The Audubon Reader (21 page)

[The Ivory-billed Woodpecker,
Campephilus principalis
, appears in Plate 66 of
The Birds of America
.]

Louisville, Kentucky

1 April 1821

Dear Cousin,

It is now a long, long time since I heard from you though I have written several times without a reply, a circumstance which is a source of grief to me, for with my years increases my attachment to old friends and the early scenes of my youth and now I see the walks and favorite spots I used to frequent in my happier times as plainly before me as if no time had elapsed since I last had them. A week or two ago we heard of the death of my dear afflicted Father; his departure from this scene of trouble can hardly be regretted when his misfortunes are considered, particularly as he has not left his room or been sensible of any external object scarcely for the last twelvemonth, not even the knowledge of sister Ann, who has been with him all the time. Still we feel as his
children and lament the loss of one so exemplary, and every way prepared to join his Maker. The various losses and misfortunes of my husband’s affairs you have probably heard of and for the last year he has supported us by his talent in drawing and painting which he learnt from [Jacques-Louis] David as a recreation in better times. This last year we have spent in
Cincinnati, where Mr. Audubon combined a drawing school with a situation in the
Museum, and taking portraits of various sizes and kinds; at the same time he is prosecuting a large work on ornithology which when complete he means to take to Europe to be published. The birds are all drawn from nature [in] the natural size and embellished with plants, trees or views as best suits the purpose. It is his intention to go first to England, and I hope it will be in my power to accompany him and visit once more those scenes of happy childhood. Mr. A. is now out on a tour of search for the birds he has not; at present he is in New Orleans and it will be a year before he returns. I am now with my two boys, Gifford and Woodhouse, at my Sister Eliza’s, but I expect soon either to go to housekeeping here or return for
economy’s sake to Cincinnati, which is a cheaper place. My two children occupy nearly the whole of my time, for I educate them myself. My two dear daughters [deceased in infancy] are I hope with their grandmother in happier regions …

New Orleans, Louisiana

24 May–1 June 1821

… We now and then of moon-shining evenings ramble to what is called the Museum coffeehouse; there (where it cost nothing) we hear a few indifferent musicians and amuse our taste for critics on the poor collection of paintings &c. that fill the gallery—and often walk up to the roulette table to infuse a strong sketch of intentness on our minds; it is there that one may well judge of tempers.

Mosquitoes are at this season so troublesome that we seldom can sit in our room. After dark we fix ourselves about the middle of the street until bedtime, piping the flageolet or blowing the flute. We sometimes have a painter for company and then we talk of the arts.

I have so far gone on towards giving an idea of our daily expenditure of time that I will, I believe, enter on our actual way of living—We cannot be epicures. Our purse is that that suits best strong appetites. We generally have a ham on the nail, and convenience makes us cook it by slices when hungry.

During cooler weather we had cheese but the heat that disperses and sends off one part of the inhabitants of this place brings on myriads of others called maggots with which we are not Englishmen enough to desire very close acquaintance. Salt mackerels are good, for they are very cheap; we suffer the want of pure cool water—this cannot well be purchased by us—the vegetable market is as good as in any part of America, and very early in the season. Fresh meat we never taste. We see it hanging in the market house and that satisfies us completely. Our rent, washing [and] cook’s wages amount [to] about one dollar and 50 cents per day.

Now, my Lucy, I will proceed by thy letter.

Thou speaketh of a school here. When I arrived I knew not how long I might remain, and had no [art] models, and from week to week expected to go elsewhere. Certainly I have lost a great deal not to have one.

Thou art not it seems daring as I am about leaving one place to go to another without the means. I am sorry for that. I never now will fear want as long as I am well, and God will grant me that, as I have received from Nature my little talents. I would dare go to England without one cent, one single letter of introduction to anyone, and on landing would make shillings or pence if I could not make more but no doubt I would make enough.

Prejudices and habits carry many I think too far—but I am thinking that I can raise the means; I intend to try.

