Chapter M: R. a (2)

Time passed, and at last, on April 8th, 1808, your mother and I
were married by the Rev. Dr. Latimer, of Philadelphia, and the
next morning left Fatland Ford and Mill Grove for Louisville,
Ky. For some two years previous to this, Rozier and I had
visited the country from time to time as merchants, had thought
well of it, and liked it exceedingly. Its fertility and
abundance, the hospitality and kindness of the people were
sufficiently winning things to entice any one to go there with a
view to comfort and happiness.

We had marked Louisville as a spot designed by nature to become
a place of great importance, and, had we been as wise as we now
are, I might never have published the "Birds of America;" for a
few hundred dollars laid out at that period, in lands or town
lots near Louisville, would, if left to grow over with grass to
a date ten years past (this being 1835), have become an immense
fortune. But young heads are on young shoulders; it was not to
be, and who cares?

On our way to Pittsburg, we met with a sad accident, that nearly
cost the life of your mother. The coach upset on the mountains,
and she was severely, but fortunately not fatally hurt. We
floated down the Ohio in a flatboat, in company with several
other young families; we had many goods, and opened a large
store at Louisville, which went on prosperously when I attended
to it; but birds were birds then as now, and my thoughts were
ever and anon turning toward them as the objects of my greatest
delight. I shot, I drew, I looked on nature only; my days were
happy beyond human conception, and beyond this I really cared
not.

Victor was born June 12, 1809, at Gwathway's Hotel of the Indian
Queen. We had by this time formed the acquaintance of many
persons in and about Louisville; the country was settled by
planters and farmers of the most benevolent and hospitable
nature; and my young wife, who possessed talents far above par,
was regarded as a gem, and received by them all with the
greatest pleasure. All the sportsmen and hunters were fond of
me, and I became their companion; my fondness for fine horses
was well kept up, and I had as good as the country--and the
country was Kentucky--could afford. Our most intimate friends
were the Tarascons and the Berthouds, at Louisville and
Shippingport. The simplicity and whole-heartedness of those days
I cannot describe; man was man, and each, one to another, a
brother.

I seldom passed a day without drawing a bird, or noting
something respecting its habits, Rozier meantime attending the
counter. I could relate many curious anecdotes about him, but
never mind them; he made out to grow rich, and what more could
_he_ wish for?

In 1810 Alexander Wilson the naturalist--not the _American_
naturalist--called upon me.[12] About 1812 your uncle Thomas W.
Bakewell sailed from New York or Philadelphia, as a partner of
mine, and took with him all the disposable money which I had at
that time, and there [New Orleans] opened a mercantile house
under the name of "Audubon & Bakewell."

Merchants crowded to Louisville from all our Eastern cities.
None of them were, as I was, intent on the study of birds, but
all were deeply impressed with the value of dollars. Louisville
did not give us up, but we gave up Louisville. I could not bear
to give the attention required by my business, and which,
indeed, every business calls for, and, therefore, my business
abandoned me. Indeed, I never thought of it beyond the
ever-engaging journeys which I was in the habit of taking to
Philadelphia or New York to purchase goods; these journeys I
greatly enjoyed, as they afforded me ample means to study birds
and their habits as I travelled through the beautiful, the
darling forests of Ohio, Kentucky, and Pennsylvania.

Were I here to tell you that once, when travelling, and driving
several horses before me laden with goods and dollars, I lost
sight of the pack-saddles, and the cash they bore, to watch the
motions of a warbler, I should only repeat occurrences that
happened a hundred times and more in those days. To an ordinary
reader this may appear very odd, but it is as true, my dear
sons, as it is that I am now scratching this poor book of mine
with a miserable iron pen. Rozier and myself still had some
business together, but we became discouraged at Louisville, and
I longed to have a wilder range; this made us remove to
Henderson, one hundred and twenty-five miles farther down the
fair Ohio. We took there the remainder of our stock on hand, but
found the country so very new, and so thinly populated that the
commonest goods only were called for. I may say our guns and
fishing-lines were the principal means of our support, as
regards food.

John Pope, our clerk, who was a Kentuckian, was a good shot and
an excellent fisherman, and he and I attended to the procuring
of game and fish, while Rozier again stood behind the counter.

