Back to the Essay MenuBack to the Essay MenuContained in the same cover, and directly before The Scarlet Letter, lies a piece called The Custom House, in which the author, Nathaniel Hawthorne appears to be giving the reader a quick background on himself, the area, and the stage-setting for the larger story. But are his intentions really that innocent, and is The Custom House a short story, a preface even, with no other value? In his preface, he states that the reaction to his book, "could hardly have been more violent, indeed, had he burned down the Custom House, and quenched its last smoking ember in the blood of a certain venerable personage…." (1) This statement, in itself, makes one wonder what the power of the Custom House actually is, and why it is so valuable to the community. It is my belief that the Custom House (heretofore referred to as CH) is something more than a building, but a physical manifestation of the judgment and rejection that so palpably pervades this and all of the Puritan community. Literally, the CH is a semi-permeable membrane, allowing certain things and people to enter the community, with levels of denial—confiscation, exclusion, jailing, etc. Symbolically, however, the CH is only the first and most visible border guard; this exclusionary gesture recurs at every level in the community, to screen and reject people, ideas, and anything else extraordinary. Therefore, the CH, its surroundings, its adornments, and its employees all metaphorically represent some aspect of the community and its participation in this gesture of rejection throughout the journey of life in a Puritan community.
Starting at the outside of the circle of this community is the whole
town of Salem, a place infamous for its persecution of "witches"
and a determination to take pride in past wrongs, rather than to repent
of them. Hawthorne claims this as his native town, even though he has lived
"much away from it"—he cannot escape its influences regardless
of his length of absence; it possesses him. From its layout, one can deduce
that there is nothing remarkable to set it apart from other American towns,
"flat, unvaried surface…its irregularity…only tame…its
long and lazy street, lounging wearisomely through the whole extent of the
peninsula, with Gallows Hill and new Guinea at one end, and a view of the
alms-house at the other." The street ties all of these pieces on this
"disarranged checker board" together, charity on one end and death
on the other—two extremes, but both, very much contained in one town
and in the Puritan mindset. The CH, in the middle of the street, becomes
a basic mechanism to form the community, like the jail, the graveyard, and
the gallows, in this gesture of tying together.
Even the dirt itself is polluted and possessed with the spirits of the original fathers, or as Hawthorne calls them, "the elder Adams." The "descendants have been born and died, and have mingled their earthy substance with the soil." He describes his family and current fellow citizens as products of planting by former generations, therefore leaving them with a "sympathy of dust for dust." It breeds the same people, the same conditions, as each generation may even leave for a time, but respectively returns to be buried in the ground. He then says this "creates a kindred between the human being and the locality…. It is not love but instinct." This warped Utopia casts its spell over its natives, and what was once a wild settlement on the edge of nature, is now a full-fledged city. Regardless of the joyless, cold atmosphere of the city, its citizens hold on with "oysterlike tenacity," shutting out others and protecting themselves from change. Because of the tie between the land and its citizens, the old Salem is very much alive, only the players have changed; as soon as one dies, another one assumes "his sentry-march along the main-street."
The wharf, which was once a bustling port of its own, is "now burdened with decayed wooden warehouses," much like the old jail in The Scarlet Letter. This symbolizes the old ways which continue to live on and transplant and impose themselves over the new ways. It has a border of "unthrifty" grass, again like the weeds outside of the jail, where the ground is corrupt enough to foster such a plant. Wandering on the wharf, heading towards the CH, are merchants, owners, sailors, and schooner captains. The "wrinkle-browed, grizzly-bearded, care-worn merchant" represents those in the thick of the civilization, weighed down by worries and austerity. The owner, who will learn whether his goods will make or break him, represents those with new ideas or ways of living. The sailors and captains represent various citizens, seeking comfort in the town and keeping its livelihood going.
