Chapter 2 Customs - Preface to "The Scarlet Letter"-1

It is a strange thing to say, that although I do not like to sit by the fireside and talk too much about my own life with friends, I have twice in my life felt the urge to write an autobiography of my experience and make it public.The first time① was three or four years ago, when I described to readers in a book that I lived in an "old house" and lived a quiet and lonely life.There is no need or excuse for doing so, and neither the magnanimous reader nor the critical author can conceive of any practical reason.This time, as before, I was out of the blue, and I was so happy to catch an audience member or two that I grabbed them again and talked about my three years in customs.Although the vaunted example of The Parish Priest is no longer to be followed, the fact seems to be that when the author puts his manuscript into the public domain, he is not talking to the many people who have put his book aside. , or people who never touched the book, but the few intimate readers who even knew him better than most of his classmates or lifelong friends.Indeed, some authors have gone further, indulged in revealing the deepest things in their hearts, and wrote out all the things that are only suitable for telling a few close friends, as if this printed book, once it is widely available in the market In order to spread, we will definitely find parts that are different from the author's own personality, and through communication, he will successfully complete the cycle of his life.Yet it is hardly decency to say all, even objectively.But since what is said is bound to be dull and the expression necessarily stiff unless there is a genuine relationship between the speaker and the listener, the speaker may be forgiven for imagining the listener as a friend, An understanding friend, of course, is not necessarily a close friend.With this sense of intimacy, the reserved side of human nature is dissolved, and we can talk freely, about the things around us, even about ourselves.Even now, though, we still have to keep our inner "I" behind a veil.In my opinion, the author can talk about his own experience to this extent, within this range, so that neither the rights of the readers nor the rights of the author are violated.

You will also see that the article "The Customs" has a certain quality, a practice often justified in literature, to explain how most of the material dealt with in the following pages is in the hands of the author, and to provide The content of the evidence statement is conclusive and reliable.In fact, this—the desire of the mind to place itself in an editorial position, and more specifically, to place itself in the editorial position of the longest story in this collection—is, for that matter, very important. It is the real reason why I adopt a personal relationship with my readers.Having achieved this main purpose, it seems permissible to add a few strokes, to sketch patterns of life not previously depicted, and characters moving in them, the author himself happens to be one of them.

About half a century ago, during the days of the Derby, my native town of Salem was a busy wharf.However, now there are only some crooked and rotten wood-covered warehouses left on the side of the pier. The bustling commercial scene in those days no longer exists. In the middle of the pier, unloading some furs ① "First time" refers to the author's preface to "Moss in the Ancient House" (1846). ②"The Parish Priest" is a fake autobiography written by an unknown author in the early eighteenth century, mocking Bishop Gilbert Burns' self-centered views and wanton propaganda in his "History of My Time" Self bragging.

① This proves that Hawthorne originally planned to print several shorter stories together in one book. ② Refers to Elias Hasket Derby (Elias Hasket Derby, 1739-1799), the great ship owner of Salem. cargo; nearby a schooner from Nova Scotia was throwing a load of firewood from its hold.On the edge of this dilapidated wharf, which is often flooded by the tide, there is a row of buildings, and behind it grows a large area of ​​weeds and weeds, which are witnesses to the barren years.Here, at the top of what I call the run-down quay, stands a tall brick building, from the windows of its front a lifeless scene is seen, and from there the whole port is looked upon.At the highest point of the roof, for three and a half hours every morning, the flag of the Republic fluttered in the breeze or drooped in the stillness; but the thirteen bars of this flag were vertical instead of parallel, which meant This is a civilian rather than a military branch of Uncle Sam.The facade of the mansion is decorated with a portico of six wooden columns supporting a balcony.At the bottom of the portico are wide marble steps leading directly to the middle of the street.Above the main entrance hangs the statue of a gigantic American Eagle, with its wings outstretched, a shield over its breast, and, if I recall correctly, a bundle of arrows and barbed arrows in each of its talons.This unfortunate bird had the character traits common to its kind, and by its large murderous beak and eyes, and its fierce and aggressive posture, it seemed to threaten to torture innocent people; all residents of the town were specially warned to be careful Be safe and don't invade the building it's under its wing.However, despite its ferocious appearance, many people at this time are still seeking refuge under the wing of this Federal eagle; I think their breast must be like a duck down pillow in their imagination. Soft and warm.But, even in his happiest moods, he has little tenderness, and sooner or later--probably sooner--he shakes off the hatchlings, claws, beaks, or barbs Arrows pierced them, leaving them scarred and unforgettable.