Your beloved mother and I were as happy as possible, the people
round loved us, and we them in return; our profits were
enormous, but our sales small, and my partner, who spoke English
but badly, suggested that we remove to St. Genevieve, on the
Mississippi River. I acceded to his request to go there, but
determined to leave your mother and Victor at Henderson, not
being quite sure that our adventure would succeed as we hoped. I
therefore placed her and the children under the care of Dr.
Rankin and his wife, who had a fine farm about three miles from
Henderson, and having arranged our goods on board a large
flatboat, my partner and I left Henderson in the month of
December, 1810, in a heavy snow-storm. This change in my plans
prevented me from going, as I had intended, on a long
expedition. In Louisville we had formed the acquaintance of
Major Croghan (an old friend of my father's), and of General
Jonathan Clark, the brother of General William Clark, the first
white man who ever crossed the Rocky Mountains. I had engaged to
go with him, but was, as I have said, unfortunately prevented.
To return to our journey. When we reached Cash Creek we were
bound by ice for a few weeks; we then attempted to ascend the
Mississippi, but were again stopped in the great bend called
Tawapatee Bottom, where we again planted our camp till a thaw
broke the ice.[13] In less than six weeks, however, we reached
the village of St. Genevieve. I found at once it was not the
place for me; its population was then composed of low French
Canadians, uneducated and uncouth, and the ever-longing wish to
be with my beloved wife and children drew my thoughts to
Henderson, to which I decided to return almost immediately.
Scarcely any communication existed between the two places, and I
felt cut off from all dearest to me. Rozier, on the contrary,
liked it; he found plenty of French with whom to converse. I
proposed selling out to him, a bargain was made, he paid me a
certain amount in cash, and gave me bills for the residue. This
accomplished, I purchased a beauty of a horse, for which I paid
dear enough, and bid Rozier farewell. On my return trip to
Henderson I was obliged to stop at a humble cabin, where I so
nearly ran the chance of losing my life, at the hands of a woman
and her two desperate sons, that I have thought fit since to
introduce this passage in a sketch called "The Prairie," which
is to be found in the first volume of my "Ornithological
Biography."

Winter was just bursting into spring when I left the land of
lead mines. Nature leaped with joy, as it were, at her own
new-born marvels, the prairies began to be dotted with beauteous
flowers, abounded with deer, and my own heart was filled with
happiness at the sights before me. I must not forget to tell you
that I crossed those prairies on foot at another time, for the
purpose of collecting the money due to me from Rozier, and that
I walked one hundred and sixty-five miles in a little over three
days, much of the time nearly ankle deep in mud and water, from
which I suffered much afterward by swollen feet. I reached
Henderson in early March, and a few weeks later the lower
portions of Kentucky and the shores of the Mississippi suffered
severely by earthquakes. I felt their effects between Louisville
and Henderson, and also at Dr. Rankin's. I have omitted to say
that my second son, John Woodhouse, was born under Dr. Rankin's
roof on November 30, 1812; he was an extremely delicate boy till
about a twelvemonth old, when he suddenly acquired strength and
grew to be a lusty child.

Your uncle, Thomas W. Bakewell, had been all this time in New
Orleans, and thither I had sent him almost all the money I could
raise; but notwithstanding this, the firm could not stand, and
one day, while I was making a drawing of an otter, he suddenly
appeared. He remained at Dr. Rankin's a few days, talked much to
me about our misfortunes in trade, and left us for Fatland Ford.

My pecuniary means were now much reduced. I continued to draw
birds and quadrupeds, it is true, but only now and then thought
of making any money. I bought a wild horse, and on its back
travelled over Tennessee and a portion of Georgia, and so round
till I finally reached Philadelphia, and then to your
grandfather's at Fatland Ford. He had sold my plantation of Mill
Grove to Samuel Wetherell, of Philadelphia, for a good round
sum, and with this I returned through Kentucky and at last
reached Henderson once more. Your mother was well, both of you
were lovely darlings of our hearts, and the effects of poverty
troubled us not. Your uncle T. W. Bakewell was again in New
Orleans and doing rather better, but this was a mere transient
clearing of that sky which had been obscured for many a long
day.

Determined to do something for myself, I took to horse, rode to
Louisville with a few hundred dollars in my pockets, and there
purchased, half cash, half credit, a small stock, which I
brought to Henderson. _Chemin faisant_, I came in contact with,
and was accompanied by, General Toledo, then on his way as a
revolutionist to South America. As our flatboats were floating
one clear moonshiny night lashed together, this individual
opened his views to me, promising me wonders of wealth should I
decide to accompany him, and he went so far as to offer me a
colonelcy on what he was pleased to call "his Safe Guard." I
listened, it is true, but looked more at the heavens than on his
face, and in the former found so much more of peace than of war
that I concluded not to accompany him.

When our boats arrived at Henderson, he landed with me,
purchased many horses, hired some men, and coaxed others, to
accompany him, purchased a young negro from me, presented me
with a splendid Spanish dagger and my wife with a ring, and went
off overland toward Natchez, with a view of there gathering
recruits.

I now purchased a ground lot of four acres, and a meadow of four
more at the back of the first. On the latter stood several
buildings, an excellent orchard, etc., lately the property of an
English doctor, who had died on the premises, and left the whole
to a servant woman as a gift, from whom it came to me as a
freehold. The pleasures which I have felt at Henderson, and
under the roof of that log cabin, can never be effaced from my
heart until after death. The little stock of goods brought from
Louisville answered perfectly, and in less than twelve months I
had again risen in the world. I purchased adjoining land, and
was doing extremely well when Thomas Bakewell came once more on
the tapis, and joined me in commerce. We prospered at a round
rate for a while, but unfortunately for me, he took it into his
brain to persuade me to erect a steam-mill at Henderson, and to
join to our partnership an Englishman of the name of Thomas
Pears, now dead.

