A papered chamber in a fine old farm-house, a mile from any other dwelling, and dipped to the eaves in foliage -  surrounded by mountains, old woods, and Indian ponds,- this, surely, is the place to write of Hawthorne. Some charm is in this northern air, for love and duty seem both impelling to the task. A man of deep adn noble nature has seized me in this seclusion. His wild, witch-voice rings throuth me; or, in softer cadences, I seem to hear it in the songs of the hill-side birds that sing in the larch trees at my window.