George Catlin

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.

I had been stimulated, the whole time whilst making the collection, with the hope that it would be perpetuated on the soil where these ill-fated people have lived and perished; and was constantly encouraged in my labours with the belief that such would be the case.

On my Memorial, a Bill was reported by the Joint Committee on the Library, complimenting me in the strongest terms, and recommending its purchase; but, owing to the sudden commencement of the Mexican war at that time, no action was had upon it, and it now remains to be seen whether the Government will take it up again, or whether the collection will be left, because more highly appreciated, in a foreign land. My unavoidable belief still is, that some measure will be adopted for its preservation in my native country, a monument to those people who have bequeathed to the United States all her dominions, and who are rapidly wasting away; though I have fears that the call for it may be too late, either to gratify my ambition to see it perpetuated amongst the records of my country, or to enable me to feel the reward for my hard labour.

The Bill reported in the Congress I have taken the liberty to insert here, for the very high compliment it conveys, as well as for the benefit it may in some way afford me by the value therein set upon my works.

Bill reported in the American Congress, 1846, for the Purchase of Catlin’s Indian Gallery, July 24th, 1846. Read and laid upon the table. Mr. W. W. Campbell, from the Joint Committee on the Library, made the following Report:—

The Joint Committee on the Library, to whom was referred the Memorial of Mr. Catlin for the purchase of his Gallery of Indian Collections and Paintings; and also the Memorial of American artists abroad, and of American citizens resident in London, respectfully report—

That of Mr. Catlin, who desires to place, on certain conditions, his extensive collection of Indian portraits, costumes, and other objects of interest connected with Indian life, in the possession of the Government, it is hardly necessary to speak, since his reputation is established throughout this country and Europe. A native of the state of Pennsylvania, his early studies were directed to the law, which, under an impulse of enthusiasm that often marks original genius, he soon abandoned for the pencil, stimulated by desire to give to his country exact and spirited representations of the persons, costumes, ceremonies, and homes of the aboriginal inhabitants of this continent, now retreating and gradually vanishing away before the power of civilization. Nor did he devote himself to his enterprises merely to gratify curiosity and preserve memorials of a bold, independent, and remarkable race of men, but to direct attention to certain lofty traits of their character, and excite, generally, friendly sentiments and efforts for their benefit. In making this collection, he expended eight entire years of his life and 20,000 dollars, and visited, often at great hazard of his personal safety, more than forty different (and most of them remote) tribes. Unaided by public or private patronage, he pursued and effected his object, sustained, as he observes, by the ambition of procuring a full and complete pictorial history of a numerous and interesting race of human beings rapidly sinking into oblivion, and encouraged by the belief that the collection would finally be appropriated and protected by the Government of his own country, as a monument to a race once sole proprietors of this country, but who will soon have yielded it up, and with it probably their existence also, to civilized man.

On Mr. Catlin’s return from the western prairies, the attention of Congress was, in 1837 and 1838, turned towards his collection, and a resolution for its purchase was moved in the House, and referred to the Committee on Indian Affairs, who, it is understood, expressed in their report an unanimous opinion in favour of the purchase, though the near approach of the close of the session prevented its being submitted for consideration.

In transferring his collection to Europe, Mr. Catlin had no intention of alienating it, or changing its nationality and destination; but, by its exhibition, sought to secure support for his family, and obtain means of bringing out his great and expensive work on the Indians—a work which has thrown much light upon their character and customs, and been received with distinguished favour on both sides of the Atlantic.

The judgment of our citizens, and that of eminent foreigners, is concurrent in regard to the value of this collection for the illustration of our history, and as a work of art. By desire of the King of France, it now occupies a gallery in the Louvre, and has been highly eulogized by the most distinguished artists and men of science in Paris. A large gold medal has been presented to Mr. Catlin by the King of the Belgians, with a letter expressing a high opinion of his productions.