The building described above - we may also call it the Customs House of this port - has clumps of weeds growing in the cracks in the sidewalks around it, showing that it has ceased to be a passage crowded with merchants and trampled by people in recent years .There are, however, some months of the year, often in the morning, activities that bring it some life.This scene reminds the elderly residents of the period before the last war with the British, when Salem was an important port and was not regarded with contempt and disdain by merchants and shipowners as it is now. Its wharfs crumbled and crumbled; meanwhile their businesses rushed needlessly and unimaginably to New York and Boston, where they made a mighty wave of commerce.On such mornings sometimes three or four ships dock at the same time, usually from Africa or South America, or about to set sail for those places.At such times one could always hear footsteps running rapidly up and down the marble steps.Here, the wind-blown shipowner, you may greet him in port before his own wife greets him.The captain carried under his arm a dull tin box containing papers pertaining to the ship he sailed.Here, too, came the captain's boss, jubilant, genteel, or furious, according to the business of the cargo planned for the just-concluded voyage.Some goods will soon turn to gold, while others are buried under a pile of goods that no one cares about.And here come the germs of the wrinkled, gray-bearded, scowling merchants--young, handsome lads who should have been playing with model sailing ships in the mill cistern, but who, like blood to a wolf cub, prematurely Tasted the taste of sailing, and was sent to the boss's boat to go out to sea for adventure.Another type of figure in this scene is the sailor; he may be a sailor about to go to sea, looking for a passport, or he may be a sailor who has just landed, pale and weak, trying to find a hospital.Nor should we forget the nickname of the American government.

② Refers to the 1812 War. The captains of little rusty schooners, whose ships brought firewood from British Canada; Declining trade has contributed in no small part. Bring together these various people, as they sometimes do, and add other miscellaneous people to make the group more colorful, and they make the customs house for a while a buzzing place.However, what you will see ascending these steps is a long line of respected personalities.If it is summer, you will see them at the gate of the building; if it is winter or in bad weather, you will see them in their respective rooms.They sat in antique chairs with their front legs raised and their backs leaning against the wall.Often they were drowsy, but now and then they could be heard talking together, in a voice that was either talking or snoring, feebly, like those who live in workhouses, and everything else that lives on alms, People who live in slavery are not like those who are self-sufficient.These old gentlemen are customs clerks, who sit there collecting taxes like Matthew, but don't like to be sent by tribes for apostolic affairs like Matthew.

Besides, entering the main entrance, on the left hand side there is a tall and spacious room or office about fifteen feet square, with two arched windows looking It turned towards a narrow alley, which looked out to a short section of Derby Street.From these three windows one could see shops of all kinds--grocers' shops, carpentry workshops, tailors' shops, boat shops, and so on.Groups of old sailors can often be seen at the door of these shops, as well as those "dock rats" who often haunt the poor areas of the city, talking and laughing there.The house was full of cobwebs, the old paint made the room look dark, and the floor was covered with gray sand, which looked like it had been abandoned for a long time.From the filth and squalor of the room, it was easy to conclude that it was a criminal hideout, and women rarely entered with their magical brooms and mops.As for furniture, there was a stove with a thick chimney, a three-legged stool by a pine table, and two or three rickety chairs with wooden upholstery; Ten Codes of Congress and a voluminous collection of tax codes.A tin pipe passed through the ceiling and became a means of transmitting sound to other rooms in the building.About six months ago, dear reader, you would have recognized a man who was walking from corner to corner in a large room, or sitting back on that high stool with his elbows on the table, his eyes scanning the columns of the morning paper; and the same man welcomes you into his cozy little study on the west side of the "Ancient House," where the sun shimmers merrily through the willow branches.But now, if you're going to look for him there, you can't find out the whereabouts of the Democrat customs inspector.The broom of reform had swept him out of office, and a better-fitting successor had donned his stately uniform and pocketed his share of salary.

