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and the adjacent hills. Here Melville remained for thirteen
years, occupied with his writing, and managing his farm. An article in
Putnam's Monthly entitled 'I and My Chimney,' another called 'October
Mountain,' and the introduction to the 'Piazza Tales,' present faithful
pictures of Arrow Head and its surroundings. In a letter to Nathaniel
Hawthorne, given in 'Nathaniel Hawthorne and His Wife,' his daily life
is set forth. The letter is dated June 1, 1851.
'Since you have been here I have been building some shanties of houses
(connected with the old one), and likewise some shanties of chapters
and essays. I have been ploughing and sowing and raising and printing
and praying, and now begin to come out upon a less bristling time, and
to enjoy the calm prospect of things from a fair piazza at the north of
the old farmhouse here. Not entirely yet, though, am I without
something to be urgent with. The 'Whale' is only half through the press;
for, wearied with the long delays of the printers, and disgusted with the
heat and dust of the Babylonish brick-kiln of New York, I came back to
the country to feel the grass, and end the book reclining on it, if I may.'
Mr. Hawthorne, who was then living in the red cottage at Lenox, had a
week at Arrow Head with his daughter Una the previous spring. It is
recorded that the friends 'spent most of the time in the barn, bathing in
the early spring sunshine, which streamed through the open doors, and
talking philosophy.' According to Mr. J. E. A. Smith's volume on the
Berkshire Hills, these gentlemen, both reserved in nature, though near
neighbours and often in the same company, were inclined to be shy of
each other, partly, perhaps, through the knowledge that Melville had
written a very appreciative review of 'Mosses from an Old Manse' for
the New York Literary World, edited by their mutual friends, the
Duyckincks. 'But one day,' writes Mr. Smith, 'it chanced that when they
were out on a picnic excursion, the two were compelled by a
thundershower to take shelter in a narrow recess of the rocks of
Monument Mountain. Two hours of this enforced intercourse settled
the matter. They learned so much of each other's character, . . . that the

most intimate friendship for the future was inevitable.' A passage in
Hawthorne's 'Wonder Book' is noteworthy as describing the number of
literary neighbours in Berkshire:--
'For my part, I wish I had Pegasus here at this moment,' said the student.
'I would mount him forthwith, and gallop about the country within a
circumference of a few miles, making literary calls on my brother
authors. Dr. Dewey would be within ray reach, at the foot of the
Taconic. In Stockbridge, yonder, is Mr. James [G. P. R. James],
conspicuous to all the world on his mountain-pile of history and
romance. Longfellow, I believe, is not yet at the Oxbow, else the
winged horse would neigh at him. But here in Lenox I should find our
most truthful novelist [Miss Sedgwick], who has made the scenery and
life of Berkshire all her own. On the hither side of Pittsfield sits
Herman Melville, shaping out the gigantic conception of his 'White
Whale,' while the gigantic shadow of Greylock looms upon him from
his study window. Another bound of my flying steed would bring me to
the door of Holmes, whom I mention last, because Pegasus would
certainly unseat me the next minute, and claim the poet as his rider.'
While at Pittsfield, Mr. Melville was induced to enter the lecture field.
From 1857 to 1860 he filled many engagements in the lyceums, chiefly
speaking of his adventures in the South Seas. He lectured in cities as
widely apart as Montreal, Chicago, Baltimore, and San Francisco,
sailing to the last-named place in 1860, by way of Cape Horn, on the
Meteor, commanded, by his younger brother, Captain Thomas Melville,
afterward governor of the 'Sailor's Snug Harbor' at Staten Island, N.Y.
Besides his voyage to San Francisco, he had, in 1849 and 1856, visited
England, the Continent, and the Holy Land, partly to superintend the
publication of English editions of his works, and partly for recreation.
A pronounced feature of Melville's character was his unwillingness to
speak of himself, his adventures, or his writings in conversation. He
was, however, able to overcome this reluctance on the lecture platform.
Our author's tendency to philosophical discussion is strikingly set forth
in a letter from Dr. Titus Munson Coan to the latter's mother, written
while a student at Williams College over thirty years ago, and

fortunately preserved by her. Dr. Coan enjoyed the friendship and
confidence of Mr. Melville during most of his residence in New York.
The letter reads:--
'I have made my