The American artists now in Paris, in a memorial addressed to Congress, urging the importance of securing this collection to our country, say, “Having made ourselves acquainted with the extent and interest of this unique collection, and of its peculiar interest to our country; and also aware of the encouraging offers now made to its proprietor for its permanent establishment in England, as well as the desire generally manifested here to have it added to the historical gallery of Versailles, we have ventured to unite in the joint expression of our anxiety that the members of the present Congress may pass some resolution that may be the means of restoring so valuable a collection to our country, and fixing it among its records. Interesting to our countrymen generally, it is absolutely necessary to American artists. The Italian who wishes to portray the history of Rome finds remnants of her sons in the Vatican; the French artist can study the ancient Gauls in the museums of the Louvre; and the Tower of London is rich in the armour and weapons of the Saxon race.

“Your memorialists, therefore, most respectfully trust that Mr. Catlin’s collection may be purchased and cherished by the Federal Government, as a nucleus for a national museum, where American artists may freely study that bold race who once held possession of our country, and who are so fast disappearing before the tide of civilization. Without such a collection, few of the glorious pages of our early history can be illustrated, while the use made of it here by French artists, in recording upon canvas the American discoveries of their countrymen in the last century, shows its importance.”

Your Committee feel the justice of these sentiments of American artists, and also the importance, as suggested in their memorial, of securing, by the purchase of his collection, the future efforts of Mr. Catlin for its enlargement. Let the Government appropriate his collection, and the chief ambition of its author’s life will be realized, and he will be enabled, in a few years, to double it in value and extent.

The bill which has recently passed the House for the establishment of the Smithsonian Institution provides that there shall belong to it a “gallery of art;” and of course it must be intended that such gallery shall be occupied by works of art. That such works should be principally American, is the obvious dictate of patriotism. No productions, your Committee believe, at present exist, more appropriate to this gallery than those of Mr. Catlin, or of equal importance. Should Congress fail to act on this subject, or decide unfavourably to Mr. Catlin’s proposal, he may, notwithstanding his reluctance, be compelled to accept the positive and advantageous offers now made to him in England.

The love of art, and respect for those who have cultivated it with success, especially for those who have illustrated, by their productions, the history of their country, have ever been cherished by the most civilized nations. It has been justly observed, that “among the Greeks the arts were not so much objects to promote gratification as of public interest; they were employed as the most powerful stimulants of piety and patriotism, commissioned to confer distinction upon those who were conspicuous for valour, for wisdom, and for virtue. A statue or picture gave celebrity to a city or a state, and a great artist was considered a national ornament—a public benefactor, whom all were bound to honour and reward.”

Your Committee believe the price of his collection, as named by Mr. Catlin, is moderate, and that a failure to obtain it would occasion deep regret to all the friends of art, and to all Americans who reasonably and justly desire to preserve memorials of the Indian race, or the means by which our future artists and historians may illustrate the great and most interesting events in the early periods and progress of our country.

The Committee, therefore, recommend that the bill for the establishment of the Smithsonian Institute be so amended as that provision shall be made therein for the purchase of Mr. Catlin’s gallery at the price mentioned by him—namely, sixty-five thousand dollars—payable in annual instalments of ten thousand dollars.

New York Journal of Commerce, Nov. 12th.

When I had completed the pictures ordered by the King, his Majesty graciously granted me an audience in the Palace of the Tuileries to deliver them, on which occasion he met me with great cheerfulness, and, having received from me a verbal description of each picture, he complimented me on the spirit of their execution, and expressed the highest satisfaction with them, and desired me to attach to the back of each a full written description. The dimensions of these paintings were 30 by 36 inches, and the subjects as follow:—

His Majesty had on several occasions, in former interviews, spoken of the great interest of the scenes of the early history of the French colonies of America, and French explorations and discoveries in those regions, and the subject was now resumed again, as one of peculiar interest, affording some of the finest scenes for the pencil of the artist, which he thought I was peculiarly qualified to illustrate. Additional anecdotes of his rambling life in America were very humorously related; and after the interview I returned to my painting-room, and continued happily engaged at my other pictures, with my familiar sweet smiles and caresses about me.

