The Scarlet Letter

I used to watch and study this patriarchal personage with, I

think, livelier curiosity than any other form of humanity there

presented to my notice. He was, in truth, a rare phenomenon; so

perfect, in one point of view; so shallow, so delusive, so

impalpable such an absolute nonentity, in every other. My

conclusion was that he had no soul, no heart, no mind; nothing,

as I have already said, but instincts; and yet, withal, so

cunningly had the few materials of his character been put

together that there was no painful perception of deficiency,

but, on my part, an entire contentment with what I found in him.

It might be difficult--and it was so--to conceive how he should

exist hereafter, so earthly and sensuous did he seem; but surely

his existence here, admitting that it was to terminate with his

last breath, had been not unkindly given; with no higher moral

responsibilities than the beasts of the field, but with a larger

scope of enjoyment than theirs, and with all their blessed

immunity from the dreariness and duskiness of age.

One point in which he had vastly the advantage over his

four-footed brethren was his ability to recollect the good

dinners which it had made no small portion of the happiness of

his life to eat. His gourmandism was a highly agreeable trait;

and to hear him talk of roast meat was as appetizing as a pickle

or an oyster. As he possessed no higher attribute, and neither

sacrificed nor vitiated any spiritual endowment by devoting all

his energies and ingenuities to subserve the delight and profit

of his maw, it always pleased and satisfied me to hear him

expatiate on fish, poultry, and butcher's meat, and the most

eligible methods of preparing them for the table. His

reminiscences of good cheer, however ancient the date of the

actual banquet, seemed to bring the savour of pig or turkey

under one's very nostrils. There were flavours on his palate

that had lingered there not less than sixty or seventy years,

and were still apparently as fresh as that of the mutton chop

which he had just devoured for his breakfast. I have heard him

smack his lips over dinners, every guest at which, except

himself, had long been food for worms. It was marvellous to

observe how the ghosts of bygone meals were continually rising

up before him--not in anger or retribution, but as if grateful

for his former appreciation, and seeking to reduplicate an

endless series of enjoyment, at once shadowy and sensual: a

tenderloin of beef, a hind-quarter of veal, a spare-rib of

pork, a particular chicken, or a remarkably praiseworthy turkey,

which had perhaps adorned his board in the days of the elder

Adams, would be remembered; while all the subsequent experience

of our race, and all the events that brightened or darkened his

individual career, had gone over him with as little permanent

effect as the passing breeze. The chief tragic event of the old

man's life, so far as I could judge, was his mishap with a

certain goose, which lived and died some twenty or forty years

ago: a goose of most promising figure, but which, at table,

proved so inveterately tough, that the carving-knife would make

no impression on its carcase, and it could only be divided with

an axe and handsaw.