Chapter VI: Part 6

Poor Audubon! with his lessening hope of "becoming known to Europe." His wife had come to Natchez and obtained a position as teacher, similar to the one she had held in New Orleans. Poverty had tested their love, but it had stood the test. Audubon had made a copy of the "Death of Montgomery;" and for this friends raffled, and gave him the proceeds, three hundred dollars, and the picture also.

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.

April 26, 1826, Audubon sailed for England. Arriving at Liverpool, he was able to arrange for the display of his drawings at the Liverpool Exhibition. The entrance fee was one shilling, and the receipts were from fifteen to twenty dollars a day. Surely fame was coming at last. Lord Stanley spent five hours in examining the collection, and said, "This work is unique, and deserves the patronage of the Crown." He invited Audubon to visit him at his town house in Grosvenor Square. The naturalist made portraits of various friends who were desirous of obtaining specimens of his drawing. From the exhibition of his pictures in Liverpool he realized five hundred dollars.

From this city he went to Manchester, and from thence to Edinburgh. Here he met the naturalist Professor Jameson, who promised to introduce his book to the public in his "Natural History Magazine." Professor Wilson (Christopher North) volunteered to introduce Audubon to Sir Walter Scott. Audubon was asked to sit for his portrait. The Royal Institution offered their rooms for the exhibition of his drawings, and the receipts were from twenty-five to seventy-five dollars a day.

Truly things had changed, since those desolate days in America, when he slept on the deck of a steamboat, because unable to pay for a bed, and could not summon the courage to ask the loan of fifteen dollars.

Invited to dine with the Antiquarian Society, he met Lord Elgin, who presided, and was obliged to respond to a flattering toast, which made him "feel very faint and chill. I was expected to make a speech," he says, "but could not, and never had tried. Being called on for a reply, I said, 'Gentlemen, my incapacity for words to respond to your flattering notice is hardly exceeded by that of the birds now hanging on the walls of your institution. I am truly obliged to you for your favors, and can only say, God bless you all, and may your society prosper.' I sat down with the perspiration running over me."

Professor Wilson prepared an article upon Audubon and his work for "Blackwood's Magazine." His picture was hung in the Exhibition room. He was made a member of the Wernerian Natural History Society, and of the Royal Society. He was pleased, and said, "So, poor Audubon, if not rich, thou wilt be honored at least, and held in high esteem among men."

No wonder he wrote to his wife: "My success in Edinburgh borders on the miraculous. My book is to be published in numbers, containing four birds in each, the size of life, in a style surpassing anything now existing, at two guineas a number. The engravings are truly beautiful; some of them have been colored, and are now on exhibition.... I expect to visit the Duke of Northumberland, who has promised to subscribe for my work.... One hundred subscribers for my book will pay all expenses. Some persons are terrified at the sum of one hundred and eighty guineas for a work,"--nearly a thousand dollars,--"but this amount is to be spread over eight years, during which time the volumes will be gradually completed. I am feted, feasted; elected honorary member of societies, making money by my exhibition and by my paintings. It is Mr. Audubon here, and Mr. Audubon there, and I can only hope that Mr. Audubon will not be made a conceited fool at last." There was no fear of this. He always remained the modest, earnest, devoted student of nature.

He read before the Natural History Society a paper on the habits of the wild pigeon. He says, "I began that paper on Wednesday, wrote all day, and sat up until half-past three the next morning; and so absorbed was my whole soul and spirit in the work, that I felt as if I were in the woods of America among the pigeons, and my ears were filled with the sound of their rustling wings. After sleeping a few hours, I rose and corrected it.... Captain Hall expressed some doubts as to my views respecting the affection and love of pigeons, as if I made it human, and raised the possessors quite above the brutes. I presume the love of the mothers for their young is much the same as the love of woman for her offspring. There is but one kind of love; God is love, and all his creatures derive theirs from his: only it is modified by the different degrees of intelligence in different beings and creatures."

With all this attention, his heart was never callous to suffering. "I was sauntering along the streets," he says, "thinking of the beautiful aspects of nature, meditating on the power of the great Creator, on the beauty and majesty of his works, and on the skill he had given man to study them, when the whole train of my thoughts was suddenly arrested by a ragged, sickly-looking beggar boy. His face told of hunger and hardship, and I gave him a shilling and passed on. But turning again, the child was looking after me, and I beckoned to him to return. Taking him back to my lodgings, I gave him all the garments I had which were worn, added five shillings more in money, gave him my blessing, and sent him away rejoicing, and feeling myself as if God had smiled on me."

