“My Dear Mr. Herman Melville:
“Your letter has given me a very great and singular pleasure. Your delightful books carry the imagination into a maritime period so remote that, often as you have been in my mind, I could never satisfy myself that you were still amongst the living. I am glad, indeed, to learn from Mr. Toft that you are still hale and hearty, and I do most heartily wish you many years yet of health and vigour.
“Your books I have in the American edition. I have Typee, Omoo, Redburn, and that noble piece, Moby-Dick. These are all I have been able to obtain. There have been many editions of your works in this country, particularly the lovely South Sea sketches; but the editions are not equal to those of the American publishers. Your reputation here is very great. It is hard to meet a man whose opinion as a reader is worth having who does not speak of your works in such terms as he might hesitate to employ, with all his patriotism, towards many renowned English writers.
“Dana is, indeed, great. There is nothing in literature more remarkable than the impression produced by Dana’s portraiture of the homely inner life of a little brig’s forecastle.
“I beg that you will accept my thanks for the kindly spirit in which you have read my books. I wish it were in my power to cross the Atlantic, for you assuredly would be the first whom it would be my happiness to visit.... The condition of my right hand obliges me to dictate this to my son; but painful as it is to me to hold a pen I cannot suffer this letter to reach the hands of a man of so admirable genius as Herman Melville without begging him to believe me to be, with my own hand, his most respectful and hearty admirer,
“W. Clark Russell.”
Elihu Vedder and Melville never met or corresponded. The acknowledgment of the dedication came only after Melville’s death. “I may not have been very successful in a worldly way,” he said, “but the knowledge that my art has gained me so many friends—even if unknown to me—makes ample amends.”
Schopenhauer was enabled to preserve his disillusions because he also preserved his income. If a man is blessed with a comfortable fortune, then it is easy for him to lead a tranquil and unpretentious existence, sheltered from all intruders. But for an unsuccessful writer with a wife, four children, and no income, to throw down the pen and retire from the world (except for a season in California and another in the Holy Land); the secret of such a feat should be popularised. The secret transpires in the following letter to Melville from his father-in-law, Justice Shaw.
“Boston, 15 May, 1860.
“My dear Herman,