Well, up went the steam-mill at an enormous expense, in a
country then as unfit for such a thing as it would be now for me
to attempt to settle in the moon. Thomas Pears came to Henderson
with his wife and family of children, the mill was raised, and
worked very badly. Thomas Pears lost his money and we lost ours.

It was now our misfortune to add other partners and petty agents
to our concern; suffice it for me to tell you, nay, to assure
you, that I was gulled by all these men. The new-born Kentucky
banks nearly all broke in quick succession; and again we started
with a new set of partners; these were your present uncle N.
Berthoud and Benjamin Page of Pittsburg. Matters, however, grew
worse every day; the times were what men called "bad," but I am
fully persuaded the great fault was ours, and the building of
that accursed steam-mill was, of all the follies of man, one of
the greatest, and to your uncle and me the worst of all our
pecuniary misfortunes. How I labored at that infernal mill! from
dawn to dark, nay, at times all night. But it is over now; I am
old, and try to forget as fast as possible all the different
trials of those sad days. We also took it into our heads to have
a steamboat, in partnership with the engineer who had come from
Philadelphia to fix the engine of that mill. This also proved an
entire failure, and misfortune after misfortune came down upon
us like so many avalanches, both fearful and destructive.

About this time I went to New Orleans, at the suggestion of your
uncle, to arrest T---- B----, who had purchased a steamer from
us, but whose bills were worthless, and who owed us for the
whole amount. I travelled down to New Orleans in an open skiff,
accompanied by two negroes of mine; I reached New Orleans one
day too late; Mr. B---- had been compelled to surrender the
steamer to a prior claimant. I returned to Henderson, travelling
part way on the steamer "Paragon," walked from the mouth of the
Ohio to Shawnee, and rode the rest of the distance. On my
arrival old Mr. Berthoud told me that Mr. B---- had arrived
before me, and had sworn to kill me. My affrighted Lucy forced
me to wear a dagger. Mr. B---- walked about the streets and
before my house as if watching for me, and the continued reports
of our neighbors prepared me for an encounter with this man,
whose violent and ungovernable temper was only too well known.
As I was walking toward the steam-mill one morning, I heard
myself hailed from behind; on turning, I observed Mr. B----
marching toward me with a heavy club in his hand. I stood still,
and he soon reached me. He complained of my conduct to him at
New Orleans, and suddenly raising his bludgeon laid it about me.
Though white with wrath, I spoke nor moved not till he had given
me twelve severe blows, then, drawing my dagger with my left
hand (unfortunately my right was disabled and in a sling, having
been caught and much injured in the wheels of the
steam-engine), I stabbed him and he instantly fell. Old Mr.
Berthoud and others, who were hastening to the spot, now came
up, and carried him home on a plank. Thank God, his wound was
not mortal, but his friends were all up in arms and as
hot-headed as himself. Some walked through my premises armed
with guns; my dagger was once more at my side, Mr. Berthoud had
his gun, our servants were variously armed, and our carpenter
took my gun "Long Tom." Thus protected, I walked into the
Judiciary Court, that was then sitting, and was blamed,
_only_,--for not having killed the scoundrel who attacked me.

The "bad establishment," as I called the steam-mill, worked
worse and worse every day. Thomas Bakewell, who possessed more
brains than I, sold his town lots and removed to Cincinnati,
where he has made a large fortune, and glad I am of it.

From this date my pecuniary difficulties daily increased; I had
heavy bills to pay which I could not meet or take up. The moment
this became known to the world around me, that moment I was
assailed with thousands of invectives; the once wealthy man was
now nothing. I parted with every particle of property I held to
my creditors, keeping only the clothes I wore on that day, my
original drawings, and my gun.

Your mother held in her arms your baby sister Rosa, named thus
on account of her extreme loveliness, and after my own sister
Rosa. _She_ felt the pangs of our misfortunes perhaps more
heavily than I, but never for an hour lost her courage; her
brave and cheerful spirit accepted all, and no reproaches from
her beloved lips ever wounded my heart. With her was I not
always rich?

Finally I paid every bill, and at last left Henderson, probably
forever, without a dollar in my pocket, walked to Louisville
alone, by no means comfortable in mind, there went to Mr.
Berthoud's, where I was kindly received; they were indeed good
friends.

My plantation in Pennsylvania had been sold, and, in a word,
nothing was left to me but my humble talents. Were those talents
to remain dormant under such exigencies? Was I to see my beloved
Lucy and children suffer and want bread, in the abundant State
of Kentucky? Was I to repine because I had acted like an honest
man? Was I inclined to cut my throat in foolish despair? No!! I
_had_ talents, and to them I instantly resorted.

To be a good draughtsman in those days was to me a blessing; to
any other man, be it a thousand years hence, it will be a
blessing also. I at once undertook to take portraits of the
human "head divine," in black chalk, and, thanks to my master,
David, succeeded admirably. I commenced at exceedingly low
prices, but raised these prices as I became more known in this
capacity. Your mother and yourselves were sent up from Henderson
to our friend Isham Talbot, then Senator for Kentucky; this was
done without a cent of expense to me, and I can never be
grateful enough for his kind generosity.