There is no sympathy so sweet as that born of experience. Noble-hearted Audubon! God had indeed "smiled on him." Hereafter he was to walk in the sunlight of that smile. He was to work, of course, for there is no approbation for idleness, but he was to know want no more.

March 17, 1827, he issued the prospectus of his book, which was to cost him over one hundred thousand dollars. Here was courage, but he had been fighting obstacles all his life, and he believed he could succeed. In this he said, "The author has not contented himself, as others have done, with single profile views, but in very many instances has grouped his figures so as to represent the originals at their natural avocations, and has placed them on branches of trees, decorated with foliage, blossoms, and fruits, or amidst plants of numerous species. Some are seen pursuing their prey through the air, searching for food amongst the leaves and herbage, sitting in their nests, or feeding their young; whilst others, of a different nature, swim, wade, or glide in or over their allotted element."

Leaving Edinburgh, Audubon visited Newcastle, Leeds, York, Shrewsbury, and Manchester, securing a few subscribers to his work, at one thousand dollars each. It seemed difficult enough to spend a lifetime in preparing the book, without being obliged to perform the irksome and trying task of selling it; but fame asks Herculean labors of its votaries.

Often he was pained by ill-mannered refusals. How few are like Longfellow, who could say "no" so kindly, that it almost seemed like "yes." Audubon tells, in his journal, of an interview with the great banker Rothschild. On opening the letter brought by the naturalist, the baron said, "This is only a letter of introduction, and I expect from its contents that you are the publisher of some book or other, and need my subscription."

No man can be truly great who knows how to be uncivil!

"Sir," he added, "I never sign my name to any subscription list, but you may send in your work and I will pay for a copy of it. I am busy, I wish you good-morning."

When the book was sent, the baron exclaimed, "What, two hundred pounds for birds! Why, sir, I will give you five pounds, and not a farthing more!" This offer was "declined with thanks," and the book taken back to the publishers.

Very different from Rothschild was Sir Thomas Lawrence, the painter. Overwhelmed with work, he insisted on Audubon's remaining to his simple breakfast of boiled eggs and coffee, called at his rooms later, examined his drawings, and said he would bring a few purchasers, that very day. "In about two hours," says Audubon, "he returned with two gentlemen, to whom he did not introduce me, but who were pleased with my work, and one purchased the 'Otter Caught in a Trap,' for which he gave me twenty pounds sterling, and the other, 'A Group of Common Rabbits,' for fifteen sovereigns. I took the pictures to the carriage which stood at the door, and they departed, leaving me more amazed than I had been by their coming.

"The second visit was much of the same nature, differing, however, chiefly in the number of persons he brought with him, which was three instead of two; each one of whom purchased a picture, at seven, ten, and thirty-five pounds respectively; and, as before, the party and the pictures left together in a splendid carriage with liveried footmen. I longed to know their names, but, as Sir Thomas was silent respecting them, I imitated his reticence in restraining my curiosity, and remained in mute astonishment....

"Without the sale of these pictures, I was a bankrupt, when my work was scarcely begun, and in two days more I should have seen all my hopes of the publication blasted; for Mr. Havell, the engraver, had already called to say that on Saturday I must pay him sixty pounds. I was then not only not worth a penny, but had actually borrowed five pounds a few days before, to purchase materials for my pictures. But these pictures which Sir Thomas sold for me enabled me to pay my borrowed money, and to appear full-handed when Mr. Havell called. Thus I passed the Rubicon!"

Blessings on thee, Sir Thomas Lawrence, carrying out Emerson's divine motto, "Help somebody!"

But Audubon did something more than try to obtain subscribers for his book. He says: "At that time I painted all day, and sold my work during the dusky hours of evening, as I walked through the Strand and other streets where the Jews reigned; popping in and out of Jew shops or any others, and never refusing the offers made me for the pictures I carried fresh from the easel. Startling and surprising as this may seem, it is nevertheless true, and one of the curious events of my most extraordinary life. Let me add here, that I sold seven copies of the 'Entrapped Otter,' in London, Manchester, and Liverpool, besides one copy presented to my friend Mr. Richard Rathbone. In other pictures, also, I have sold from seven to ten copies, merely by changing the course of my rambles; and strange to say, that when, in after years and better times, I called on the different owners to whom I had sold the copies, I never found a single one in their hands."

Painting all day, and selling his pictures at night along the streets of London, all to bring out the "Birds of America!" What a life history is between the leaves of that great work!

Sometimes, in his wanderings, he met poverty that made him "sick of London;" an artist making caricatures, while his wife and six little children begged; but he always gave part of what he had, and went back to his work, more than ever determined to win.

