
         -- a desire
              to put myself
                   in my true position
                 as editor,
               or very little more,
             of the most prolix
                   among the tales
                 that make
                       up my volume --
            this,
         and no other,
         is my true
              reason for
                  assuming a personal relation
                       with the public.

    In accomplishing the main purpose,
           it has appeared allowable,
         by a few extra touches,
           to give a faint
             representation
                of a mode of life
               not heretofore described,
         together with
               some of the characters
             that move in it,
           among whom the author
            happened to make one.

    In my native town
           of Salem,
         at the head of what,
         half a century ago,
           in the days
               of old King Derby,
         was a bustling wharf
           -- but
              which is now
                  burdened with
                      decayed wooden warehouses,
               and exhibits few
                  or no symptoms
                       of commercial life;
            except,
               perhaps,
             a bark or brig,
               half-way down its melancholy length,
             discharging hides;
            or,
               nearer at hand,
             a Nova Scotia schooner,
               pitching out her cargo
                   of firewood