In the course of a few weeks I had as much work to do as I could
possibly wish, so much that I was able to rent a house in a
retired part of Louisville. I was sent for four miles in the
country, to take likenesses of persons on their death-beds, and
so high did my reputation suddenly rise, as the best delineator
of heads in that vicinity, that a clergyman residing at
Louisville (I would give much now to recall and write down his
name) had his dead child disinterred, to procure a fac-simile of
his face, which, by the way, I gave to the parents as if still
alive, to their intense satisfaction. My drawings of birds were
not neglected meantime; in this particular there seemed to hover
round me almost a mania, and I would even give up doing a head,
the profits of which would have supplied our wants for a week or
more, to represent a little citizen of the feathered tribe. Nay,
my dear sons, I thought that I now drew birds far better than I
had ever done before misfortune intensified, or at least
developed, my abilities. I received an invitation to go to
Cincinnati,[14] a flourishing place, and which you now well know
to be a thriving town in the State of Ohio. I was presented to
the president of the Cincinnati College, Dr. Drake, and
immediately formed an engagement to stuff birds for the museum
there, in concert with Mr. Robert Best, an Englishman of great
talent. My salary was large, and I at once sent for your mother
to come to me, and bring you. Your dearly beloved sister Rosa
died shortly afterward. I now established a large drawing-school
at Cincinnati, to which I attended thrice per week, and at good
prices.

The expedition of Major Long[15] passed through the city soon
after, and well do I recollect how he, Messrs. T. Peale,[16]
Thomas Say,[17] and others stared at my drawings of birds at
that time.

So industrious were Mr. Best and I that in about six months we
had augmented, arranged, and finished all we could do for the
museum. I returned to my portraits, and made a great number of
them, without which we must have once more been on the starving
list, as Mr. Best and I found, sadly too late, that the members
of the College museum were splendid promisers and very bad
paymasters.

In October of 1820 I left your mother and yourselves at
Cincinnati, and went to New Orleans on board a flat-boat
commanded and owned by a Mr. Haromack. From this date my
journals are kept with fair regularity, and if you read them you
will easily find all that followed afterward.

In glancing over these pages, I see that in my hurried and
broken manner of laying before you this very imperfect (but
perfectly correct) account of my early life I have omitted to
tell you that, before the birth of your sister Rosa, a daughter
was born at Henderson, who was called, of course, Lucy. Alas!
the poor, dear little one was unkindly born, she was always ill
and suffering; two years did your kind and unwearied mother
nurse her with all imaginable care, but notwithstanding this
loving devotion she died, in the arms which had held her so
long, and so tenderly. This infant daughter we buried in our
garden at Henderson, but after removed her to the Holly
burying-ground in the same place.

Hundreds of anecdotes I could relate to you, my dear sons, about
those times, and it may happen that the pages that I am now
scribbling over may hereafter, through your own medium, or that
of some one else be published. I shall try, should God Almighty
grant me life, to return to these less important portions of my
history, and delineate them all with the same faithfulness with
which I have written the ornithological biographies of the birds
of my beloved country.

Only one event, however, which possesses in itself a lesson to
mankind, I will here relate. After our dismal removal from
Henderson to Louisville, one morning, while all of us were sadly
desponding, I took you both, Victor and John, from Shippingport
to Louisville. I had purchased a loaf of bread and some apples;
before we reached Louisville you were all hungry, and by the
river side we sat down and ate our scanty meal. On that day the
world was with me as a blank, and my heart was sorely heavy, for
scarcely had I enough to keep my dear ones alive; and yet
through these dark ways I was being led to the development of
the talents I loved, and which have brought so much enjoyment to
us _all_, for it is with deep thankfulness that I record that
you, my sons, have passed your lives almost continuously with
your dear mother and myself. But I will here stop with one
remark.

One of the most extraordinary things among all these adverse
circumstances was that I never for a day gave up listening to
the songs of our birds, or watching their peculiar habits, or
delineating them in the best way that I could; nay, during my
deepest troubles I frequently would wrench myself from the
persons around me, and retire to some secluded part of our noble
forests; and many a time, at the sound of the wood-thrush's
melodies have I fallen on my knees, and there prayed earnestly
to our God.

This never failed to bring me the most valuable of thoughts and
always comfort, and, strange as it may seem to you, it was often
necessary for me to exert my will, and compel myself to return
to my fellow-beings.

To speak more fully on some of the incidents which Audubon here relates, I turn to one of the two journals which are all that fire has spared of the many volumes which were filled with his fine, rather illegible handwriting previous to 1826. In the earlier of these journals I read: "I went to France not only to escape Da Costa, but even more to obtain my father's consent to my marriage with my Lucy, and this simply because I thought it my moral and religious duty to do so. But although my request was immediately granted, I remained in France nearly two years. As I told you, Mr. Bakewell considered my Lucy too young (she was then but seventeen), and me too unbusiness-like to marry; so my father decided that I should remain some months with him, and on returning to America it was his plan to associate me with some one whose commercial knowledge would be of value to me.