As a painter often works at his easel with a double thought, one upon the subject he is creating upon the canvas, and the other upon the world that is about him, I kept constantly at work, and pleasantly divided my extra thoughts upon the amusing little tricks that were being played around me, and the contemplation of scenes and events of my life gone by. I ran over its table of contents in this way: “My native valley of Wyoming—the days and recollections of my earliest boyhood in it—my ten years in the valley of the Oc-qua-go, where I held alternately the plough, my rifle, and fishing-tackle—my five years at the classics—my siege with Blackstone and Coke upon Littleton—my three years’ practice of the law in the Courts of Pennsylvania—the five years’ practice of my art of portrait-painting in Philadelphia—my eight years spent amongst the Indian tribes of the prairies and Rocky Mountains—and, since that, my eight years spent in the light of the refined and civilized world, where I have been admitted to Palaces, and into the society of Kings, Queens, and Princes—and now at my easel, in my studio, with my dear little babes around me, thanking Him who has blessed me with them, and courage and health, through all the vicissitudes of my chequered life, and now with strength to stand by and support and protect them.”

I thought also of the King, the wonderful man, with whose benignant and cheerful face I had been so often conversing; whose extraordinary life had been so much more chequered than my own; many of whose early days had been spent on the broad rivers and amongst the dense and gloomy forests of my own country; who, driven by political commotions from his native land, sought an asylum in the United States of America, and there, in the youthful energy of his native character, 52 years ago, crossed and re-crossed the Alleghany Mountains, descended the Ohio river 600 miles in his simple and rickety pirogue, and from the mouth of the Ohio to New Orleans, 1000 miles on the muddy waves of the Mississippi, amidst its dangerous snags and sand-bars, when the banks of those two mighty rivers were inhabited only by savages, whose humble wigwams he entered, and shared their hospitality; who afterwards visited the shores of Lake Erie, and also the Falls of Niagara, before the axe of sacrilegious man had shorn it of its wild and native beauties; who visited the little commencement of the town of Buffalo and the village of the Seneca Indians; who paddled his canoe 90 miles through the Seneca Lake to Ithaca, and from thence travelled by an Indian’s path, with his knapsack on his back, to the Susquehana river, which he descended in an Indian canoe to Wyoming, my native valley; and then on foot, with his knapsack again upon his back, crossed the Wilkesbarre and Pokono Mountains to Easton and Philadelphia; and who consequently thus knew, 52 years ago, more of the great western regions of America, and of the modes of its people, than one of a thousand Americans do at the present day.

I contemplated the character of this extraordinary man, reared in the luxuries of Palaces, thrown thus into the midst of the vast and dreary forests of the Mississippi, launching his fragile boat and staking his life upon its dangerous waves, and laying his wearied limbs upon its damp and foggy banks at night, amidst the howling wolves and rattlesnakes and mosquitoes; and after that, and all these adventures, called, in the commotions of his country, to mount the throne and wield the sceptre over one of the greatest and most enlightened nations of the earth. I beheld this great man in these strange vicissitudes of life, and France, whose helm he took in the midst of a tempest, now raised to the zenith of her national wealth and glory, after 17 years of uninterrupted peace and prosperity. I contemplated the present wealth and health of that nation and her institutions, her grand internal improvements, and cultivation of science and the arts; and I reflected also, with equal pleasure and surprise, on what I had seen with my own eyes, the greatness of soul of that monarch as he was taking the poor Indians of the forest by the hand in his Palace, and expressing to them the gratitude he never yet had lost sight of, that he bore them for the kindness with which their tribes everywhere treated him when he entered their wigwams, hungry, on the banks of the Mississippi and the great lakes in America. He had the frankness and truthfulness to tell them that “he loved them,” for the reasons he had given, and the kindness of heart to convince them of his sincerity in the way that carries the most satisfactory conviction to the mind of an Indian as well as it often does to that of a white man.

