Herman Melville, Mariner and Mystic
arrived here last evening after a pleasant ride from Franklin, the
present terminus of the Northern Rail Road. The scenery was in many
places very fine, & we caught some glimpses of the mountain region
to which we are going. Center Harbor where we now are is a very
attractive place for a tourist, having the lake for boating and
trouting, and plenty of rides in the vicinity, besides Red-Hill, the
view from which is said to be equal to anything of the kind in New
England. A rainy day, however, has thus far prevented us from taking
our excursion, to enjoy the country.--To-morrow, I think we shall
leave for Conway and thence to Mt. Washington & so to Canada. I trust
in the course of some two weeks to bring Lizzie to Lansingburgh,
quite refreshed and invigourated from her rambles.--Remember me to
Mrs. Shaw & the family, and tell my mother that I will write to her
in a day or two.
“Sincerely yours,
“HERMAN MELVILLE.
“Letters directed within four or five days from now, will probably
reach us at Montreal.”
The second letter explains itself:
“LANSINGBURGH, Aug. 28th, 1847.
“MY DEAR MOTHER:
“We arrived here safe and well yesterday morning, and I intended to
have written a few lines to you then, but I was so tired, and had
so much to do to unpack and put away my things, I deferred it until
to-day.
“We left Montreal on Tuesday evening and the next day in the
afternoon hailed Whitehall, at the foot of Lake Champlain, after
a very pleasant sail on that beautiful piece of water. The next
question was whether we should proceed to Lansingburgh by stage or
take the canal boat. We thought stage riding would be rather tame
after the beautiful scenery of Vermont, and as I had never been in
a canal boat in my life, Herman thought we had better try it for
the novelty. This would expedite our journeying, too, and having
once set our faces homeward, we were not disposed to delay. Being
fully forewarned of the inconvenience we might expect in passing a
night on board a canal boat--a crowded canal boat, too, and fully
determined to meet them bravely, we stepped on board--not without
some misgivings, however, as we saw the crowds of men, women and
children come pouring in, with trunks and handbags to match. Where so
many people were to store themselves at night was a mystery to be yet
unravelled, and what they all _did_ do with themselves is something
I have not yet found out. Well, night drew on--and after sitting on
deck on trunks or anything we could find (and having to bob our heads
down every few minutes when the helmsman sang out ‘Bridge!’ or ‘Low
Bridge!’) it became so damp and chilly that I was finally driven
below.
“Here was a scene entirely passing description. The Ladies’ ‘Saloon!’
they politely termed it so, so we were informed by a red and gilt
sign over it. A space about as large as my room at home, was
separated from the gentlemen’s ‘Saloon’ by a curtain only. About 20
or 25 women were huddled into this. Each one having two children
apiece of all ages, sexes, and sizes, said children, as is usual on
such occasions, lifting up their respective voices, very loud indeed,
in one united chorus of lamentations.
“A narrow row of shelves was hooked up high on each side and on
these some & more fortunate mothers had closely packed their
sleeping babies while they sat by to prevent their rolling out. I
looked round in vain for a place to stretch my limbs, but it was
not to be thought of--but after a while by a fortunate chance I
got a _leaning_ privilege, and fixing my carpet-bag for a pillow,
I made up my mind to pass the night in this manner. One by one the
wailing children dropped off to sleep and I had actually lost myself
in a sort of doze, when a new feature in the case became apparent.
Stepping carefully over the outstretched forms on the floor came
two men, each bearing a pile of boards or little shelves like those
already suspended. These they hooked up against the sides in the
smallest conceivable spaces, using every available inch of room--and
were intended to sleep (!) upon. I immediately pounced upon one of
them which I thought might be accessible, and was just consulting
with myself as to the best means of getting onto it, when I was
politely requested by one of the sufferers to take the shelf above
from which she wished to remove her children to the one I thought to
occupy--of course I complied, and after failing in several awkward
attempts, I managed to climb and crawl into this narrow aperture like
a bug forcing its way through the boards of a fence. Sweltering and
smothering I watched the weary night hours pass away, for to sleep
in such an atmosphere was impossible. I rose at 3 o’clock, thinking
it was five, spent a couple of hours curled up on the floor, and was
right glad when Herman came for me, with the joyful intelligence that
we were actually approaching Whitehall--the place of our destination.
He also passed a weary night, though his sufferings were of the
opposite order--for while I was suffocating with the heat and bad
atmosphere, he was on deck, chilled and half-frozen with the fog and
penetrating dampness, for the gentlemen’s apartment was even more
crowded than the ladies’--so much so that they did not attempt to
hang any shelves for them to lie upon. All they could do was to sit
bolt upright firmly wedged in and if one of them presumed to _lean_
at all or even to _nod_ out of the perpendicular it was thought
a great infringement of rights, and he was immediately called to
order. So Herman preferred to remain on deck all night to being in
this crowd. We left the boat and took the cars about an hour’s ride
from Lansingburgh, and surprised the family at 6 o’clock in the
morning before they were up. We were very warmly welcomed and cared
for and soon forgot our tribulations of the canal boat. I was much
disappointed to miss the boys--they had only left the day before--it
was too bad--I am looking forward with such impatience to see you
and father, and sincerely hope nothing will happen to prevent your
coming.
