write, luminous with the sunshine of more than fifty years ago. Both
were equipped for business rather than for beauty; furniture and
garments were simple in those Salem days. A homely old paper covered
the walls, a brownish old carpet the floor. There was an old
rocking-chair, its black paint much worn and defaced; another chair
was drawn up to the table, which stood to the left of the eastern
window; and on the table was a mahogany desk, concerning which I must
enter into some particulars. It was then, and for years afterwards,
an object of my most earnest scrutiny. Such desks are not made
nowadays.

When closed, it was an oblong mahogany box, two feet long by half that
width, and perhaps nine inches high. It had brass corners, and a brass
plate on the top, inscribed with the name, "N. Hawthorne." At one end
was a drawer, with a brass handle playing on a hinge and fitting into
a groove or socket when down; there was a corresponding handle at the
other end, but that was for symmetry only; the one drawer went clear
through the desk. I often mused over the ethics of this deception.

Being opened, the desk presented a sloping surface two feet square,
covered with black velvet, which had been cut here and there and
pasted down again, and was stiffened with many ink-spatterings. This
writing surface consisted of two lids, hinged at their junction in the
centre; lifting them, you discovered two receptacles to hold
writing-paper and other desk furniture. They were of about equal
capacity; for although the upper half of the desk was the more
capacious, you must not forget that two inches of it, at the bottom,
was taken up by the long drawer already mentioned.

But there was, also, a more interesting curtailment of this interior