My hometown, Old Town Salem, has and still has a great love for it, although I didn't live there long in my childhood or adulthood.The power of this love has never been felt in all the years I have lived here.Indeed, as far as its appearance is concerned, it is flat and lacks variety. Most of the overwhelming wooden houses are mostly wooden houses, and few, or even no buildings can be called beautiful; its architecture has no rules, is neither graceful nor quaint. , but rather mediocre.Its streets were long, lazy, lying languidly across a peninsula, stretching from Gallows Hill and the Gulf of New Guinea at one end to the other with a view of the Workhouse.These are the characteristics of the small town in my hometown, ①The allusion comes from the ninth verse of the ninth chapter of the Gospel of Matthew.

Like a chaotic and confusing chessboard, it is no surprise that there is an attachment to it.Though I have lived happily elsewhere, within me I still retain, for lack of a better word, a feeling for old Salem, which I like to call love .It is likely that this sentiment was assigned to our family, and its ancient roots run deep into the land.Nearly two centuries and twenty-five years have passed since the first settlers of our family, the original Britons, appeared in this deserted colony near the edge of the forest.Now this immigrant settlement has become a city.Their descendants lived and died here, and their buried bones rotted underground and mixed with the soil.I was not born and began to walk the streets until every little part of them was reduced to dust and invisible.So part of the attachment I'm talking about is just the sympathy of dust for dust.Most of my countrymen do not know what a feeling this is; and perhaps they do not think it necessary to know it, just as frequent transplantation is good for the breed.

But this feeling also has a moral character.The figure of our earliest ancestor is endowed by family tradition with a dark and somber majesty.I recall that this image, which came to my imagination as early as my childhood and which still haunts my mind, gave rise to a deep feeling for the past which I do not think to be related to the present. It has nothing to do with the town of Salem, but seems to have a closer relationship with the ancestors who lived here.The earliest ancestors were serious, bearded, and wore large black hoods and pointed hats.He came here a long time ago, and when he came, he carried the Bible and a sharp sword, and walked the deserted streets with a solemn posture, as if he was a big man here, as if he could make wars and create wars. Peaceful character.He is more famous than I am, compared with him my name is unknown and my face is little known.He was a soldier, a councilor, a judge; he was in power in the church; he was all the Puritan traits, good and bad.He was also a brutal persecutor; the Quakers mentioned him in their histories, describing an incident in which he treated a woman of the sect harshly.I am afraid that this misdeed of his will last longer than his great deeds, though his great deeds far outweighed his bad deeds.His persecuting spirit was inherited by his sons, who were notorious for the martyrdom of witches whose blood, it is said, left him a stain.The blood seeped into his bones.If his bones in the Charter Street cemetery had not been completely reduced to dust, the stain must still be there!I don't know if these ancestors of mine regretted themselves and begged God to forgive them for their various atrocities;At any rate, I, a writer, as their representative, am deeply ashamed of them; I pray that these curses are brought upon them--as I have heard, and as the deplorable condition of man so many years ago amply exemplifies. The curse of its existence -- henceforth removed.

