After the excursion up Monument Mountain, Melville convinced himself that the whole family must move to the country so that he could write in peace. In a very short time, Melville impetuously bought a large farmhouse with one gigantic central chimney, situated on a swell of land that rolled high enough to allow a commanding view of Mount Greylock, miles away. He named it “Arrowhead,” because of the Indian relics he found there, and described his purchase to his friend Duyckinck in his usual ardent fashion: “It has been a most glowing & Byzantine day – the heavens reflecting the tints of the October apples in the orchard – nay, the heavens themselves looking so ripe & ruddy, that it must be harvest-home with the angels… you should see the maples – you should see the young perennial pines – the red blazings of the one contrasting with the painted green of the other, and the wide flushings of the autumn air harmonizing both.”
And so he became the latest literary figure that the Berkshires cradled within their mountainous confines. Like Hawthorne, Melville was reclusive and eccentric. When he was seen in town (rarely for any churchgoing purpose) he drove his carriage in a hell-bent-for-leather fashion. Once, dressed like a Turk, he appeared in town and abducted a young bride, pulling her into his buggy and making the husband and Duyckinck give chase. Who was this luxuriantly bearded man who drove so hard and wrote so hard and wanted so much? Was he was trying to escape from something or to reach something?
