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 H