September 1, 1828, Audubon went to Paris, going first to Baron Cuvier. He was busy--who is not that accomplishes anything?--and, while he cordially invited Audubon to dine, went on studying a small lizard. "Great men show politeness in a particular way," says Audubon; "they receive you without much demonstration; a smile suffices to assure you that you are welcome, and keep about their avocations as if you were a member of the family."

Cuvier made a report of Audubon's work to the Academy of Sciences. He said, "It may be described in a few words as the most magnificent monument which has yet been erected to ornithology.... Formerly the European naturalists were obliged to make known to America the riches she possessed.... If that of Mr. Audubon should be completed, we shall be obliged to acknowledge that America, in magnificence of execution, has surpassed the world."

Audubon also made the acquaintance of Baron Humboldt, Geoffrey Saint-Hilaire, and of Gerard, the painter, who said, "You are the king of ornithological painters. We are all children in France or Europe. Who would have expected such things from the woods of America!"

After two months in Paris, he returned to London, and soon sailed for America. Once on his native soil, he says, "My heart swelled with joy, and all seemed like a pleasant dream at first; but as soon as the reality was fairly impressed on my mind, tears of joy rolled down my cheeks. I clasped my hands, and fell on my knees, and, raising my eyes to heaven, I offered my thanks to our God, that he had preserved and prospered me in my long absence, and once more permitted me to approach these shores so dear to me, and which hold my heart's best earthly treasures."

He soon reached the Bayou Sara, and "came suddenly on my dear wife: we were both overcome with emotion, which found relief in tears."

He remained with his wife three months, collecting birds and making drawings, and then both sailed together for England.

During his absence he had been made a fellow of the Royal Society of London, much to his delight. Now that his "Birds of America" was coming out, he began earnestly upon a new work, "Ornithological Biography of the Birds of America," containing nearly three thousand pages, and published for him by Mr. Black of Edinburgh. Two publishers refused this famous work, and Audubon published at his own expense. The first volume was finished in three months, and Mrs. Audubon copied it entire to send to America to secure copyright.

Audubon worked untiringly. He wrote all day long, and "so full was my mind of birds and their habits, that in my sleep I continually dreamed of birds."

The "Birds of America" received good reviews in "Blackwood's Magazine," and elsewhere. Audubon said, "I have balanced my accounts with the 'Birds of America,' and the whole business is really wonderful; forty thousand dollars have passed through my hands for the completion of the first volume. Who would believe that a lonely individual, who landed in England without a friend in the whole country, and with only sufficient pecuniary means to travel through it as a visitor, could have accomplished such a task as this publication! Who would believe that once, in London, Audubon had only one sovereign left in his pocket, and did not know of a single individual to whom he could apply to borrow another, when he was on the verge of failure in the very beginning of his undertaking! And, above all, who would believe that he extricated himself from all his difficulties, not by borrowing money, but by rising at four o'clock in the morning, working hard all day, and disposing of his works at a price which a common laborer would have thought little more than sufficient remuneration for his work!"

In the four years required to bring out the work, fifty-six of his subscribers, representing the sum of fifty-six thousand dollars, abandoned him, and he was obliged to leave London, and go into the provinces to supply their places.

September 3, 1831, Audubon returned to America, spent the winter in Eastern Florida, searching for birds and animals, and then some months in Labrador, having sent Victor to England to superintend the engraving of the drawings. In Labrador he collected one hundred and seventy-three skins of birds, and studied carefully the habits of the eider-duck, loons, wild geese, and other birds. Sometimes he was so weary from drawing that "my neck and shoulders, and most of all my fingers, have ached from the fatigue. The fact is, I am growing old too fast, alas! I feel it, and yet work I will, and may God grant me life to see the last plate of my mammoth work finished.

"Labrador is so grandly wild and desolate," he said, "that I am charmed by its wonderful dreariness.... And yet how beautiful it is now, when your eye sees the wild bee, moving from one flower to another in search of food, which doubtless is as sweet to her as the essence of the orange and magnolia is to her more favored sister in Louisiana. The little ring-plover rearing its delicate and tender young; the eider-duck swimming man-of-war-like amid her floating brood, like the guardship of a most valuable convoy; the white-crowned bunting's sonorous note reaching your ears ever and anon; the crowds of sea-birds in search of places wherein to repose or to feed."

