It is a little remarkable that—though disinclined to talk over much of myself and my affairs at an fireplace, and to my personal friends—an autobiographical impulse should twice in my life have taken possession of me, in dressing public. 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. 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 year's experience in a Custom House.
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