Doubtless neither of these two stern-faced, melancholy Puritans imagined that heaven would avenge their sins.In our family tree, on the old moss-covered trunk, after many years, on one of its top branches, an idle and unworthy offspring like myself sprung up.I have no ambitions and no achievements--if my life has been enriched by success outside the confines of my family, it does not seem to them quite enough. Refers to William Hathorne, who Emigrated from England to America in 1630.He appears as a villain in William Sewell's History of the Christian Called the Quaker.Therefore, Na Hawthorne added a "w" to his name, becoming Hawthorne, to show the difference. ① Refers to John Hathorne, judge in the 1692 Salem witchcraft case. Disgraceful and worthless. "What does he do?" whispered one of my old ancestors to the other. "A storybook writer! What kind of trade is that--neither to honor God, nor to the posterity of mankind. Humph! That depraved fellow is a charlatan!" These are me and my ancestors They attack each other across the chasm of time!However, let them despise me as much as they want!Anyway, some features of their nature have become entangled with mine, and they are indistinguishable from each other. In the early days of this town, our family has been established and respected by two serious and energetic men like this; The family disgraces; but, on the other hand, after the first two generations, few or no one has accomplished anything memorable or made a major proposal that has attracted public attention.Gradually, they disappeared from people's minds, just like the new dust of the old houses here and there in the street almost buried the eaves.For more than a hundred years, our ancestors have been sailing for generations.In every generation, when a gray-haired captain returns home from his deck career to live out his old age, his fourteen-year-old son takes his father's place on board, standing below the mast, facing the stormy waves.When the time comes, the son also changes from a sailor to a captain, spends his prime of life in the wind and rain, sails across the sea, roams in all directions, and then returns to his hometown when he is old, so that his ashes can return to the soil that gave birth to him.This long-term connection between a family and a place, a place of birth and burial, cultivates a kind of family relationship between people and places.This kind of kinship has nothing to do with whether the scenery of this place is beautiful or not, and the spiritual or moral environment around it.It is not love, but instinct.A new resident, a newcomer who has just settled here from a foreign country, or is only a second or third generation immigrant, is not worthy of being called a Salem, because he does not know that an old resident has lived here for the past three hundred years. The attachment to this land that has been rooted for generations cultivated over the years, the tenacity like an oyster attached to a sea reef.No matter how bad this place is for him, how tired he is of the dilapidated wooden houses, the mud everywhere, the dusty sky, the dull environment and feelings, the killing east wind and the more chilling social atmosphere ; all this, and all the faults and blemishes you can see and imagine otherwise, are insignificant and harmless.On the contrary, its charm is still there, and its power is so powerful, as if this native land is a paradise on earth.That's exactly what happened to me.I feel that Salem is almost destined to be my hometown, so the appearance and temperament of this old town that we have always been familiar with will always be in our minds, vividly, unchanging, exactly the same as when I was young, just like the old town in our family. One member bids farewell to the world and sleeps in the ground, while the other changes his guard to take over and patrols the streets, endlessly.However, this sentiment provides exactly one piece of evidence that the connection that has become unhealthy should finally be severed.Just as a potato will degenerate if it is continuously planted in the same poor soil, human nature will not grow and thrive if it stays still.My children were born elsewhere, and as long as their fate is under my control, they will take root in strange lands. It was this strange, inert, lingering attachment