Outside of the CH flies a flag, indicating a "civil, and not a military post of Uncle Sam’s government, is here established," signifying that while they are different entities, they are all outgrowths of the same thing, all children of the same parent: They are enforcement. And over the entrance hangs a large bald eagle, "with outspread wings, a shield before her breast, and…a bunch of intermingled thunderbolts and barbed arrows in each claw." It is in this embodiment of the Calvinist God that we see the symbol of the community: Its double nature pervades the sculpture. The wings could be welcoming or poised in attack; the shield could protect those that are in or keep out undesirables; its arrows and bolts are like the wrath of God, or even Vulcan, and are just as much protection as they are emblems of death. It is simultaneously nurturing and warlike, threatening the community, and especially the citizens—not outsiders, but citizens—so that they will not interfere with her workings. Her "no great tenderness" resembles the women which demanded a death sentence for Hester, as she is just as apt to shelter her young as she is to bloodily throw them out of the nest. They, like the eagle, are the enforcers of the community.
The CH building is itself its own story. Grass grows in the sidewalks leading up to it, meaning that there have been no great judgments there recently, but there are certain times of the year when this is not the case. These times remind the citizens of how it used to be, when all the business was not going to New York or Boston. But perhaps the mechanism this building represents has fulfilled its main destiny, purging all irregularities, and now only the large cities with new people need such a gesture. Yet, the building and its function remains. It has three arched windows, like a church, which look out onto the community and monitor the citizens. The bottom floor is dirty, with cobwebs, again like the old jail, and contains various pieces of furniture, each signifying something crucial: a stove with a large funnel, going back to the idea of Vulcan, who stokes a heavenly fire and makes weapons of godly wrath, and perhaps even provides the fire for the Melting Pot; an old pine desk, which, if used, could symbolize judgment in that final papers would be signed upon it, or, like the author’s desk, if unused, the neglect of imagination and learning; a three-legged stool and two or three chairs, all resembling the trinity and ultimate judgment and authority, although all are corrupt, because the wood is decaying; and various books of law. A second floor remains unfinished, appearing "still to await the labor of the carpenter and mason," meaning that there is still room to build and expand, should the need arise. Here the histories and documents of the old families are collected in barrels, and here is where the author discovers the scarlet letter—the anomaly is a part of the community, too. But the package, like the truth, is wrapped in red tape. No small coincidence, that red tape stands for bureaucratic cover up.
Perhaps the most important and symbolic pieces of this puzzle, however, are the workers inside the CH. Hawthorne states that the young clerk is the "germ" of the merchant—the beginning of the next generation of the same—and gets "a taste of traffic as a wolf-cub does of blood." The actions of this CH are predatory, and the young ones, like the clerk, are inducted little by little, so that they are not repulsed, but rather drawn in and look for it. The workers, otherwise, are elderly men, who sit with a "lack of energy that distinguishes the occupants of alms-houses, and all other human beings who depend on subsistence for charity, on monopolized labor, or anything else but their own exertions." These men represent the old ways, depending on the CH to survive. He compares the old men to Matthew, but says they are not likely to be called away for "apostolic errands." It may be then, that these men believe they are fulfilling their Christian function in this action of judgment they carry out. But are they actually denying their calling? This seems to go against the work ethic, and say, perhaps, that these are not chosen men—they have created their own calling in the process of enforcing the first one. They are "tide-waiters," waiting for the next tide of action to wash a subject of scrutiny their way, instead of apostles, going out to minister.
Hawthorne cautions that no one in a long-standing CH position can be honorable, because of "the very nature of his business, which…is of such a sort that he does not share in the united effort of mankind." This is not for the good of the world, or even, perhaps of the community, but for the good of himself. They create security for themselves in the community by being the enforcers. These workers take "Uncle Sam’s gold," support from a common relative which has his own interests at heart; the deal is likened to selling their soul to the devil—not exactly carrying out God’s business. It is understood that all CH officers will be corrupt, and that "neither the front nor the back entrance of the CH opens the road to Paradise." Rather ironic, considering that the majority of the community members believe that this is the only way to Paradise, whether it be symbolically into heaven or literally into the town.