These contemplations were rapid and often repeated, and there were many more; and they never passed through my mind without compelling me to admire and revere the man whose energy of character and skill have enabled him, with like success, to steer his pirogue amidst the snags of the Mississippi, and at the helm of his nation, to guide her out of the tempest of a revolution, and onward, through a reign of peace and industry, to wealth and power, to which she never before has attained. In the midst of such reflections I often strolled alone in a contemplative mood through the wilderness throngs of the Boulevards—the great central avenue and crossing-place—the aorta of all the circulating world—to gaze upon the endless throng of human beings sweeping by me, bent upon their peculiar avocations of business or of pleasure—of virtue or of vice; contrasting the glittering views about me with the quiet and humble scenes I had witnessed in various parts of my roaming life.

In the midst of this sweeping throng, knowing none and unknown, I found I could almost imagine myself in the desert wilderness, with as little to disturb the current of contemplative thoughts as if I were floating down the gliding current of the Missouri in my bark canoe, in silent contemplation of the rocks and forests on its banks.

In a different mood, also, I as often left my easel and mingled with the throng, with my little chattering children by my side, forgetting to think, and with eyes like theirs, scanned the thousands and tens of thousands of pretty things displayed in the shops, and whiled away in perfect bliss, as others do, an hour upon the pavements of the Boulevards.

The reader has learned, from various books, the features of this splendid scene, with all its life and din and glittering toys, and of Paris, with its endless mysteries, and beauties, and luxuries, and vices, which it is not the province of this work to describe; but from all that he has read he may not yet know how completely he may be lost sight of in the crowds of the Boulevards, and what positive retirement he may find and enjoy, unknowing and unknown, if he wishes to do so, in his apartments in the centre of Paris, where his neighbours are certainly the nearest and most numerous in the world.

In London and New York one often thinks it strange that he knows not his neighbours by the side of him; but in Paris, those on the sides are seldom taken into consideration as such, and so little do people know of, or care for, each other’s business, that few have any acquaintance with their neighbours above and below them.

The circumscribed limits of the city, and the density of its population, enable the Parisians to make a glittering display in the streets, in the brilliancy and taste of which they no doubt outdo any other people in the world. The close vicinity of its inhabitants, and the facility with which they get into the streets, and the tens of thousands of inducements that tempt them there, tend to the concentration of fashion and gaiety in the principal avenues and arcades, which, in the pleasant evenings of spring and summer, seem converted into splendid and brilliant salons, with the appearance of continuous and elegant soirÉes. To these scenes all Parisians and all foreigners are alike admitted, to see and enjoy the myriads of sights to be seen in the shop-windows, as well as to most of the splendid collections of works of literature and the arts, which, being under the Government control, are free to the inspection of all who wish to see them. Amidst most of these I have been, like thousands of others, a visitor and admirer for two years, seeking for information and amusement—for study and contemplation—alone; or enjoying them in company with my little children, or travelling friends, for whose aid and amusement I have as often given my time.

The reader will here see that I have before me the materials for another book, but as the object of this work is attained, and its limits approached, with my known aversion to travel over frequented ground, I must refer him to other pens than mine for what I might have written had I the room for it, and had it not been written twenty times before.

The little bit of my life thus spent in the capital of France, though filled with anxieties and grief, has had its pleasant parts, having seen much to instruct and amuse me, and having also met with, as in London, many warm friends, to whom I shall feel attached as long as I live. In the English society in Paris I met a number of my London friends, where the acquaintance was renewed, with great kindness on their parts, and with much pleasure to myself.

I met also many American families residing in Paris; and, added to their numbers, the constant throng of Americans who are passing to and from the classic ground of the East, or making their way across the Atlantic to the French metropolis, and swelling their occasional overflowing and cheerful soirÉes. At these I saw many of the Élite and fashionable of the French, and noticed also, and much to my regret, as well as surprise, that, in the various intercourse I had in different classes, the Americans generally mixed less with the English than the French society.

This is probably attributable in a great degree to the passion which English and Americans have, in their flying visits to the city of all novelties, to see and study something new, instead of spending their valuable time with people of their own family and language, whom and whose modes they can see at home. This I deem a pity; and though among the passing travellers the cause is easily applied, and the excuse as easily accepted, yet among the resident English and Americans, of whom there are a great many and fashionable families, there seems a mutual unsocial and studied reserve, which stands in the way of much enjoyment, that I believe lies at the doors of kindred people in a foreign land.