On his return from Labrador, he went to Philadelphia, where he was arrested for one of his old partnership debts, and would have been taken to prison except for a friend who kindly offered bail. From here he went to the house of an old friend, Rev. John Bachman of Charleston, S. C., whose two daughters subsequently married the two sons of Audubon, Victor and John. He returned to London, and in 1834 and 1835 published the second and third volumes of the "Ornithological Biography."

In 1836 he came back to America for further research, and received a warm welcome from distinguished men. Daniel Webster and Washington Irving became his earnest friends. The latter said that his work "was highly creditable to the nation," and deserved "national patronage." He dined with Andrew Jackson at the White House. On his return to England he wrote the fourth volume of the "Ornithological Biography," and the fifth the following year.

This year, 1839, he returned to America to spend the rest of his life, purchased a home on the banks of the Hudson in upper New York, which he called "Minnie's Land," the Scotch word for mother, this being the name by which he generally addressed his wife, to whom he left the whole of it at his death.

He was now sixty, but his work was not done. He immediately began to bring out his "Birds of America" in seven octavo volumes, with the figures reduced and lithographed. He exhibited in New York his wonderful collection of drawings, several thousands of birds and animals, all the size of life, by his own hands.

In 1843, taking his son Victor, he started on an expedition to the Yellowstone River, to collect animals and drawings for another great work, the "Quadrupeds of North America." After nearly a year he returned, and began his book. In two years the first volume was ready; but after this he could do no more. The rest of the great work was finished by his sons after his death.

In 1848 the quick, active mind failed. His wife read to him, led him like a child, and at the last fed him. One, at least, had never failed him, since the day when she gave the money she earned to send him to Europe to win renown.

On Thursday morning, January 27, 1851, the eyes dulled for so long once more showed their former lustre and beauty. Audubon did not speak, but he seemed to know that the time had come for the last journey. He reached out his arms, clasped the hands of his wife and children, and died.

Four days later, surrounded by distinguished friends, he was buried in Trinity Church cemetery, where his sons now rest beside him. A singularly guileless, sweet-natured man, who willed to do all this great work when a boy, and achieved it when a man, because he had willed it.

Well says General James Grant Wilson, in the life of Audubon so admirably prepared by his wife, "Long after the bronze statue of the naturalist, that we hope soon to see erected in the Central Park, shall have been wasted and worn beyond recognition by the winds and rains of Heaven, while the towering and snow-covered peak of the Rocky Mountains known as Mount Audubon shall rear its lofty head among the clouds, while the little wren chirps about our homes and the robin and reed-bird sing in the green meadows, while the melody of the mocking-bird is heard in the cypress swamps of Louisiana, or the shrill scream of the eagle on the frozen shores of the Northern seas, the name of John James Audubon, the gifted artist, the ardent lover of nature, and the admirable writer, will live in the hearts of his grateful countrymen."

SAMUEL FINLEY BREESE MORSE.

Samuel F. B. Morse was born at the foot of Breed's Hill, Charlestown, Mass., April 27, 1791. He was the eighth child in a family of eleven children, all of whom, except three sons, Samuel, Richard, and Sidney, died in their infancy.

The father, Jedediah Morse, was a doctor of divinity, having studied under Jonathan Edwards, and was also a journalist and writer of books. He helped to establish the "Boston Recorder," now the "Congregationalist," and with others laid the foundations of the Theological Seminary at Andover, the American Board of Foreign Missions, the American Bible Society, and the American Tract Society. He was an impulsive, hopeful man of wonderful energy, and, as Daniel Webster said, he was "always thinking, always writing, always talking, always acting."

His wife, Elizabeth Ann Breese, was the granddaughter of Samuel Finley, President of Princeton College, a woman of strong will, excellent judgment, and extremely pleasant manners. From the one, the boy Finley inherited energy and hope; from the other, agreeable manners and indomitable perseverance.

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At four years of age Finley was sent to a school near the parsonage, kept by "Old Ma'am Rand." Being an invalid, she governed with a long rattan which reached from her chair across the schoolroom. Finley, early developing artistic tastes, sketched the teacher's face with a pin on a chest of drawers. Probably the picture was not handsome, for the offender was punished by being pinned to her dress. Breaking away, and carrying part of the dress with him, the rattan did its appropriate work!

At seven he was sent to a school at Andover, and fitted for Phillips Academy. He received helpful letters from his father. At ten, Dr. Morse writes him: "Your natural disposition, my dear son, renders it proper for me earnestly to recommend to you to _attend to one thing at a time_; it is impossible that you can do two things well at the same time, and I would therefore never have you attempt it. Never undertake to do what ought not to be done, and then, whatever you undertake, endeavor to do it in the best manner. It is said of DeWitt, a celebrated statesman in Holland, who was torn to pieces in the year 1672, that he did the whole business of the republic, and yet had time left to go to assemblies in the evening, and sup in company.