Working there, Hawthorne believes, is unnatural. It is a place that houses living relics of old: The majority of the men are retired merchants, keepers of the old ways, and remain even though they know they should have made room for the new long ago. But all would serve their "common Uncle," and though new ways might come, the old ways would always pervade. The men are lazy, like the street connecting all things in the city, and miss rather obvious things until the danger is already past, then making a huge example of what they do catch—like Hester Prynne, or Anne Hutchinson. Those thrust out of the machine either ruin themselves or die quickly, because this is their life. But those that stay rely on old jokes and stories that now function as passwords, like parables or morals. As they laugh, the old ways come bubbling back up; the light on them is not pure, but instead is like "the phosphorescent glow of decaying wood." And, they have rejected all "practical wisdom."
Hawthorne, the Surveyor, is the first player focused on. He says that he is "locofoco," which has two meanings: on the surface, it may mean simply "Democrat;" however, on a different level, it also means a match ignitable on a hard surface. It is against the hardness of the community that he strikes his match, lighting the fires of his imagination, and illuminating this indictment of its workings. After discovering the scarlet letter in the attic, he meets the ghost of the "ancient Surveyor," who wears a wig that existed even after burial—his role continues after death, passed on to Hawthorne as the "local antiquarian." In the eyes of his co-workers, he was at first a threat, as is any newcomer. They probably believed that he would demand change, which would, in effect, spell the end of their lives. But he takes on a "paternal and protective" attitude, nurturing and continuing the old ways that he so scorns.
There are two major figures in the office, both soldiers: the Collector and the Inspector. The Collector has maintained his position for many years, secure, and offering security for others, like the eagle on the door. He is wrapped in an "inner sphere of contemplation" like the spheres of the community, and a light resides inside of him, obstructed only by an "intellectual lamp"—without reason, there still exists a fire. He, too, was once strong, and is marked by solidity; but his nature is crumbling, like "gray and broken ruins…through long years of peace and neglect, with grass and alien weeds," like the prison and its surrounding land in TSL. He is heroic, needing some prodding to get into action, but burning with a "deep, red glow as of iron in a furnace." And like Vulcan, "yet capable of flinging off his infirmities like a sick man’s gown, dropping the staff of age to seize a battle sword," and killing men as with a scythe, like the Grim reaper. He is as rigid as iron and uses iron as a steady on the way up the stairs, denying all change despite the improvements it may allow. Strangely, though, he loves flowers, perhaps to make up for his own loss of grace early on; the Puritans, too, resided on farms and nurtured plants, after they had lost their early grace. As solid as he his, however, he is "remote, though we passed close beside his chair; unattainable, though we might have stretched forth our hands and touched his own." He is a living phantom of the past, and the modern incarnation of the hardness and militancy of the community.
The Inspector is the "father of the Custom House…a kind of new contrivance of Mother Nature in the shape of man, whom age and infirmity had no business to touch." He is a new type of nature, fostered by the perverse soils of the land, timeless and barely human—only a few instincts, like those given by the land. He, as a representation of the community, has "no power of thought, no depth of feeling, no troublesome sensibilities,… and the very trifling admixture of moral and spiritual ingredients." All of his wives and children have already returned to the dust of the land to breed more just like him. Hawthorne describes him as "so perfect, in one point of view; so shallow, so delusive, so impalpable, such an absolute nonentity, in every other…no soul, no heart, no mind." He is the ultimate phantom of the land and the Puritan Self. His main past time is eating, in which he devotes all of his energies to satisfying his "maw," and is haunted by "the ghosts of bygone meals," as he—as another symbol of the community—hungers for judgments, choosing victims, preparing them, and devouring his own kind. One former meal even had to be cut with an ax and a hacksaw. Nothing has changed him since the beginning.
