were ultimately much absorbed in the task, it wears, to my eye, a stern and
sombre aspect; too much ungladdened by genial sunshine; too little relieved by
the tender and familiar influences which soften almost every scene of nature and
real life, and, undoubtedly, should soften every picture of them. This
uncaptivating effect is perhaps due to the period of hardly accomplished
revolution, and still seething turmoil, in which the story shaped itself. It is
no indication, however, of a lack of cheerfulness in the writer's mind; for he
was happier, while straying through the gloom of these sunless fantasies, than
at any time since he had quitted the Old Manse. Some of the briefer articles,
which contribute to make up the volume, have likewise been written since my
involuntary withdrawal from the toils and honors of public life, and the
remainder are gleaned from annuals and magazines, of such antique date that they
have gone round the circle, and come back to novelty again.1 Keeping up the
metaphor of the political guillotine, the whole may be considered as the
POSTHUMOUS PAPERS OF A DECAPITATED SURVEYOR; and the sketch which I am now
bringing to a close, if too autobiographical for a modest person to publish in
his lifetime, will readily be excused in a gentleman who writes from beyond the
grave. Peace be with all the world! My blessing on my friends! My forgiveness to
my enemies! For I am in the realm of quiet!
    The life of the Custom-House lies like a dream behind me. The old Inspector,
- who, by the by, I regret to say, was overthrown and killed by a horse, some
time ago; else he would certainly have lived for ever, - he, and all those other
venerable personages who sat with him at the receipt of custom, are but shadows
in my view; white-headed and wrinkled images, which my fancy used to sport with,
and has now flung aside for ever. The merchants, - Pingree, Phillips, Shepard,
Upton, Kimball, Bertram, Hunt, - these, and many other names, which had such a
classic familiarity for my ear six months ago, - these men of traffic, who
seemed to occupy so important a position in the world, - how little time has it
required to disconnect me from them all, not merely in act, but recollection! It
is with an effort that I recall the figures and appellations of these few. Soon,
likewise, my old native town will loom upon me through the haze of memory, a
mist brooding over and