"Being asked how he could possibly find time to go through so much business, and yet amuse himself in the evenings as he did, he answered: 'There was nothing so easy, for that it was only doing one thing at a time, and never putting off anything till to-morrow that could be done to-day.' This steady and undissipated attention to one object is a sure mark of a superior genius, as hurry, bustle, and agitation are the never-failing symptoms of a weak and frivolous mind."

At this early age Finley pored over Plutarch's "Lives of Illustrious Men," and resolved, as many another boy from reading these volumes, to be somebody. There is scarcely a more important thing for a child than that parents should put into his or her hands stimulating and helpful books. When Finley was thirteen, he wrote a sketch of the "Life of Demosthenes," and sent it to his father.

At fourteen he was admitted to the Freshman class at Yale, but did not attend college till the following year. He was a good scholar in geometry and history, but was especially fond of natural philosophy and chemistry. Under Professor Jeremiah Day he began to study electricity, and witnessed the following experiments with great interest: "Let the fluid pass through a chain, or through any metallic bodies placed at small distances from each other, the fluid in a dark room will be visible between the links of the chain, or between the metallic bodies.... If the circuit be interrupted by several folds of paper, a perforation will be made through it, and each of the leaves will be protruded by the stroke from the middle to the outward leaves."

Writing upon this subject sixty years afterward, Morse said, "The fact that the presence of electricity can be made visible in any desired part of the circuit was the crude seed which took root in my mind, and grew up into form, and ripened into the invention of the telegraph."

Under Professor Benjamin Silliman, a name greatly honored in science, Morse found great delight and profit. He wrote to his parents, that he should bring home "a chemical trough, gun-barrels, retorts, etc."

With this fondness for science, Morse showed a decided ability in art. He took pictures of his classmates, at one dollar each, and miniatures on ivory at five dollars each, thus helping to pay his expenses. The price charged was very low, but possibly it was all the pictures were worth, for as yet he had never taken a lesson.

Long before his college course was at an end, he had decided to become a painter, probably much against the unspoken wishes of his parents, who must have felt that poverty would be his companion, for some years, at best.

On going home to Charlestown, he attended a course of anatomical and surgical lectures in Boston. Washington Allston, then at the head of his profession in America, had spent two years in Boston, and was about to return to Europe. Morse went with him and took lodgings in London. At once he wrote home, "I only wish you had this letter now to relieve your minds from anxiety, for while I am writing I can imagine mother wishing that she could hear of my arrival, and thinking of thousands of accidents which may have befallen me. I _wish that in an instant I could communicate the information; but three thousand miles are not passed over in an instant, and we must wait four long weeks before we can hear from each other_."

On the outside of this letter, yellow with age, he wrote toward the end of his life, "LONGING FOR A TELEGRAPH EVEN IN THIS LETTER."

In London he soon met Benjamin West, born in Springfield, Penn., then at the head of the Royal Academy in England. He had been poor and obscure; now he was distinguished, and courted even by royalty. Morse, ever ambitious, soon arranged to study under West, and became his devoted admirer. He wrote home: "Mr. West is in his seventy-fourth year, but to see him you would suppose him only about five-and-forty.... He expressed great attachment to his native country, and he told me, as a proof of it, he presented them with this large picture ('Christ Healing the Sick'). I walked through his gallery of paintings of his own production. There were upwards of two hundred, consisting principally of the original sketches of his large pieces. He has painted in all upward of six hundred pictures, which is more than any artist ever did, with the exception of Rubens. Mr. West is so industrious now that it is hard to get access to him, and then only between the hours of nine and ten in the morning. He is working on eight or nine different pieces at present, and seems to be more enthusiastic than he ever was before.... No man, perhaps, ever passed through so much abuse, and I am confident no one ever bore up against its insolence with more nobleness of spirit. With a steady perseverance in the pursuit of the sublimest profession, he has travelled on, heedless of his enemies, till he is sure of immortality.

"Excuse my fervor in the praise of this extraordinary man.... I think there can be no stronger proof that human nature is the same always, than that men of genius in all ages have been compelled to undergo the same disappointments, and to pass through the same storms of calumny and abuse, doomed in their lifetime to endure the ridicule or neglect of the world, and to wait for justice till they were dead."

How well, unknowingly, Morse foretold his own career; disappointments, abuse, ridicule!

