, 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 and 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 recognized 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