to my native town of Salem, after I moved out of the "old house," that brought me into Custom House, and took this position, when I was completely You can fly away to other places.My doom is entirely my own.More than once I've run away from home--once it seems like I've never looked back--and come back without anyone noticing, as if Salem were literally the center of the universe for me.So, one fine morning, with my presidential commission in my hand, I climbed the marble steps into the building. I have met with a large group of gentlemen who will assist me in this important task during my tenure as Chief Customs Officer. I doubt very much—or rather, I have no doubt—whether American civil servants, whether civil or military, have a group of old staff under them like I do now, and accept family management.I glanced at them and knew immediately who was the "oldest resident" here. For more than two decades before that, the tax collector's independent position had shielded the Salem customs house from the vortex of political changes that often put tenure in office at risk at the slightest sign of trouble.My predecessor, General Miller, was a celebrated hero in New England, greatly admired for his exploits in war; His colleagues can always find refuge from him in times of distress and anxiety.General Miller was extremely conservative, and worldly habits had little influence on his good nature. He trusted familiar faces, and it was difficult to move him to change, even if it would bring undoubted progress.So when I took over the department, I found it was full of old people.Most of them are old captains, who finally drifted into this quiet corner after suffering the turmoil of the sea and the vicissitudes of life in the world.There was little to disturb them here, except for the stormy seas of the regular presidential elections, so that everyone lived and worked in peace, and began a new and vigorous life.Although they were subject to life, death, sickness, and death like everyone else, they evidently had some talisman or other means of keeping death from approaching.I believe two or three of them were bedridden most of the year with gout or rheumatism, and never dreamed of going to customs; In the balmy sunshine of June or June, staggering into the customs office to perform what they call "duties", and then go to bed at leisure and convenience.I am guilty of the premature death of more than one venerable public servant of these republics.At my request, they were allowed to retire from their busy work, to rest, and soon passed away, as if the only rule of their life was to serve their country.My consolation was that, by my intervention, ample time had been left for them to repent of the corruption which every customs officer was supposed to be very likely to commit.Neither the front door nor the back door of the customs house opens to the highway to heaven. Most of my customs officers were Whigs.The new Inspector was an apolitical man, although in principle a loyal democrat, he accepted and held office without politics.This political attitude of his was also well suited to maintaining the deep brotherhood among their officials.Had it not been for the fact that a politically active man had been charged with the task of handling the task of a Whig tax collector who was too infirm to go to work, the angel of redundancies would have In less than a month, almost all the people in the Old Man Corps had to quit the office and end their working life.According to the usual rules of conduct of this sort, it is almost entirely the business of statesmen to guillotine the gray-haired fellows.Obviously, these old guys are afraid of my indecent measures against them.When I saw the horror brought to them by my arrival; I saw these old people who were as harmless as me, and saw their dusty and wrinkled faces that had been blown by storms for more than half a century. When I was grayed; found that one or the other of them trembled when they spoke to me, and for a long time in the past they were accustomed to roaring into