"My father's beautiful country seat, situated within sight of the Loire, about mid-distance between Nantes and the sea, I found quite delightful to my taste, notwithstanding the frightful cruelties I had witnessed in that vicinity, not many years previously. The gardens, greenhouses, and all appertaining to it appeared to me then as if of a superior cast; and my father's physician was above all a young man precisely after my own heart; his name was D'Orbigny, and with his young wife and infant son he lived not far distant. The doctor was a good fisherman, a good hunter, and fond of all objects in nature. Together we searched the woods, the fields, and the banks of the Loire, procuring every bird we could, and I made drawings of every one of them--very bad, to be sure, but still they were of assistance to me. The lessons which I had received from the great David[18] now proved all-important to me, but what I wanted, and what I had the good fortune to stumble upon a few years later, was the knowledge of putting up my models, in true and good positions according to the ways and habits of my beautiful feathered subjects. During these happy years I managed to make drawings of about two hundred species of birds, all of which I brought to America and gave to my Lucy.[19]

"At last my father associated me with Ferdinand Rozier, as you already know, and we were fairly smuggled out of France; for he was actually an officer attached to the navy of that country, and though I had a passport stating I was born at New Orleans, my French name would have swept that aside very speedily. Rozier's passport was a Dutch one, though he did not understand a single word in that language. Indeed, our passengers were a medley crowd; two days out two monks appeared among us from the hold, where our captain had concealed them."

This same "medley crowd" appears to have comprised many refugees from the rule of Napoleon, this being about 1806, and the amusements were varied, including both gaming and dancing. To quote again: "Among the passengers was a handsome Virginian girl, young and graceful. She was constantly honored by the attentions of two Frenchmen who belonged to the nobility; both were fine young fellows, travelling, as was not uncommon then, under assumed names. One lovely day the bonnet of the fair lady was struck by a rope and knocked overboard. One of the French chevaliers at once leaped into the ocean, captured the bonnet, and had the good fortune to be picked up himself by the yawl. On reaching the deck he presented the bonnet with a graceful obeisance and perfect _sang froid_, while the rival looked at him as black as a raven. No more was heard of the matter till dawn, when reports of firearms were heard; the alarm was general, as we feared pirates. On gaining the deck it was found that a challenge had been given and accepted, a duel had positively taken place, ending, alas! in the death of the rescuer of the bonnet. The young lady felt this deeply, and indeed it rendered us all very uncomfortable."

The voyage ended, Audubon returned to Mill Grove, where he remained some little time before his marriage to Lucy Bakewell. It was a home he always loved, and never spoke of without deep feeling. His sensitive nature, romantic if you will, was always more or less affected by environment, and Mill Grove was a most congenial spot to him.

This beautiful estate in Montgomery Co., Pa., lies in a lovely part of the country. The house, on a gentle eminence, almost a natural terrace, overlooks, towards the west, the rapid waters of Perkiomen Creek, which just below empties into the Schuylkill river, across which to the south is the historic ground of Valley Forge. The property has remained in the Wetherill family nearly ever since Audubon sold it to Samuel Wetherill in 1813. The present owner[20] delights to treasure every trace of the bird lover, and not only makes no changes in anything that he can in the least degree associate with him, but has added many photographs and engravings of Audubon which adorn his walls.

The house, of the usual type of those days, with a hall passing through the centre and rooms on either side, was built of rubble-stone by Roland Evans in 1762, and in 1774 was sold to Admiral Audubon, who in the year following built an addition, also of rubble-stone. This addition is lower than the main house, which consists of two full stories and an attic with dormer windows, where, it is said, Audubon kept his collections. The same Franklin stove is in the parlor which stood there giving out its warmth and cheer when the young man came in from the hunting and skating expeditions on which he loved to dwell. The dense woods which once covered the ground are largely cut down, but sufficient forest growth remains to give the needed shade and beauty; the hemlocks in particular are noticeable, so large and of such perfect form.

Going down a foot-path to Perkiomen Creek, a few steps lead to the old mill which gave the place its name. Built of stone and shaded by cottonwood trees, the stream rushing past as in days long gone, the mill-wheel still revolves, though little work is done there now.

When I saw Mill Grove[21] the spring flowers were abundant; the soft, pale blossom of the May-apple (_Podophyllum peltatum_) held its head above the blue of many violets, the fingers of the potentilla with their yellow stars crept in and out among the tangled grass and early undergrowth; the trilliums, both red and white, were in profusion; in the shade the wood anemones, with their shell pink cups grew everywhere, while in damp spots by the brook yet remained a few adder's-tongues, and under the hemlocks in the clefts of the rocks the delicate foliage of the Dutchmen's breeches (_Dicentra cucullaria_) with a few late blossoms; all these and many more which I do not now recall, Audubon has pictured with the birds found in the same regions, as his imperishable tribute to the home he loved--Mill-Grove Farm on the Perkiomen Creek.

