THE AUDUBON MONUMENT IN NEW YORK CITY. 221 



appreciated this fact, and was more ready to acknowledge it, 

 than the simple, frank and enthusiastic author of the ' Birds of 

 North America.' He never made pretence to be more than he 

 really was. He never claimed to be anything higher than a 

 lover of animals, but in this road he occupied the foremost place 

 and has gathered imperishable fame. He was a painstaking 

 observer, a field naturalist, who, daunted by no difficulties, 

 penetrated the unknown forests, encountered with cheerful 

 courage unknown perils, privation, hunger, cold, storms and 

 heat, to procure specimens which afterwards were made to live 

 again in the pages of his great work. He was the type of 

 that class of naturalists whose labours produce the means by 

 which his more scientific brothers are enabled to reach definite 

 conclusions. 



Audubon returned from his last expedition in October, 

 1843, and immediately began to work upon his ' Quadrupeds 

 of America,' the first volume appearing two years later. He 

 lived on his place now known as Audubon Park, at that time 

 far removed from the bricks, dust, and grime of the great 

 city, which he could never tolerate. The first volume of the 

 * Quadrupeds ' was his last work. He retained his simple habits, 

 passing much of his time in the woods, or at his easel, but he was 

 verging towards three score and ten, and while he loved all his 

 pursuits, was as eager as ever. The number of his accomplished 

 years had tempered the ardour of his energetic spirit, and the 

 fire of his youthful passions was gradually lapsing into a fitful 

 glow. "My life," he wrote, "was peaceful and happy, surrounded 

 by all the members of my dear family, enjoying the affection of 

 numerous friends, and possessing sufficient share of all that 

 contributes to make life agreeable, I lift my grateful eyes toward 

 the Supreme Being, and feel that I am happy." 



One day he discovered that he could not adjust his glasses so 

 as to find a focus upon his canvas, and from that moment he 

 began to fail. The devoted wife, who had always been his main 

 stay throughout his checkered career, now never left him, read to 

 him, and during his walks about the grounds, which stretched to 

 the banks of the Hudson, was always at his side, but the once 

 erect, lithe and agile figure was now lost in the feeble form of an 

 aged man. Towards the last another shadow fell upon him ; 

 his mind failed, and his eye, noted for its brightness, became 