the megaphone, so loud that the howling north wind was dumb; seeing them This look of mine made me feel as if a knife pierced my heart, and at the same time felt funny. These eminent old men, they themselves knew that by the regulations enacted--insofar as some of them were ineffective--they should give way to a younger, politically correct General James F. Miller was Hero of the War of 1812. ① The Whig Party was the predecessor of the Republican Party and the opposition of the Democratic Party. Legislative, better suited to serve the U.S. government than they are.I understand this very well, but I don't know how to do it.Thus, while I was in office, they continued to hobble on the pier and unsteadily up and down the steps, rightfully damaging my reputation and my public sensibility.In the office they leaned their chairs back against the wall and hid in their accustomed corners to sleep soundly; waking up once or twice in the morning and telling each other a thousand sea stories and hairy jokes, These things have become their passwords and answers, which is tiresome. I guess they soon found out that the new Inspector had no malice in his heart, so these good old gentlemen began to go in and out of the office with a light heart, fulfilling their duties, thankful that they were kept on--at least for Self-interest is considered, if not for the country. They don glasses and peer keenly into the holds of ships.They are shrewd about small things and make big things out of small things, but sometimes they are confused about big things and miss big things.Mistakes like this often happen-a ship of valuable goods was smuggled ashore under their unsuspecting noses in broad daylight, but they boarded the ship at this time and locked all the passages of the ship with great vigilance and dexterity. Two locks, plus seals and seals! Instead of criticizing their original negligence, we should also praise them for their carefulness and prudence after making mistakes, and thank them for their enthusiasm, agility and decisiveness after things have been irreparable! Unless someone is particularly difficult to live with, I always treat people in general with stupid kindness.I usually think of the good side of my partner's personality--if he has one--and use that to judge what kind of person he is.Because most of the old customs staff have their own advantages, and because the position I get along with them is of a parental and protective nature, which is very conducive to the cultivation of good feelings, so I quickly fell in love with them.At noon in summer, the scorching heat dissolves other emotions between human relatives, and what is conveyed to the insensitive organs is only a warm current of kindness.It was a pleasure to listen to their chat at the back door at this time.They lined up as usual, their chairs propped against the wall, talking.The wit that had been frozen over the past few decades melted away, and as the laughter frothed from their lips, it was witty.On the face of it, the joy of old people has so much in common with the joy of children that an intelligent, deep sense of humor has nothing to do with it. Both are gleams of light that shimmer on the surface, and bring light and joy to the young branches and the old decaying trunks.However, one is actual sunlight, and the other is more like bits of phosphorescence from dead wood and grass. The reader must understand that it is sad and unfair to describe all my wonderful old friends as a bunch of old people who are old and senile.First of all, my assistants are not all old people, some of them are in the prime of life, capable and energetic, and completely reject the lazy and parasitic lifestyle arranged by their inauspicious fate.Furthermore, the old man's gray locks are sometimes found to be thatch on the roof of a good smart apartment house.But as far as most of my army of old men are concerned, I do not do them wrong if I describe them as a weary bunch of old men who have accumulated nothing worth preserving from their varied life experiences, They