28th September 1891 the Death of Herman Melville

Herman Melville

Today we pay tribute to Herman Melville, who died one hundred and twenty-three years ago on this day. At the time of his death at the age of 72, the author of Moby-Dick had abandoned his professional literary ambitions some twenty-five years previously; a victim of his own inanition and public neglect, he had subsequently fallen into such obscurity that a New York Times tribute remembered him as “The Late Hiram Melville”. He was subsequently ignored until the 1920s, when his genius was finally recognised and he took his rightful position as one of the great American writers. But rather than bemoan such unfortunate neglect in his lifetime, let us instead celebrate the events which led to Melville’s masterpiece. For not only would he sail the Pacific, survive fierce storms and jump ship to live amongst the “noble savages” of the South Seas – but, in the wake of a brief but incendiary literary friendship, he would also undertake a personal transformation so heroic and exceptional that we can only forgive the readers of 1851 for failing to recognise the brilliance of the work it inspired.

Herman Melville was 21 years old when he signed on as a sailor aboard the whaler Acushnet bound for the Pacific Ocean. His fantastic adventures for the next three years sparked a run of hugely successful autobiographical novels, including Typee and Omoo. In 1847, Melville settled down and married, and his trajectory as a popular author seemed assured until – on August 5th 1850 – he met the author, Nathaniel Hawthorne. Melville already knew about Hawthorne, but the appearance of The Scarlet Letter that same summer was a momentous event, proving that an American writer could create serious literary art to rival any European classic. An immediate and intense personal intimacy developed between them, and their relationship was to have a profound impact on Melville. Hawthorne’s metier of dark romanticism combined with the philosophical stirrings of American Transcendentalism was to awaken in Melville a new and urgent voice – and he set about the arduous task of completely re-writing and transforming a nearly completed book about a whale into something far greater than the typical sea-faring yarn by which he’d made his name.

A brave, vivid and allegorical exploration of humanity, Moby-Dick proved to be unlike anything Melville had ever written. And, upon its publication in 1851, it was a complete and utter failure. Melville’s readers, accustomed as they were to exotic page-turners, rejected the ambiguity that would one day see students and scholars finding hidden meaning and mystery within every passage. Melville’s subsequent novels yielded even less success; by the outbreak of the American Civil War, he had abandoned prose for poetry (for which he would also receive posthumous recognition) and soon afterwards Melville’s professional career as a writer effectively came to and end.

A year after Moby-Dick was published, Melville’s relationship with Hawthorne had also effectively come to an end. Much has been written and speculated about this most intriguing of literary friendships – a reading of Melville’s surviving letters to Hawthorne suggests a platonic love affair, at the very least – but Melville’s dedication of Moby-Dick should forever remind us that it is because they met that a masterpiece was born: “In Token of my Admiration for his Genius. This book is inscribed to Nathaniel Hawthorne.”

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9 Responses to 28th September 1891 – the Death of Herman Melville

  1. Anonymous says:

    I liked your entry but according to Melville’s Wikipedia entry the New York Times getting his name wrong is a fallacy.
    But I did check out some of those letters you refer to and found this: “already I feel that this Hawthorne has dropped germinous seeds into my soul. He expands and deepens down, the more I contemplate him; and further and further, shoots his strong New England roots in the hot soil of my Southern soul”.
    Sounds like love to me!

    • Dorian says:

      Thanks for your comment, Anonymous – but Wikipedia is wrong. The New York Times published an extremely brief/perfunctory obituary the day after Melville’s death in which they did get his name right. But a week later, their tribute was to “Hiram Melville”. Wikipedia is also wrong that this created a false myth about him being unknown at the time of his death. It was no myth.

      Yes, that (steamy) quote is from Melville’s “Hawthorne and His Mosses” – which an be read in its entirety here: http://www.ibiblio.org/eldritch/nh/hahm.html

      Thanks again for your comment. :-)

  2. a says:

    I think the style of writing letters between men was different in those days; we need not assume based on what would be expected between friends now.

    • Dorian says:

      Hi a. Thanks for your comment, but I must respectfully disagree. Yes, letter-writing was its own art form in the 1800s and especially so when the pen-pals are like-minded geniuses. But there’s a marked difference between, say, the early Emerson-Thoreau correspondence – which is filled with passion – and Melville’s letters to Hawthrone, which are downright passionate.

      Hawthorne’s letters to Melville were destroyed, so on his part we can make no assumptions. But Melville writes (beautifully) in the universal language of one who was smitten.

      • Peter Sterling says:

        I’m with ‘a’ on this one. Though the temptation to read Brokeback Mountain into those letters may be close to overwhelming, let’s keep our heads.

        Don’t overlook Melville’s short fiction (Bartleby, Benito Cereno, I and My Chimney) – some of his strongest work, and vastly eclipsing his poetic achievements in my opinion.

        • Dorian says:

          “The meeting of two personalities is like the contact of two chemical substances: if there is any reaction, both are transformed.” – Carl Jung

          Thanks for your comment, Peter. Melville’s letters not only reveal a transformation, but an infatuation. I don’t see anything wrong with that!

  3. infanttyrone says:

    I’m with Anonymous on this one.
    Whether strictly philosophical or compounded with the physical,
    it sure sounds like a bromance to me.

    Perhaps because back in their day homosexuality was such a back-burner,
    seldom-widely-discussed topic, men were more free to express admiration
    toward each other than they are now, when its hyper-mediated relative prominence can cause anything much more affectionate than something
    on the order of “I like the cut of your jib.” (well, come on, we’re on a nautical
    jaunt of sorts with Melville) to put both the speaker and recipient ill at ease.

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