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.

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. To this extent, and within these limits, an author, methinks, may be autobiographical, without violating either the reader's rights or his own. 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. It is scarcely decorous, however, to speak all, even where we speak impersonally. 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.

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. P., Clerk of this Parish, was never more faithfully followed. 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 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. 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 scarlet letter a romance