Fatland Ford, to the south of Mill Grove, is a far larger and grander mansion than that of the modest Quaker Evans; as one approaches, the white columns of the imposing entrance are seen for some distance before entering the avenue which leads to the front of the mansion. Like Mill Grove it stands on a natural terrace, and has an extensive outlook over the Schuylkill and Valley Forge. This house was built by James Vaux in 1760. He was a member of the Society of Friends and an Englishman, but in sympathy with the colonists. One end of Sullivan's Bridge was not far from the house; the spot where it once stood is now marked by the remains of a red-sandstone monument.[22] Washington spent a night in the mansion house with Mr. Vaux, and left only twelve hours in advance of the arrival of Howe, who lodged there the following night.[23] The old walled garden still remains, and the stable with accommodation for many horses. A little withdrawn from all these and on the edge of a wood are "the graves of a household," not neglected, as is so often the case, but preserved and cared for by those who own Fatland Farm[24] as well as Mill Grove.

Dear as Mill Grove was to Audubon, he left it with his young bride the day following their wedding, which took place at Fatland Ford on April 8, 1808, and departed for Louisville, Ky., where he and Rozier, his partner, had previously done some business. Though they had both lost money they liked the place, which reason seemed quite sufficient to decide them to return and lose more money, as they promptly did. They remained at Louisville till 1810, when they moved to Henderson, where Rozier did what business was done, and Audubon drew, fished, hunted, and rambled in the woods to his heart's content, but his purse's depletion. He describes this life in the episode "Fishing in the Ohio," and in these rushing times such an Arcadian existence seems impossible. Small wonder that his wife's relatives, with their English thrift, lost patience with him, could not believe he was aught but idle, because he did not work their way. I doubt not many would think, as they did, that he wasted his days, when in truth he was laying up stores of knowledge which later in life brought him a rich harvest. Waiting times are always long, longest to those who do not understand the silent inner growth which goes on and on, yet makes no outward sign for months and even years, as in the case of Audubon.

Henderson was then a tiny place, and gains being small if any, Rozier and Audubon, in December, 1810, started for St. Genevieve, spent their winter in camp, and reached their destination when the ice broke up. On April 11, 1811, they dissolved partnership, and wrote each as they felt, Audubon saying: "Rozier cared only for money and liked St. Genevieve;" Rozier writing: "Audubon had no taste for commerce, and was continually in the forest."

Once more, however, he went to St. Genevieve to try to get money Rozier owed him, and returned to Henderson on foot, still unpaid, in February or March of 1812. He had gone with a party of Osage Indians, but his journey back was made alone. He writes in his journal, simply with date of April, 1812:--

"Bidding Rozier good-bye, I whistled to my dog, crossed the Mississippi and went off alone and on foot, bent on reaching Shawanee Town as soon as possible; but little had I foreseen the task before me, for soon as I had left the river lands and reached the prairies, I found them covered with water, like large lakes; still nothing would have made me retrace my steps, and the thoughts of my Lucy and my boy made me care little what my journey might be. Unfortunately I had no shoes, and my moccasins constantly slipping made the wading extremely irksome; notwithstanding, I walked forty-five miles and swam the Muddy River. I only saw two cabins that day, but I had great pleasure in viewing herds of Deer crossing the prairie, like myself ankle deep in water. Their beautiful movements, their tails spread to the breeze, were perceivable for many miles. A mound covered with trees through which a light shone, gave me an appetite, and I made for it. I was welcomed kindly by the woman of the house, and while the lads inspected my fine double-barrelled gun, the daughters bustled about, ground coffee, fried venison, boiled some eggs, and made me feel at once at home.

"Such hospitality is from the heart, and when the squatter came in, his welcome was not less genuine than that of his family. Night fell; I slept soundly on some bearskins, but long before day was ready to march. My hostess was on the alert; after some breakfast she gave me a small loaf and some venison in a clean rag, and as no money would be received, I gave the lads a flask of gunpowder, a valuable article in those days to a squatter.

"My way lay through woods, and many small crossroads now puzzled me, but I walked on, and must have travelled another forty-five miles. I met a party of Osage Indians encamped, and asked in French to stay with them. They understood me, and before long I had my supper of boiled bear's-fat and pecan-nuts, of which I ate heartily, then lay down with my feet to the fire, and slept so soundly that when I awoke my astonishment was great to find all the Indians had gone hunting, and only left two dogs to keep the camp free from wolves.

"I walked off gayly, my dog full of life, but met no one till four o'clock when I passed the first salt well, and thirty minutes more brought me to Shawanee Town. As I entered the inn I was welcomed by several whom I knew, who had come to purchase salt. I felt no fatigue, ate heartily, slept soundly without being rocked, and having come forty miles had only forty-seven more to walk to reach my home. Early next morning I pursued my way; the ferry boat took me from Illinois to Kentucky, and as night came I found myself with my wife beside me, my child on my knee."

