CHAPTER XXXI.
The Author returns to his little children in Paris—His loss of time and money—The three Indian speculations—His efforts to promote the interests of the Indians, and the persons who brought them to Europe—His advice to other persons wishing to engage in similar enterprises—The Author retires to his atelier, and paints the fifteen pictures for the King—The pleasure of quiet and retirement with his four little children around him—He offers his Indian Collection to the American Government—And sends his memorial to Congress—Bill reported in favour of the purchase—The Author has an interview with the King in the Tuileries—Delivers the fifteen pictures—Subjects of the pictures painted—Conversations with the King—Reflections upon his extraordinary life—The Author’s thoughts, while at his easel, upon scenes of his life gone by—And those that were about him, as he strolled, with his little children, through the streets and society of Paris—Distressing and alarming illness of the Author’s four little children—Kindness of sympathizing friends—Death of “little George”—His remains sent to New York, and laid by the side of his mother—A father’s tears and loneliness—The Author returns with his Collection to London.
The commencement of this chapter finds me at my easel, in a comfortable atelier in my own apartments in Paris, where I had retired, with my little children about me, to paint the fifteen pictures for the King, and others for which I had some standing orders.
My collection was at this time placed in a magazine in the vicinity of my dwelling, and my faithful man Daniel still continued his charge over it, keeping it in repair, and plying between it and my painting-room when I required models from my collection to work from.
The true measure of ordinary happiness I have long believed to be the amount of distress or anxiety we have escaped from; and in this instance I felt, retired from the constant anxieties I had lived under for the last six or seven years, demanding all my time, and holding my hand from my easel, as if I could be happy, even in my grief, with my four dear little children around me, whom their kind mother had but a few months before, in her dying breath, committed to my sole keeping and protection.
My house, though there was a gloom about it, had a melancholy charm from its associations, whilst its halls were enlivened by the notes of my little innocents, who were just old enough for my amusement, and too young fully to appreciate the loss they had sustained, and whose little arms were now concentrated about my neck, as the only one to whom they claimed kindred and looked for protection.
My dear little namesake, George, and my only boy, then three years and a half old, was my youngest, and, being the only one of my little flock to perpetuate my name, had adopted my painting-room as his constant play-house, and, cronies as we had become there, our mutual enjoyment was as complete as my happiness was, in the dependence I was placing on him for the society of my future days. His first passion, like that of most children, had been for the drum, with which, slung upon his back, with drumsticks in hand, he made my atelier and apartments ring, and never was happier or more proud than when we addressed him as “Tambour Major,” by which name he familiarly went, and to which he as promptly answered.
Besides the company of this dear little fellow, I had the sweet society of my three little girls, of ten, eight, and six years old, and with all, and the pleasures at my easel, I counted myself in the enjoyments of life that I would have been unwilling for any consideration to part with. I thus painted on, dividing my time between my easel, my little children, and the few friends I had in Paris, resolving and re-resolving to devote the remainder of my life to my art, being in possession of the fullest studies from nature to enable me to illustrate the early history of my country in its various dealings with the Indian tribes of America; and in these labours I also with pleasure resolved to continue my efforts to do justice to their character and their memory.
The American Congress was at that time in session, with a surplus revenue in the treasury of more than 12,000,000 of dollars; and, deeming it an auspicious time, I proposed the sale of my collection by my Memorial, to that body, believing there was sympathy enough for the poor Indians in my country, and disposition to preserve all the records of this dying race, to induce the Congress to purchase the collection as connected with the history of the country.