Stimulated by the industry and renown of West, he worked at his drawing from half-past seven in the forenoon until five in the afternoon, and then again in the evening. He learned what all persons learn, sooner or later, that there is no easy road to fame.

West encouraged the young artist, and this added fuel to the flame of ambition. Desiring admission to the Royal Academy, he spent two weeks in making a drawing from a small cast of the Farnese Hercules. Showing it to Mr. West for his criticism, West said, "Very well, sir, very well; go on and finish it."

"It _is_ finished," replied Morse.

"Oh, no," said Mr. West; "look here, and here, and here."

Morse drew a week longer, and again presented it. "Very well, indeed, sir," he said; "go on and finish it."

"Is it not finished?" asked Morse, half discouraged.

"Not yet," said West; "see you have not marked that muscle, nor the articulations of the finger-joints."

A third time he presented the drawing, and received the same advice as before. "I cannot finish it," said Morse, despairingly.

"Well," said West, "I have tried you long enough. Now, sir, you have learned more by this drawing than you would have accomplished in double the time by a dozen half-finished beginnings. It is not numerous drawings, but the _character of one_, which makes a thorough draughtsman. _Finish_ one picture, sir, and you are a painter."

Morse was now admitted to the Royal Academy, and had visions of becoming great. He writes home: "I have just finished a model in clay of a figure ('The Dying Hercules'), my first attempt at sculpture. Mr. Allston is extremely pleased with it; he says it is better than all the things I have done since I have been in England, put together, and says I must send a cast of it home to you, and that it will convince you that I shall make a painter.... Mr. West also was extremely delighted with it. He said it was not merely an academical figure, but displayed _thought_. He could not have paid me a higher compliment.... My passion for my art is so firmly rooted that I am confident no human power could destroy it. The more I study, the greater I think is its claim to the appellation of _divine_, and I never shall be able sufficiently to show my gratitude to my parents for enabling me to pursue that profession without which I am sure I should be miserable. And if it is my destiny to become GREAT, and _worthy of a biographical memoir_, my biographer will never be _able to charge_ upon my parents that bigoted attachment to any individual profession, the exercise of which spirit by parents toward their children has been the ruin of some of the greatest geniuses."

The model of the "Dying Hercules" was sent to the Society of Arts at the Adelphi, and Morse received the _gold medal_ given for the _best_ work in painting, sculpture, and architecture.

Morse had taken letters of introduction to several prominent persons, like Wilberforce and Zachary Macaulay, the father of the historian, but he was too busy to use them. He gives another reason also--poverty. He says, "With regard to my expenses, I got through the first year with two hundred pounds, and hope the same sum will carry me through the second. If you knew the manner in which we live, you would wonder how it was possible I could have made so great a change in my habits. I am obliged to screw and pinch myself in a thousand things in which I used to indulge myself at home.... I breakfast on simple bread and butter, and two cups of coffee; I dine on either beef, mutton, or pork (_veal_ being out of the question, as it is one shilling and six pence per pound), baked, with potatoes, warm perhaps twice a week, all the rest of the week cold; at tea, bread and butter, with two cups of tea. This is my daily round.

"I have had no new clothes for nearly a year; my best are threadbare, and my shoes are out at the toes; my stockings all want to see my _mother_, and my hat is growing hoary with age.... 'But,' you will say, 'what do you do with the money, if you live thus sparingly?' Why, I will tell you the whole. When I first came to London, I was told, if I meant to support the character of a gentleman, I must take especial care of my personal appearance; so I thought it a matter of course that I must spare no expense in order to appear well. So, this being first in my mind, I (supposing very wisely that London folks had nothing else to do but to see how I was dressed) laid out a considerable part of my money on myself; meanwhile, picture-galleries and collections, with many other places which I ought constantly to have visited, and which cost some money, were neglected. And why? Because _I could not afford it_.

"Well, in process of time, I found no very particular advantage to be gained by supporting the character of a gentleman, for these reasons: in the first place, _nobody saw me_; in the second place, if they _had seen me_, they would not _have known me_; and, thirdly, if they had _known_ me, they would not have _cared_ a farthing about me. So I thought within myself what I came to England for, and I found that it was not to please English folks, but to study painting; and, as I found I must sacrifice painting to dress and visiting, or dress and visiting to painting, I determined on the latter, and ever since have lived accordingly, and now the tables are turned. I visit galleries and collections, purchase prints, etc.; and when I am asked why I don't pay more attention to my dress, I reply that I _cannot_ afford it."

