The Scarlet Letter

But it is time to quit this sketch; on which, however, I should

be glad to dwell at considerably more length, because of all men

whom I have ever known, this individual was fittest to be a

Custom-House officer. Most persons, owing to causes which I may

not have space to hint at, suffer moral detriment from this

peculiar mode of life. The old Inspector was incapable of it;

and, were he to continue in office to the end of time, would be

just as good as he was then, and sit down to dinner with just as

good an appetite.

There is one likeness, without which my gallery of Custom-House

portraits would be strangely incomplete, but which my

comparatively few opportunities for observation enable me to

sketch only in the merest outline. It is that of the Collector,

our gallant old General, who, after his brilliant military

service, subsequently to which he had ruled over a wild Western

territory, had come hither, twenty years before, to spend the

decline of his varied and honourable life.

The brave soldier had already numbered, nearly or quite, his

three-score years and ten, and was pursuing the remainder of his

earthly march, burdened with infirmities which even the martial

music of his own spirit-stirring recollections could do little

towards lightening. The step was palsied now, that had been

foremost in the charge. It was only with the assistance of a

servant, and by leaning his hand heavily on the iron balustrade,

that he could slowly and painfully ascend the Custom-House

steps, and, with a toilsome progress across the floor, attain

his customary chair beside the fireplace. There he used to sit,

gazing with a somewhat dim serenity of aspect at the figures

that came and went, amid the rustle of papers, the administering

of oaths, the discussion of business, and the casual talk of the

office; all which sounds and circumstances seemed but

indistinctly to impress his senses, and hardly to make their way

into his inner sphere of contemplation. His countenance, in this

repose, was mild and kindly. If his notice was sought, an

expression of courtesy and interest gleamed out upon his

features, proving that there was light within him, and that it

was only the outward medium of the intellectual lamp that

obstructed the rays in their passage. The closer you penetrated

to the substance of his mind, the sounder it appeared. When no

longer called upon to speak or listen--either of which

operations cost him an evident effort--his face would briefly

subside into its former not uncheerful quietude. It was not

painful to behold this look; for, though dim, it had not the

imbecility of decaying age. The framework of his nature,

originally strong and massive, was not yet crumpled into ruin.

To observe and define his character, however, under such

disadvantages, was as difficult a task as to trace out and build

up anew, in imagination, an old fortress, like Ticonderoga, from

a view of its grey and broken ruins. Here and there, perchance,

the walls may remain almost complete; but elsewhere may be only

a shapeless mound, cumbrous with its very strength, and

overgrown, through long years of peace and neglect, with grass

and alien weeds.