seem to have discarded the golden wheat--practical wisdom, and though they had many chances to reap them, they hoarded the chaff with great care in memory.They talked about breakfast in the morning, or dinner yesterday, today, and tomorrow, with far more interest and relish than they talked about the shipwreck of forty or fifty years ago, or the wonders of the world they had witnessed in their youth. The founder of the Salem Customs House--the patriarch not only of this small staff, but, I dare say, of the boarding inspectors of the entire United States--was a lifelong inspector.He can really be called the legitimate son of the tax system, out-and-out, or rather the legitimate son of a well-known family.His father, a Colonel during the Revolutionary War, former tax collector of the port, created and appointed him to an office at a young age that no one alive now can remember exactly. .When I first met this Inspector, he was eighty years old, and he is really a model of youth that you rarely meet in your life.He was rosy-cheeked, strong, and smartly dressed in a blue jacket with shiny buttons.His gait is vigorous and vigorous, and he looks hale and hearty. Of course, he does not look young, but it is a new human body created by Mother Nature, and old age and infirmity have no effect on him.His voice and laugh that echoed through customs had none of the trill or cluck of old age.They burst from the lungs like a rooster's crow or the crisp sound of a horn. To see him alone as an animal--and there is nothing else to see--he is a gratifying thing to look at, for he is strong and well-proportioned in every part, and, at his age, can still Enjoy all, or nearly all, the pleasures that one desires or dreams of.His life in the customs is carefree, his salary is paid on time, and he does not need to worry about being fired all the time, which undoubtedly makes his life easy and happy.However, the fundamental and more important reason lies in his rare perfect physical fitness, just right intelligence, and mixed with negligible moral and spiritual components. The latter two qualities are just enough to prevent this old man from becoming a four-headed man foot animals.He has no powers of thought, no deep feelings, no annoying sentimentality; in short, nothing but ordinary instincts.Aided by these instincts, not by a heart, and by the cheerful disposition which inevitably arose from his sound constitution, he performed his duties with dignity and was accepted by all.He had had three wives in succession, all of whom died long ago; he was also the father of twenty children, most of whom perished at various ages in childhood or adulthood.One would have thought that so much sorrow must have over and over again clouded cheerfulness.Not so our old Inspector!A short sigh erased these unpleasant memories.After a while, he started playing like a baby with bare buttocks and no trousers on. His mood changes were far faster than the tax collector's young clerk. His nineteen-year-old son looked more mature and stable than the old man. I have been observing and studying this extraordinary patriarchal figure, who has more peculiar qualities than any other I have seen.He is indeed a prodigy.From one point of view, he is so perfect; from another point of view, he is so superficial, so illusory, so elusive, a completely worthless wimp.I concluded that he had no soul, no heart, no brain; as I said, he had nothing but instincts.The few things in his character, however, are so artfully put together that there is no painful deficiency; on the contrary, it seems to me more than enough, and more than enough, to be content with what I find in him.Perhaps—and indeed it is—it is difficult to imagine how he will live in the next life, because he seems to only value this life, indulge in sensual pleasures; of course, he lived well in this life until his last breath. , having no greater moral responsibilities than the wild beasts, yet having a greater range of enjoyment, and being spared the loneliness and melancholy of old age. One great advantage