The time from now till 1819 was the most disastrous period of Audubon's life, as regarded his finances. With his brother-in-law, Thomas W. Bakewell, he engaged in various ventures in which, whatever others did, he lost money at every turn. The financial affairs of Kentucky were, it is true, not on a very sound basis, but Audubon frankly acknowledges the fault in many cases was his own. Thomas W. Bakewell was often in New Orleans, where they had a mercantile establishment, and Audubon spent not only days, but weeks and months, at his favorite pursuits. On his journeys to Philadelphia to procure goods he wandered miles in all directions from the main route; when in Henderson he worked, at times, very hard in the mill, for, indeed, he never did anything except intensely; but the cry of the wild geese overhead, the sound of the chattering squirrel, the song of the thrush, the flash of the humming-bird with its jewelled throat, were each and all enough to take him from work he hated as he never hated anything else.

When first in Henderson he bought land, and evidently had some idea of remaining there permanently; for, "on March 16, 1816, he and Mr. Bakewell took a ninety-five years' lease of a part of the river front between First and Second Sts., intending to erect a grist and saw mill, which mill was completed in 1817, and yet stands, though now incorporated in the factory of Mr. David Clark. The weather-boarding whip-sawed out of yellow poplar is still intact on three sides, the joists are of unhewn logs, and the foundation walls of pieces of flat broken rock are four and a half feet thick. For those days it was built on a large scale, and did the sawing for the entire country."[25]

It has been said that the inside walls had many drawings of birds on them, but this, while quite likely, has never been proved; what was proved conclusively is that, from his woodcutters, whose labors were performed on a tract of forest land of about 1200 acres, which Audubon purchased from the government, to those who were his partners, by far the greater number had the advantage of him. The New Orleans venture has a similar record; money left him by his father was lost by the failure of the merchant who held it until Audubon could prove his right to it, and finally he left Henderson absolutely penniless. He writes: "Without a dollar in the world, bereft of all revenues beyond my own personal talents and acquirements, I left my dear log house, my delightful garden and orchards with that heaviest of burdens, a heavy heart, and turned my face toward Louisville. This was the saddest of all my journeys,--the only time in my life when the Wild Turkeys that so often crossed my path, and the thousands of lesser birds that enlivened the woods and the prairies, all looked like enemies, and I turned my eyes from them, as if I could have wished that they had never existed."

From Louisville Audubon went almost at once to Shippingport, where he was kindly received by his friends Nicholas Berthoud, who was also his brother-in-law, and the Tarascon family. Here he was joined by his wife and two sons, Victor Gifford and John Woodhouse, and again I quote from Audubon's own words: "As we were straitened to the very utmost, I undertook to draw portraits at the low price of five dollars per head, in black chalk. I drew a few gratis, and succeeded so well that ere many days had elapsed I had an abundance of work; and being industrious both by nature and habit I produced a great number of those black-chalk sketches."[26] This carried him on for some months, but the curse, or blessing, of the "wandering foot" was his, and as soon as money matters were a little ahead, off he went again to the forests. It was during these years, that is from 1811 to 1819, that many months were passed hunting with the Indians, the Osage tribe being the one whose language Audubon spoke. Late in life he wrote: "Of all the Indian tribes I know, the Osage are by far the superior." With them he delighted to track the birds and quadrupeds as only an Indian or one of like gifts, can; from them he learned much woodcraft; with them he strengthened his already iron constitution; and in fearlessness, endurance, patience, and marvellously keen vision, no Indian surpassed him.

He had a wonderful gift of making and retaining friends, and even in these days of poverty and depression he never seemed too poor to help others; and certainly from others he received much kindness, which he never ceased to remember and acknowledge. Through one of these friends--I believe a member of the Tarascon family--he was offered a position in the Museum at Cincinnati. Without delay, or any written agreement, Audubon and his family were again (1818) in new surroundings, and the work being congenial, he entered heartily into it with Mr. Robert Best. The promised salary was large, but being never paid Audubon began drawing classes to support his modest household. In Cincinnati he first met Mr. Daniel Mallory (whose second daughter afterwards married Victor G. Audubon) and Captain Samuel Cummings. This latter gentleman had many tastes similar to Audubon's, and later went with him to New Orleans.

The life at Cincinnati was one of strict economy. Mrs. Audubon was a woman of great ability and many resources, and with one less gifted her unpractical husband would have fared far worse than he did. To quote again: "Our living here [Cincinnati] is extremely moderate; the markets are well supplied and cheap, beef only two and a half cents a pound, and I am able to provide a good deal myself; Partridges are frequently in the streets, and I can shoot Wild Turkeys within a mile or so; Squirrels and Woodcock are very abundant in the season, and fish always easily caught."