Morse had now painted the "Death of Hercules," a large picture, eight feet by six feet and a half. The painting was received at the exhibition at Somerset House, though six hundred other works were refused. It was adjudged by the press to be one of the best _nine_ among a thousand pictures; many of them by such men as Turner, Lawrence, and Wilkie. Surely, he had reason to be encouraged.

What little leisure Morse could obtain he spent in reading the old poets,--Spenser, Chaucer, Dante, and Tasso. He now made the acquaintance of Rogers, Coleridge, and others. Once, as he was going into the country with Coleridge, he took in the carriage Irving's "History of New York." On retiring, Coleridge took the book and began to read. Morse fell asleep, and in the morning was surprised to find the lights burning, and his friend still reading. It was now ten o'clock, and Coleridge was so absorbed that he did not know that the whole night had passed. Later, Irving and Coleridge became warm friends.

In need of money, Morse repaired to Bristol, where he spent several months, having had the promise of work; but not a single person called to look at his pictures, and not one came for a portrait. He had already been abroad four years, and now stern necessity called him home. He had just finished a large picture, "The Judgment of Jupiter in the Case of Apollo, Marpessa, and Ida," to compete for the highest prize offered by the Royal Academy for historical composition; but as he could not be present to receive the premium, he was not allowed to enter the picture. He accordingly brought it home with him, arriving in Boston October 18, 1815.

Dr. Morse had engaged a studio for his son in Boston, and the "Judgment of Jupiter" was opened for exhibition. People came, and saw, and praised, and went away without leaving any orders for pictures. A year went by, and not one person offered to buy the "Judgment of Jupiter," and not one person ordered a historical work. This was indeed discouraging to an enthusiastic artist. He began now to turn his mind toward invention, for which he had a natural tendency; and during the evenings he thought out an improvement in the common pump, one that could be adapted to the forcing-pump in the fire-engine. The pump and the "Judgment of Jupiter" certainly had not very much in common.

The patent pump was put on exhibition on Gray's Wharf in Charlestown, but it did not cause money to flow into the pockets of its inventor.

Disappointed in his art work, Morse took letters of introduction from his father to several ministers in the neighboring towns, and started out to paint portraits at fifteen dollars apiece. This was not very much better than the five-dollar miniatures on ivory while in college, especially as he had been to the expense of four years in Europe.

At Concord, N. H., he had good success, writing home that he had "painted five portraits, had two more engaged, and many more talked of." While in London he had written to his parents, "I came very near being at my old game of falling in love; but I find that _love_ and _painting_ are quarrelsome companions, and that the house of my heart was too small for both of them, so I have turned _Mrs. Love_ out-of-doors. 'Time enough,' thought I (with true old-bachelor complacency), 'time enough for you these ten years to come.'"

But Morse did not wait ten years, for at twenty-four he fell in love with Lucretia P. Walker of Concord, and was engaged to her. She was not only beautiful, but of the same lovable and intellectual type as Grace Webster, who held the heart of Daniel Webster while he lived. She combined sound judgment with much tenderness of feeling. Morse was a tall, graceful, handsome young man, with blue eyes and winsome manners.

Dr. Morse and his wife at once sent for their prospective daughter to visit them. She came, and, as she pleased a mother who idolized Finley, it is safe to conclude that she was indeed lovely.

In January, 1818, having been assured that he would find work in Charleston, S. C., he sailed from New York, and met with a pleasant reception in the home of his uncle, Dr. Finley. He found the society agreeable, but month after month passed, and there was not a single request for a portrait. At last, as he was about to return to New England, he begged his uncle to sit for a painting, as a small return for his kindness. He did so, and an admirable picture resulted.

Friends came to see it. At once Charleston perceived that a real artist was in the city. He soon had one hundred and fifty orders at sixty dollars each! Hope came again to his heart; after a few months he returned to Boston, and October 1, 1818, he married Lucretia Walker.

At the request of the Common Council of Charleston, he now painted the portrait of James Monroe, then President of the United States, and a year later went again to South Carolina, leaving his wife and an infant daughter in Concord, with her parents. On his return, Dr. Morse having resigned his pastorate at Charlestown, and moved to New Haven, Ct., Finley also moved thither. Here he found delight in renewing his studies of galvanism and electricity under Professor Silliman.