If I do not go to England in the course of twelvemonth we will send
Victor
(do call him) to Lexington College. Hope, my dearest friend, that our sweet [son, John] Woodhouse will lose the habits that make thee at present fear he has not the natural gifts about him. I think his eyes are extremely intelligent, he is quick of movements [and] these are indications of natural sense—but he is yet a boy and has not had the opportunities of Victor to improve. The latter was thy only attention for some years before John required any. I will agree with thee that the education of children is perplexing, but how sweet the recompense to the parent when brought up by themselves only; it is rendered twofold.

Thy liability to
tooth-aching is very dreadful and it is as painful for me to know thou has had it as the drawing of those unsound [teeth] can be to thee. I hope thee and our children, our real friends, my Lucy, are now quite well; if my Lucy would try to amuse herself and have good spirits, she would soon recover and have her flesh again. Dear girl, how much I wish to press thee to my bosom.

I am glad that the neatness of thy house renders it comfortable. The knowledge of thy excellent care insures its cleanliness to last—a well so nigh [to the house] is a real comfort—and when the shutters are to, I hope thy dreads are left. I would like to hear that Victor did thy marketing. Thy stock of cash is small I daresay but I hope to keep it sufficiently good. I daresay the gentlemen of the
[Western] Museum [in Cincinnati, where Audubon had worked] found it hard to send thee anything. Mr. Best, who tells no lies, says he has not received $10 since I left; this however I doubt. I shall speak more of his letter [but am] not willing at present to lose thine from my mind.

I have received a good pair of suspenders, but thou does not say that they are from thy hands. I hope they are; I am so much of a lover yet that every time I will touch them I think & bless the maker. Thank thee, sweet girl, for them …

Here the letter segues to the Fair Incognito episode and then returns to Lucy’s queries
.

Now, sweet girl, to the next question of thy letter, “What will I do with [Audubon’s twenty-year-old pupil and assistant]
Joseph Mason?” As long at least as I travel I shall keep him with me. I have a great pleasure in affording that good young man the means of becoming able to do well. His talent for painting if I am a judge is fine, his expenses very moderate and his company quite indispensable. We have heard [of] his father’s death and on that account I am more attached to him. He now draws flowers better than any man probably in America. Thou knows I do not flatter young artists much; I never said this to him but I think so—and to show his performance will bring me as many pupils as I can attend to, anywhere.

Kenilworth
[the Walter Scott novel] is in town but not for sale; perhaps some of my fair acquaintances will procure it for thee—but can thou enjoy novels without thy liked friend to read them to thee?

It is quite impossible for me to say where my next winter will be spent. Migratory birds or beasts follow the mast. Certainly if it is in this place I shall be, I hope, blessed with thy company.

Music is next. There, my Lucy, I think thou art wrong to abandon it. I should not say so if thou would draw—yet please thyself.

I am glad thou did not accept thy brother Tom’s (as thou calls him) house. We are poor but not beggars, I assure thee.

Here is a part I do not understand well. Mr. [Nicholas] Berthoud, according to thy way of thinking, has
done wonders
for us, and according to my way of thinking he has acted
indeed
wonderfully. But here I must hush—I am a painter and know no more than my business. His silence on the second aid I have been fool enough to ask of him since I have fooled what I had, gags me.

Thank thee, dearest Lucy, for thy good wishes; they are all I want [and] to deserve them, all I am intent on.

Now I have answered every line of thine. This is the third time I have set to write this. There certainly is a copious dose for thee. Good night. I shall continue tomorrow. God bless thee.

May 24th, Saturday—

I have now thine of the 12th instant by the [steamboat]
Car of Commerce
. I have not yet had the pleasure of seeing Mr. Forrestal and I would have wished that the
Columbus
had reached [here]; it would have given me great satisfaction to know thou had received the money I sent thee by it. I am glad thou art satisfied with what I sent thee by the
Car
.