Even with these advantages, Audubon, receiving no money[27] from Dr. Drake, president of the Museum, decided on going to New Orleans. He had now a great number of drawings and the idea of publishing these had suggested itself both to him and his wife. To perfect his collection he planned going through many of the Southern States, then pushing farther west, and thence returning to Cincinnati. On Oct. 12, 1820, he left Cincinnati with Captain Samuel Cummings for New Orleans, but with a long pause at Natchez, did not reach that city before mid-winter, where he remained with varying success until the summer of 1821, when he took a position as tutor in the family of Mrs. Charles Percy of Bayou Sara. Here, in the beloved Louisiana whose praises he never wearied of singing, whose magnolia woods were more to him than palaces, whose swamps were storehouses of treasures, he stayed till autumn, when, all fear of yellow fever being over, he sent for his wife and sons. Many new drawings had been made in this year of separation from them, and these were by far the greater part of the furniture in the little house in Dauphine St., to which he took his family on their arrival in December, 1821.

The former life of drawing portraits, giving lessons, painting birds, and wandering through the country, began again, though there was less of this last, Audubon realizing that he _must_ make money. He had had to use strong persuasions to induce Mrs. Audubon to join him in New Orleans. She had relatives in Cincinnati, as well as many friends, and several pupils brought her a small income. Who, recalling her early married life, can wonder that she hesitated before leaving this home for the vicissitudes of an unknown city? She and her husband were devotedly attached to each other, but she thought more of the uncertainty for her sons than for herself. They were now boys of twelve and nine years old, and their mother, whose own education was far beyond the average, realized how unwise a thing for them the constant change was. Audubon was most anxious also that his "Kentucky lads," as he often called them, should be given every advantage, but he had the rare quality of being able to work equally well in any surroundings, in doors or out, and he failed to understand why others could not, just as he failed to see why his wife should ever doubt the desirability of going anywhere, at any time, under any conditions. He thus writes to her in a letter, dated New Orleans, May 3, 1821: "Thou art not, it seems, as daring as I am about leaving one place to go to another, without the means. I am sorry for that. I never will fear want as long as I am well; and if God will grant me health with the little talents I have received from Nature, I would dare go to England or anywhere, without one cent, one single letter of introduction to any one."

This, as we know, was no empty boast, but the principle on which Audubon proceeded numberless times in his life. His own courage, or persuasions, brought his wife, as has been said, to join him in the Crescent City, and here as elsewhere that noble woman proved her courage and endurance fully equal to his, although perhaps in another line.

Under the date of January 1, 1822, Audubon writes: "Two months and five days have elapsed before I could venture to dispose of one hundred and twenty-five cents to pay for this book, that probably, like all other things in the world, is ashamed to find me so poor." On March 5th of the same year: "During January my time was principally spent in giving lessons in painting and drawing, to supply my family and pay for the schooling of Victor and Johnny at a Mr. Branards', where they received notions of geography, arithmetic, grammar, and writing, for six dollars per month each. Every moment I had to spare I drew birds for my ornithology, in which my Lucy and myself alone have faith. February was spent in drawing birds strenuously, and I thought I had improved much by applying coats of water-color under the pastels, thereby preventing the appearance of the paper, that in some instances marred my best productions. I discovered also many imperfections in my earlier drawings, and formed the resolution to redraw the whole of them; consequently I hired two French hunters, who swept off every dollar that I could raise for specimens. I have few acquaintances; my wife and sons are more congenial to me than all others in the world, and we have no desire to force ourselves into a society where every day I receive fewer bows."

This winter (1821-1822) in New Orleans, proved to Audubon that his wife's judgment was correct; it was not the place for them to make either a permanent income or home. True, they had been able to live with extreme simplicity, and to send the boys to school; they had had their own pleasures, as the worn, brown volume, the journal of 1822-24, with its faded entries, bears witness. There are accounts of walks and of musical evenings when they were joined by one or two friends of like tastes and talents. Both played well, she on the piano, and he on a variety of instruments, principally the violin, flute, and flageolet. For over two months a fifth inmate was added to the home circle in Mr. Matabon, a former friend, whom Audubon found one morning in the market, in a state of great poverty. He at once took him to his house and kept him as a guest, till, like Micawber, "something turned up" for him to do. When this gentleman left, this entry is made: "Mr. Matabon's departure is regretted by us all, and we shall sorely miss his beautiful music on the flute."

Summer approaching, when those who purchased pictures and took drawing-lessons were about to leave the city, Audubon accepted a position as tutor in the household of a Mr. Quaglas near Natchez. Mrs. Audubon, who had for some time been teaching in the family of Mr. Brand, removed to that gentleman's house with her sons; they, however, were almost immediately sent to school at Washington, nine miles from Natchez, Audubon's salary enabling him to do this, and in September he was joined by his wife.

While at Natchez, the long summer days permitted the drawing of birds as well as the teaching, which was conscientiously performed, and the hope of eventually publishing grew stronger. In the autumn of this year (1822), Audubon met a portrait painter named John Steen or Stein, from Washington, Pa., and thus writes, December, 1822: "He gave me the first lesson in painting in oils I ever took in my life; it was a copy of an Otter from one of my water-colors. Together we painted a full length portrait of Pere Antonio, which was sent to Havana."