the servant of the people, feels himself less than the least, and below the lowest of his masters.  With his own ghostly hand, the obscurely seen, but majestic, figure had imparted to me the scarlet symbol and the little roll of explanatory manuscript.  With his own ghostly voice he had exhorted me, on the sacred consideration of my filial duty and reverence towards him—­who might reasonably regard himself as my official ancestor—­to bring his mouldy and moth-eaten lucubrations before the public.  “Do this,” said the ghost of Mr. Surveyor Pue, emphatically nodding the head that looked so imposing within its memorable wig; “do this, and the profit shall be all your own.  You will shortly need it; for it is not in your days as it was in mine, when a man’s office was a life-lease, and oftentimes an heirloom.  But I charge you, in this matter of old Mistress Prynne, give to your predecessor’s memory the credit which will be rightfully due” And I said to the ghost of Mr. Surveyor Pue—­“I will”.

On Hester Prynne’s story, therefore, I bestowed much thought.  It was the subject of my meditations for many an hour, while pacing to and fro across my room, or traversing, with a hundredfold repetition, the long extent from the front door of the Custom-House to the side entrance, and back again.  Great were the weariness and annoyance of the old Inspector and the Weighers and Gaugers, whose slumbers were disturbed by the unmercifully lengthened tramp of my passing and returning footsteps.  Remembering their own former habits, they used to say that the Surveyor was walking the quarter-deck.  They probably fancied that my sole object—­and, indeed, the sole object for which a sane man could ever put himself into voluntary motion—­was to get an appetite for dinner.  And, to say the truth, an appetite, sharpened by the east wind that generally blew along the passage, was the only valuable result of so much indefatigable exercise.  So little adapted is the atmosphere of a Custom-house to the delicate harvest of fancy and sensibility, that, had I remained there through ten Presidencies yet to come, I doubt whether the tale of “The Scarlet Letter” would ever have been brought before the public eye.  My imagination was a tarnished mirror.  It would not reflect, or only with miserable dimness, the figures with which I did my best to people it.  The characters of the narrative would not be warmed and rendered malleable by any heat that I could kindle at my intellectual forge.  They would take neither the glow of passion nor the tenderness of sentiment, but retained all the rigidity of dead corpses, and stared me in the face with a fixed and ghastly grin of contemptuous defiance.  “What have you to do with us?” that expression seemed to say.  “The little power you might have once possessed over the tribe of unrealities is gone!  You have bartered it for a pittance of the public gold.  Go then, and earn your wages!” In short, the almost torpid creatures of my own fancy twitted me with imbecility, and not without fair occasion.