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was published in 1849 with disappointing
results. It was badly received by critics and
didn’t sell well.
Nevertheless, Melville was convinced
he could make his living through writing.
He wrote various reviews and other pieces
of journalism; and he decided to produce
two more books which would cater for
the prevailing tastes. Redburn (1849) and
White Jacket (1850). They would contain,
he assured his publishers, ‘no metaphysics,
nothing but cakes and ale’. Instead, there
was the usual fare of life on the high seas.
He compared his writing work here to
‘sawing wood’, regarding Redburn, for
example, as ‘tolerable entertainment’. He
added: ‘My only desire for their “success”
(as it is called) springs from my pocket
and not from my heart. It is my earnest
desire to write those sort of books which
are said to fail’.
This note presaged his next three
novels, starting with Moby-Dick. By this
time two factors had made considerable
impressions on his life. Now a father
– his son Malcolm was born in 1849
– he decided to move to a home in the
country which, he hoped, would be
more conducive to writing. He found a
farm with a view of Mount Greylock, the
highest point in Massachusetts, and it was
to be his home for the next thirteen years.
He called it Arrowhead, after some Native
American relics he found there. He tried
to maintain a life of strict discipline, rising
early and settling down to a morning of
writing before fulfilling other duties. His
mother and three sisters came to live at
Arrowhead and helped with proofreading
and other work, but Melville soon found
himself under financial pressure. It was
not turning out to be the quiet refuge
he had hoped: his only retreat was his
second-floor library. Arrowhead, built in
1780, is now a Melville museum.
Nevertheless, he was part of literary
circles, having met the poet Oliver
Wendell Holmes and the writer Nathaniel
Hawthorne. They met on an outing
in 1850 – the year of publication of
Hawthorne’s The Scarlet Letter; and
Melville and Hawthorne particularly struck
up a close friendship. Hawthorne was
46, Melville 31, but the older man had
favourably reviewed Typee, and so knew
of the younger man’s work; in return,