Mrs. Audubon now made an engagement with a lady at Bayou Sara, to teach her children with her own, and a limited number of pupils. Seeing that his family would now be provided for, "I determined," he says, "to break through all bonds, and pursue my ornithological pursuits. My best friends solemnly regarded me as a madman, and my wife and family alone gave me encouragement. My wife determined that my genius should prevail, and that my final success as an ornithologist should be triumphant."
Blessed faith of woman! Giving a love that knows only self-sacrifice; that braves all, bears all, and finally wins all for its beloved object.
The oldest son, Victor, was placed in the counting-house of a friend at Louisville, and Audubon sought Philadelphia, "as a desperate venture," he says, to see if means could not be obtained to further his work. He took a room, and began to give lessons in drawing. He said plaintively in his journal, "I have now been twenty-five years pursuing my ornithological studies," and yet the book was not written. Fortunately he obtained a letter of introduction to the portrait-painter Sully, "a man after my own heart, and who showed me great kindnesses." He gave Audubon instruction in oil, and would take no pay for it, and the naturalist was "overwhelmed with his goodness." Audubon found another warm-hearted friend,—Edward Harris,—a young ornithologist, who, as he was bidding Audubon good-by, squeezed a hundred-dollar bill into his hand, saying, "Mr. Audubon, accept this from me; men like you ought not to want for money." "I could only express my gratitude," says Audubon, "by insisting on his receiving the drawings of all my French birds, which he did, and I was relieved."
A friend now took him to visit Mill Grove. "As we entered the avenue leading to Mill Grove," he says, "every step brought to my mind the memory of past years, and I was bewildered by the recollections until we reached the door of the house, which had once been the residence of my father as well as myself.... After resting a few moments, I abruptly took my hat, and ran wildly towards the woods, to the grotto where I first heard from my wife the acknowledgment that she was not indifferent to me. It had been torn down, and some stones carted away; but, raising my eyes toward heaven, I repeated the promise we had mutually made. We dined at Mill Grove, and as I entered the parlor I stood motionless, for a moment, on the spot where my wife and myself were forever joined."
He then went to New York, and a friend took him to the Lyceum. "My portfolio was examined by the members of the Institute," he says, "among whom I felt awkward and uncomfortable. After living among such people, I feel clouded and depressed; remember that I have done nothing, and fear I may die unknown, I feel I am strange to all but the birds of America. In a few days I shall be in the woods, and quite forgotten." The next day, he writes in his journal: "My spirits low, and I long for the woods again; but the prospect of becoming known prompts me to remain another day."
From this city he journeyed West. "All trembling I reached the Falls of Niagara, and oh, what a scene! My blood shudders still, although I am not a coward, at the grandeur of the Creator's power; and I gazed motionless on this new display of the irresistible force of one of his elements."
At Buffalo, he took a deck-passage on board a schooner bound for Erie, using his buffalo-robe and blanket to sleep on. At Pittsburg, he spent a month scouring the country for birds, and continued his drawings. Arriving at Cincinnati, he says, "I was beset by claims for the payment of articles which years before had been ordered for the Museum, but from which I got no benefit. Without money, or the means of making it, I applied to Messrs. Keating and Bell for the loan of fifteen dollars; but had not the courage to do so until I had walked past their house several times, unable to make up my mind how to ask the favor. I got the loan cheerfully, and took a deck-passage to Louisville. I was allowed to take my meals in the cabin, and at night slept among some shavings I managed to scrape together. The spirit of contentment which I now feel is strange; it borders on the sublime; and, enthusiast or lunatic, as some of my relatives will have me, I am glad to possess such a spirit."
At last he reached Bayou Sara, and saw his wife; "and, holding and kissing her, I was once more happy, and all my toils and trials were forgotten."
Mrs. Audubon had been extremely fortunate. She was earning nearly three thousand dollars a year. This she offered to her husband to help the publication of the book. He was invited to teach dancing, and a class of sixty was soon organized. From this source he received about two thousand dollars. The tide of fortune had turned at last, and he began to prepare for a trip to England. He was forty-six. Life had been indeed a struggle. He had wandered over the country, with scanty food and poor attire, always in debt, but he had drawn his birds; and now the money was actually in his hands, whereby he could, perhaps, "be known in Europe." And Lucy Audubon had made it possible!
He had gained much by his trials. He had learned what most of us take a life-time to learn, patience; not to speak harshly when others are harsh. He said, "To repay evils with kindness is the religion I was taught to practice, and this will forever be my rule." He had learned that much in life is trivial, that most things are "not matters of life and death;" little worries come to all, and can be borne—the momentous things of life are really few.