I have not forgotten either thy list or [the] tenor of thy letter and thou shalt receive in time the whole.

I will try to forward thee an orange myrtle and a
cape jessamine, two very different plants, I assure thee. And I hope thou never will be deceived or disappointed more by those to whom thou may have to give things in charge. But my Lucy, thou must not be quite so hard on the world—there are a few yet that are good and do something for others beside themselves …

I must thank thee again & again for this last letter. It is kind and written as if to a beloved friend and may this be or not, I wish to be deceived in that way forever.

Again I have answered all thou asked. I give lessons to a young lady here, of drawing. She is the daughter of a rich widow lady, her name
Eliza Pirrie, and resides near Bayou Sarah during the summer heat. Yesterday I begged to hear her sing and play on the piano; I played with her on a flute and made the mother stare. She was much surprised to hear me sing the notes. This lady asked me if I would go with them and teach her daughter (about 16, an interesting age) until next winter. I am to think of the terms and give an answer. This I have already formed in my mind: she must pay me $100 per month, in advance, furnish us with one room, our board & washing and I will devote one half of each day for her
daughter. It is very high, but I will not go unless I get it. If she accedes I will have a very excellent opportunity of forwarding my collections, being able to draw every day …

Thy brother William’s letter pleases me much and I will answer it shortly; my remembrances to him until then.

I have no doubt now that Mr. Berthoud is determined not to favor me even with a letter. My thanks to him; it will make me use my own powers the more …

Wilt thou not be very fatigued of all the reading necessary to give thee an idea of what I have put down? I think in conscience I may here close.

My future plans are, and will forever be, to do all in my power to enable thee to live with comfort and satisfaction. Wherever I may chance to be carried by circumstances, believe it, my Lucy, and I shall be ever happy and comfortable. Farewell.

Thy true devoted friend,

J. J. Audubon

May 31st 1821

I have thine by the
Columbus
acknowledging the receipt of mine per Manhattan.

Wert thou not to give me hints about money I should be sorry as I know it is as necessary for the support of thy life as thy affection is to the comfort of mine. I admire the family Berthoud’s maxim extremely. I am not afraid of the climate, but I already feel very powerfully the effect of the intense heat on my faculties—I can scarce draw for the perspiration.

I am very sorry that thou art so intent on my
not
returning to thee; if that country we live in cannot feed us why not fly from it? I am sorry thy beloved friend has been so ill … If Mr. Berthoud has wrote me it is more than
I
know of yet. Why, Lucy, do you not cling to your better friend, your husband? Not to boast of my intentions anymore towards thy happiness I will merely say that I am afraid
for thee
. We would be better, much better—happier.

If you have not wrote to your uncle,
do not
. I want no one’s help but those who are not
quite
so engaged about their business. Your great desire that I should stay away is, I must acknowledge, very unexpected. If you can bear to have me go on a voyage of at
least three years without wishing to see me before—I cannot help thinking that Lucy probably would be better pleased should I never return—and so it may be.

Kiss my dear young friends for me, pray.

For life, your really devoted

Audubon

I can scarce hope now to go to the Pacific. My plans, my wishes will forever be abortive. However, I now enclose [for] you what I have for the President [i.e., a letter seeking an appointment to a Pacific expedition]. You may send it or not as you may think best fit. But I assure you that I shall ever remember Clark’s expedition—
and feel my love for you
. Farewell—

June 1st 1821

My dearest girl, I am so sorry of the last part I wrote yesterday, but I then felt miserable. I hope thou wilt look on it as a momentary incident. I love thee so dearly, I feel it so powerfully that I cannot bear anything from thee that has the appearance of coolness. Write me always care of Mr.
Roman Pamar. I will leave in a few days, [I] know not wherefore. God bless thee—I hope the hats will suit our dear boys. Thomas W. Bakewell has wrote me quite a positive and very
brotherly
letter, that I shall never answer.