My time, however, was so much engrossed with anxieties and grief and my application to my art, that I shared but moderately in the pleasures of any society; and the few observations I have been able to make I have consequently drawn from less intercourse than has been had by many others, who have more fully described than I could do had this book been written for the purpose.

My interviews with society in this part of the world, as far as they have been held, have been general, and my observations, I believe, have been unbiassed. And as I mingled with society to see and enjoy, but not to describe, my remarks in this place, on the society and manners of Parisians and people in Paris, must end here, and necessarily be thus brief, to come within the bounds of my intentions in commencing this work.

The society which fascinated me most and called for all my idle hours was that of my four dear little children, whose arms, having been for ever torn from the embrace of an affectionate mother, were ready to cling to my neck whenever I quitted the toils of my painting-room. There was a charm in that little circle of society which all the fascinations of the fashionable world could never afford me, and I preferred the simple happiness that was thus sweetly spread around me to the amusements and arts of matured and fashionable life.

The days and nights and weeks and months of my life were passing on whilst my house rang with the constant notes of my little girls and my dear little “Tambour Major,” producing a glow of happiness in my life, as its hours were thus carolled away, which I never before had attained to.

My happiness was here too complete to last long, and, as the sequel will show, like most precious gifts, was too confidently counted on to continue. A sudden change came over this pleasing dream of life; the cheering notes of my little companions were suddenly changed into groans, and my occupations at my easel were at an end. The chirping and chattering in the giddy maze of their little dances were finished, and, having taken to their beds, my occupation was changed to their bedsides, where they were all together writhing in the agonies of disease, and that of so serious a nature as to require all my attention by night and by day, and at length anxieties of the most painful kind, and alarm—of grief, and a broken heart! To those of my readers who have ever set their whole heart upon and identified their existence with that of a darling little boy, and wept for him, it is unnecessary—and to those who have never been blessed with such a gift it would be useless—for me to name the pangs that broke my heart for the fate of my little “Tambour Major,” who, in that unlucky hour, thoughtlessly relinquishing all his little toys, laid down with his three little sisters, to run the chances with them, and then to be singled out as he was by the hand of death.

In kindness the reader will pardon these few words that flow in tears from the broken and burning heart of a fond father; they take but a line or two, and are the only monument that will be raised to the memory of my dear little George, who lived, in the sweetness of his innocence, to gladden and then to break the heart of his doating parent, the only one while he was living, to appreciate his loveliness, and now the only one to mourn for him. The remains of this dear little fellow were sent to New York, as a lovely flower to be planted by the grave of his mother, and thus were my pleasures and peace in Paris ended. Two idols of my heart had thus vanished from me there, leaving my breast with a healing and a fresh wound, to be opened and bleeding together. My atelier had lost all its charms; the escalier also was dreary, for its wonted echoing and enlivening notes had ceased; and the beautiful pavement of the Place Madeleine, which was under my windows, and the daily resort, with his hoop and his drum, of my little “Tambour Major.”

The Boulevards also, and the Champs ElysÉes, and the garden of the Tuileries, the scenes of our daily enjoyment, were overcast with a gloom, and I left them all.

At the time of writing this my heart flies back and daily hovers about the scenes of so many endearing associations, while my hand is at work seeking amusement and forgetfulness at my easel. I have before said that the practice of my art is to be the principal ambition of the rest of my life; and as the beginning of this chapter found me in my atelier in Paris, the end of it leaves me in my studio at No. 6, Waterloo Place, in London, with my collection, my thousands of studies, and my little children about me where I shall be hereafter steadily seeking the rational pleasures and benefits I can draw from them; and where my friends and the world who value me or my works may find me without ceremony, and will be greeted, amongst the numerous and curious works in my collection, enumerated in the catalogue which I have given, for the amusement and benefit of the reader, at the end of my first volume.