Another unidentified man is that which, in Hawthorne’s perception, is the embodiment of the CH, or at least that which keeps it going. Brought up in the CH, he sees "through all the perplexities," and comprehends this system absolutely. He is a magnet for everyone else’s difficulties, and handles their ignorance with "easy condescension and kind forbearance" even though it must seem "little short of a crime" to him. This man is the citizen that has been brought up in the intimate workings of the community, and understands all of the complexities. It is second nature to him, and does not appear to be lacking in any way in his eyes. Despite its perversity, the system is "naturally well balanced" in his hands, although not all of the natives understand it like him. Because of his confidence, they follow him, confessing their stupidity, an action which perpetuates the system all over again.
Phantoms also have their part in the CH, perfect for a building that contains "the corpse of dead activity." Besides the benevolent phantom Surveyor, there are Hawthorne’s ancestors which want him to carry on their legacy. The first of his family is the epitome of the Puritan, and all of its conflicts and hypocrisies, carrying "his Bible and his sword…. He was a soldier, legislator, judge; he was a ruler in the Church; he had all the Puritanic traits, both good and evil. He was likewise a bitter persecutor…." His son inherits this, staining him with the blood of the "witches" he persecutes forever, even to his bones—the stain is biological, like the mark on Cain. These phantoms are like the pictures hanging in the governor’s house in TSL, enforcing the old ways beyond the grave. The town itself is a phantom, too, which "loom[s] upon [him] through the haze of memory, a mist brooding over and around it; as if it were no portion of the real earth, but an overgrown village of cloud-land." It is Utopia as it was never meant to be.
But phantoms of creativity and imagination cannot be conjured here—Hawthorne must escape the CH in order to connect with nature and his "intellectual forge" again. His characters are iron, too, like the men in the CH, like the community, with a "cold spirituality," until he can warm them in the light of his fireplace, where they turn from "snow images into men and women." It is much like Hester in the woods, when she removes her letter A and takes down her hair. Nevertheless, now he steps back into his own circle, where his name is stamped on his own creations, and is no longer the herald of official town business and the perpetuator of old ways. He speaks of a resurrection, and says that he is now in the "realm of quiet," far away from the CH. Or is it?
Before he was replaced, he laments that his position was "one of the most singularly irksome and… disagreeable that a wretched mortal can possibly occupy." Here, the competition within the community seeks to pry him out of office, with "bloodthirstiness… in the hour of triumph." Here, the true nature of the community manifests, as it seeks to remove even one of its inner circle for one more desirable. The election is likened to a guillotining. Hawthorne then speaks the one sentence which embodies the community, "There are few uglier traits of human nature than this tendency… to grow cruel, merely because they possessed the power of inflicting harm." The Puritans, given sudden power and freedom, grew cruel, because they could now afford to be intolerant, and this cruelty extends to all areas of community life.
Thus, the CH, its surroundings and occupants, display the facets of the Puritan community and its propensity towards rejection and punishment. While Hawthorne attempts to break the cycle of Salem by returning to writing and having children elsewhere, he himself cannot escape—"as if Salem were for me the inevitable centre of the universe." But is there an escape at all? His blood lives on in his children, and their dust is mixed with the ground of other American communities, so that the center of our lives is Salem as well. At the beginning of TCH, Hawthorne notes that he tries to stand in some kind of truth with his audience, so that we can "prate of the circumstances that lie around us, …but still keep the inmost Me behind its veil." In this case, however, it is the circumstances around us that reveal the inmost Me of not only Hawthorne, but every native American, especially those with old families, because the Me in this story, is the Me of all of us. Aren’t we all natives of Salem? It is we who are the unidentified CH officer, the one born and bred into the machinery; we understand its ways and consequences, and pity those who do not; we are the main spring that keeps its wheels in motion. And when we either leave or are ejected from the Custom House, we return to our native place to plant our dust so that the next generation can rise out of our ashes.