Tiring of portraits, and longing for preeminence in art, he conceived the idea of a historical piece, the "House of Representatives," with eighty portraits of individual members. For this purpose he went to Washington, and began his work in earnest. He writes to his young wife: "I am up at daylight, have my breakfast and prayers over, and commence the labors of the day long before the workmen are called to work on the Capitol by the bell. This I continue unremittingly till one o'clock, when I dine in about fifteen minutes, and then pursue my labors until tea, which scarcely interrupts me, as I often have my cup of tea in one hand and pencil in the other. Between ten and eleven o'clock I retire to rest. This has been my course every day (Sundays, of course, excepted) since I have been here, making about fourteen hours study out of the twenty-four. This, you will say, is too hard, and that I shall injure my health. I can say that I never enjoyed better health, and my body, by the simple fare I live on, is disciplined to this course.... I have had a great deal of difficulty with the perspective of my picture. But I have conquered, and have accomplished my purpose. After having drawn in the greater part three times, I have as many times rubbed it all out again. I have been, several times, from daylight until eleven o'clock at night, solving a simple problem.

"How I do long to see that dear little girl of mine, and to hear her sweet prattle! Instruct her early, my dear wife, in the most important of all concerns; teach her that there is a great Father above, her obligations to him and to her Saviour. Kiss her often for papa, and tell her he will come back one of these days."

So absorbed did he become in this picture, that once he arose in the night, mistaking the light of the moon for the day, and went to his work, and another time attempted to enter the hall on Sunday, forgetting even the days of the week. When the work was finished and exhibited, everybody was too much interested in his own affairs to care about congressmen, and the picture failed to attract the public. It proved a loss pecuniarily, and was purchased by an Englishman and taken to England. Twenty-five years afterward, it was found in the third story of a store in New York, nailed against a board partition, and covered with dust. It had been sent over from London by a house which had advanced a sum of money upon it while in England. The picture afterward became the property of the artist Daniel Huntington.

Morse now went to Albany, hoping to obtain some patronage from public men. After long waiting, he writes to his wife: "I have not as yet received any application for a portrait. Many tell me I have come at the wrong time--the same tune that has been rung in my ears so long! I hope the right time will come by and by. The winter, it is said, is the proper season; but, as it is better in the South in that season, and it will be more profitable to be there, I shall give Albany a thorough trial and do my best. If I should not find enough to employ me here, I think I shall return to New York and settle there. This I had rather not do at present, but it may be the best that I can do. Roaming becomes more and more irksome. Imperious necessity alone drives me to this course. Don't think by this I am faint-hearted. I shall persevere in this course, painful as is the separation from my family, until Providence clearly points out my duty to return."

Morse now turned his attention to the invention of a machine for carving marble, from which he hoped for pecuniary success, but success did not result from it. He now went to New York to try his fortune. But things were no brighter.

He wrote to Lucretia: "My last two letters have held out to you some encouraging prospects of success here, but now they seem darkened again. I have had nothing to do this week thus far but to wait patiently. I have advertised in both of the city papers that I should remain one week to receive applications, but as yet it has produced no effect.... I sleep in my room on the floor, and put my bed out of sight during the day, as at Washington.... I have been active in calling on my friends and inviting them to my room; they have promised to come, but as yet few have called. As far as human foresight can perceive, my prospects seem gloomy indeed. The only gleam of hope--and I cannot underrate it--is from confidence in God. When I look upward, it calms my apprehensions for the future, and I seem to hear a voice saying: 'If I clothe the lilies of the field, shall I not also clothe you?' Here is my strong confidence, and I will wait patiently for the direction of Providence."

Again he writes to his wife: "My cash is almost gone, and I begin to feel some anxiety and perplexity to know what to do. I have advertised, and visited, and hinted, and pleaded, and even asked one man to sit, but all to no purpose.... My expenses, with the most rigid economy too, are necessarily great; my rent to-morrow will amount to thirty-three dollars, and I have nothing to pay it with. What can I do? I have been here five weeks, and there is not the smallest prospect _now_ of any difference as to business."

He now attempted to obtain a situation in the legation about to be sent to Mexico. The place was promised, and Morse went to Washington, only to find that the expedition had been abandoned.

There was an occasional rift in the clouds, as when the corporation of the city of New York commissioned Morse to paint for them a portrait of General Lafayette, then in Washington, the price to be about one thousand dollars. As Sully, Peale, Inman, and other prominent artists were competitors in the application for this picture, to receive the commission was indeed an honor.

Morse now wrote cheerfully to his wife: "When I consider how wonderfully things are working for the promotion of the great and _long desired_ event,--that of being constantly with my dear family,--all unpleasant feelings are absorbed in this joyful anticipation, and I look forward to the spring of the year with delightful prospects of seeing my dear family permanently settled with me in our own hired house here."

February 8, 1825, he wrote his wife that he had met Lafayette, "the man whose beloved name has rung from one end of this continent to the other, whom all flock to see, whom all delight to honor."