he had over his four-legged brethren was that he could recall the good food and wine he enjoyed, and eating and drinking were an important part of his life.His penchant for good food was a very pleasant trait; listening to him talk about roasts gave one the same appetite as eating pickles or oysters.As he had no higher qualities, nor sacrificed or corrupted his spiritual endowment by devoting his energies and talents to the pleasure and benefit of his stomach, I felt as if to hear him talk at length about chicken, duck, and fish, and how to put them to good use. It is indeed a pleasure to make delicious dishes one after another, and it makes me feel satisfied.When he talks about a good dish, whether it was at a dinner party long ago, he seems to bring the smell of pork or turkey right under your nose.六七十年前他尝过的好滋味似乎还留在他的舌尖嘴唇上，就像他早饭刚吃下的那块羊排一样回味无穷。我就听他咂着嘴大谈他参加过的大大小小的宴会，参加这些宴会的客人除了他自己以外都已成了一堆尸骨了。令人难以置信的是，看到这些成了僵尸鬼的昔日食客如何一个个在他面前站立起来，表情不愠不怒，也无意报复，反而仿佛非常感谢他以前的品尝力，并竭力拒绝形形色色的既虚无飘渺又刺激感官的享受。那些曾经在老亚当斯总统①执政时期摆设在餐桌上的菜肴：鲜嫩的牛排、小菜牛的后腿肉、猪的小排骨、味道奇特的鸡肉、美味可口的火鸡等都记忆犹新，永志不忘，而人类的其他经历，带给他个人生命欢乐或痛苦的一切事件都对他没有产生任何持久的影响，像一阵风一拂而过。 老人生活中主要的一件带有悲剧色彩的事件，据我判断，是一只大鹅遭到的不幸。这只鹅生活在二十多年，或许四十多年前，不幸身亡。这只鹅外型特佳，但摆上桌子却证明肉质老不可耐，连锋利的餐刀割上去都不留一丝痕迹，只能用叉子锯子把它肢解开来。 到此，该结束这篇随笔了；不过，我倒乐意再多花费一点笔墨，因为这个人在我认识的所有人中是最适合担任海关官员的人。绝大多数人，由于篇幅有限不便详述的种种原因，往往经受不住这种特殊的生活方式而在道德上受到损伤。这位老稽查官却安之若素，克尽厥职，始终不变，一切如旧，坐下来吃饭胃口也跟原来一样好。 有一个人与他十分相似，如果我对他不写上几笔的话，那么海关的众生相就残缺不全，叫人感到奇怪了。不过，由于我对他的观察的机会相对要少一些，因此我只能对他勾勒一个大致的轮廓。这人便是税收官，我们骁勇的老将军。他在结束了辉煌的戎马生涯之后，曾在西部的一个荒芜的地区担任过统治者①，二十年前来到这里，度过他丰富多采和显赫光荣一生的晚年。这位英勇的军人已经活了，或者差不多快活了七十个年头了，正在继续他人生征途的最后一段。年迈体弱的重负压得他喘不过气来，即令振奋人心的军乐声也难以使他的心情轻松一些。他过去身先士卒，冲锋在前，而现在他步履维艰，颤颤颠颠，在仆人的帮助下，手扶着铁栏杆才能慢慢地痛苦地走上海关大楼的石级，艰辛地走过楼面，到达在炉边的那只他坐惯的椅子上。他常常坐在那里，带着昏沉安详的表情凝视着进进出出的人影；静坐在翻纸张的沙沙声、人们的发誓声、讨论公务声，以及工作人员的随意交谈声中；所有这些声音以及周遭的情况似乎对他的感官无多大影响，几乎没有进入他思绪的内层。在这种宁静状态下，他的面容温存慈祥，假如他的注意力集中到了一件什么东西上，他的脸上就会显现出彬彬有礼、饶有兴趣的样子。这证明他身上还存在着光亮，只是这盏智慧之灯的外罩使光线不能射出。你越是深入他的内心世界，你越发感到他的心智还是十分健全的。对他来说，说话或听话都非常吃力，因此不要求他讲话或听人讲话时，他脸上会短暂地露出原先愉悦安详的表情。看到他的这副表情，我们的心情也好受多了，因为虽然看上去还是很阴沉，但没有那种垂垂老者的痴呆之气。 他原先强健魁梧的身躯看来还没有压垮，化为粪土。 ①指美国第二届总统约翰·亚当斯的执政期（一七九七--一八○一年）。其子约翰·昆西·亚当斯为美国第六届总统。 ①米勒于一八一九--一八二五年任阿肯色地区总督。 可是，在如此不利的条件下，要观察和描述他这样一个人物是一件非常艰难的任务，好比看到一堆灰蒙蒙的废墟便要在想象中重建起一座像提康德罗格一样的古堡。或许，这里或那里有些墙垣还几乎完好无损，但在另外的地方可能只是一个不成样子的土墩子，笨重得动弹不得，又长期无人照管理睬，上面野草杂草丛生。 然而，当我怀着深情瞧着这位老战士时，我可以看到他整个形象中的主要之点，尽管我与他之间交往并不密切，但是我对他的感情，像所有熟悉他的两足或四足动物对他的感情一样，用"深情"一词也许是很恰当的。他的形象以高尚和英勇品质而引人注目。这些品质表明他不是靠一个偶然的事件赢得显赫的名声，而是名正言顺，受之无愧的。我认为他的精神决不是一时的心血来潮；这种精神要求他在生命的任何时候都有一个永恒的动力，一旦受到鼓动，要求去克服障碍，达到某个目标。 这种精神不会在他身上使尽或消失，原先遍布他全身，至今尚未完全泯灭的热量决不是那种闪烁几下就熄灭的幽光，相反，它是一种深沉的红光，就像在熔炉里铁水发出的光。沉重、凝聚、坚实；这就是他安详的表情，尽管在我说这话的时候，老朽不合时宜地潜入了他的肌体。但是，即令在那个时候我仍可以想象，只要有某种深入到他意识里的东西激励了他--一声响亮的号角把他搅醒，唤起他沉睡的，但还没有死去的力量--他还能够像丢弃号服一样把年迈体弱摒弃一边，放下拐杖，拿起战刀，再次像一个战士一样一跃而起。即令在如此紧张的时刻，他的神态依然十分平静沉着。不过，这种表现只是一种假想而已，并不是一种预见，也不是一种愿望。我在他身上看到的是顽固、笨拙和忍耐，这些特点就如我前面已经用过的那个最恰当不过的比喻--提康德罗格古堡周围牢不可摧的土墙。他的这些特点在他年轻时倒可用"犟"一词来概括。至于刚正不阿，跟他其他的禀性一样，沉甸甸的一大块，像一吨既不可锻造又难以对付的铁矿石；再说到慈善仁爱，虽然他在奇贝瓦和伊利堡两个战役①中带领部队展开了凶狠的白刃战，我还是把慈爱看成是他性格中的真正特性，正是这个品质鞭策了那个时代所有能说会道的慈善家。亦未可知，他还亲手杀过人--当然，在他所向披靡的冲刺面前，他们就像在大镰刀挥舞下的草叶纷纷倒下--尽管事实可能如此，但他内心决不是冷酷无情的，他甚至不忍心扯下一只蝴蝶的翅膀。我还没有遇到过另外一个人，我能够这般自信地向他内在的赤诚之心呼吁。 许多特点，包括那些与文章中描述的非常相似的特点，在我遇到老将军之前很可能已消失了，或已黯然失色了。一切仅以优美取胜的东西往往转瞬即逝；大自然也没有用艳丽的鲜花来装点人类的废墟，因为它们只能在瓦砾的夹缝和裂隙中扎根和吸取适当的养料，所以她给提康德罗格古堡的断垣残壁播的是桂竹香这种花的种子。不过，在优雅与爱美方面还是有几点值得注意。不时闪现的幽默之火光会穿过阴沉面纱的阻隔，在我们的脸上亮起欢乐的光彩。那种在过了童年或少年男子身上很少看到的天真烂漫却在将军喜欢观花赏花上表现出来。一个士兵常常被认为只喜欢戴上血红的桂冠，但是这里有一个士兵，他似乎有着一种少女对琪花瑶草沉浸醇郁之心。 ①一八一四年在尼亚加拉战线上的决定性战役。 英勇的老将军通常坐在火炉边上，而稽查官则喜欢远远地站在一旁，观察着他平静的、几乎昏昏欲睡的面庞。稽查官很少与他交谈，能避开就避开，因为跟他谈话实是一件艰巨的任务。虽然我们抬头就能见到他，相距仅几码，却觉得他不跟我们在一起；虽然我们就在他身边经过，却觉得他在千里之外；虽然我们伸手就可以碰到他的手，却觉得远不可及。也许他在他自己的冥思苦想中，比在这个与他格格不入的税收官办公室里，过着一种更真实的生活。阅兵队列的演变、战斗的厮杀声、三十年前听到的那阵阵古老雄壮的乐曲，这样一些情景和声音也许都仍活在他的心际耳边。与此同时，商人、船长、衣冠楚楚的职员和举止粗鲁的水手，虽然他们进进出出，熙熙攘攘，可这种弥漫着商业气氛的海关生活的喧闹声，他却充耳不闻；这位老将军似乎对这里的人和事都漠然置之。他就像一把放错了位置的老战刀。这把曾经在战场上闪闪发光，而今锈迹斑斑的老战刀，尽管它的刀刃依然闪着一道寒光，却被放在副税收官办公桌上，与墨水台、文件夹、桃木戒尺混在一起。 有一样东西大大帮助我重新塑造了这位尼亚加拉边疆上的不屈不挠的战士--一个真诚、朴实与强有力的人物。那就是我回忆起他讲过的一句刻骨铭心的话："长官，让我来干！"这话是在一场战斗处于生死存亡的危险关头说的，道出了新英格兰人英勇无畏，不怕一切艰难困苦的精神。如果在我们国家英勇行为也授予纹章的荣誉的话，那么这句话是可以作为刻在将军盾牌上最佳和最合适的格言了。这句话看起来很容易说，但是只有他，在面临这样一个危险而光荣的任务时，说了出来。