Explore "Hawthorne and his Mosses" by Herman Melville on Textopian. Read with annotations and highlights.
BY A VIRGINIAN SPENDING JULY IN VERMONT
A papered chamber in a fine old farmhouse, a mile from any other dwelling, and dipped to the eaves in foliage -- surrounded by mountains, old woods, and Indian pools, -- 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 a deep and noble nature has seized me in this seclusion. His wild, witch-voice rings through me; or, in softer cadences, I seem to hear it in the songs of the hillside birds that sing in the larch trees at my window.