“I suppose we shall not be long here. Allan is looking out for a
house in N. Y. and will be married next month.
“You know a proposition was made before I came here that I should
furnish my own room, which for good reasons were then set aside--but
if it is not too late now, I should like very much to do it if we go
to N. Y.--but we can talk about that when I see you. I must bring my
scribbling to a close, after I have begged you or somebody to write
me. I have not received a single line since I left home. How did the
dinner party go off? I want to hear about everything and everybody
at home. Please give my warmest love to all and believe me your
affectionate daughter,
“ELIZABETH S. M.
“Herman desires his kindest remembrances to all.”
Soon after the marriage, Melville and his wife moved from Lansingburg
to New York, where they lived with Melville’s brother, Allan, and his
household of sisters. The letters of Mrs. Melville’s are the only
surviving records of the intimate details of this domestic arrangement.
They are interesting, too, as revelation of the character of Mrs.
Melville. The three following are typical:
“NEW YORK, Dec. 23rd, 1847.
“Thank you, dear Mother, for your nice long letter. I was beginning
to be afraid you had forgotten your part of the contract for that
week, but Saturday brought me evidence to the contrary and made us
even. And I should have written you earlier, but the days are so
short, and I have so much to do, that they fly by without giving me
half the time I want. Perhaps you will wonder what on earth I have
to occupy me. Well in fact I hardly know exactly myself, but true
it is little things constantly present themselves and dinner time
comes before I am aware. We breakfast at 8 o’clock, then Herman goes
to walk and I fly up to put his room to rights, so that he can sit
down to his desk immediately on his return. Then I bid him good-bye,
with many charges to be an industrious boy and not upset the inkstand
and then flourish the duster, make the bed, etc., in my own room.
Then I go downstairs and read the papers a little while, and after
that I am ready to sit down to my work whatever it may be--darning
stockings--making or mending for myself or Herman--at all events,
I haven’t seen a day yet, without _some_ sewing or other to do. If
I have letters to write, as is the case to-day, I usually do that
first--but whatever I am about I do not much more than get thoroughly
engaged in it, than ding-dong goes the bell for luncheon. This is
half-past 12 o’clock--by this time we must expect callers, and so
must be dressed immediately after lunch. Then Herman insists upon
taking a walk of an hour’s length at least. So unless I can have rain
or snow for an excuse, I usually sally out and make a pedestrian
tour a mile or two down Broadway. By the time I come home it is two
o’clock and after, and then I must make myself look as bewitchingly
as possible to meet Herman at dinner. This being accomplished, I
have only about an hour of available time left. At four we dine, and
after dinner is over, Herman and I come up to our room and enjoy a
cosy chat for an hour or so--or he reads me some of the chapters he
has been writing in the day. Then he goes down town for a walk, looks
at the papers in the reading room, etc., and returns about half-past
seven or eight. Then my work or my book is laid aside, and as he does
not use his eyes but very little by candle light, I either read to
him, or take a hand at whist for his amusement, or he listens to our
reading or conversation, as best pleases him. For we all collect in
the parlour in the evening, and generally one of us reads aloud for
the benefit of the whole. Then we retire very early--at 10 o’clock
we all disperse. Indeed we think that quite a late hour to be up.
This is the general course of daily events so you see how my time is
occupied; but sometime--dear me! we have to go and make calls! and
then good-bye to everything else for _that_ day! for upon my word,
it takes the whole day, from 1 o’clock till four! and then perhaps
we don’t accomplish more than two or three, if unluckily they chance
to be in--for everybody lives so far from everybody else, and all
Herman’s and Allan’s friends are _so_ polite, to say nothing of Mrs.
M.’s old acquaintances, that I am fairly sick and tired of returning
calls. And no sooner do we do up a few, than they all come again, and
so it has to be gone over again.
“You know ceremonious calls were always my abomination, and where
they are all utter strangers and we have to send in our cards to
show who we are, it is so much the worse. Excepting calls, I have
scarcely visited at all. Herman is not fond of parties, and I don’t
care anything about them here. To-morrow night, for a great treat, we
are going to the opera--Herman & Fanny and I--and this is the first
place of public amusement I have attended since I have been here but
somehow or other I don’t care much about them now.
“I am glad to hear that father and all are so well--except Sam--how
is his cough now? don’t forget to tell us when you write.
“If Susan Haywood and Fanny Clarke are at our house please give my
love to them and ask Susan to answer my letter. How is Mrs. Marcus
Morton and Mrs. Hawes? I hope you will be able to write me this week
though I know _your_ time is very much occupied--but then you know