NOW OWNED BY MR. DAVID CLARK.]
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."