"But I must not detain you from more instructive speech. One word only in closing. I have claimed for America the origination of the modern Telegraph System of the world. Impartial history, I think, will support that claim. Do not misunderstand me as disparaging or disregarding the labors and ingenious modifications of others in various countries employed in the same field of invention. Gladly, did time permit, would I descant upon their great and varied merits. Yet in tracing the birth and pedigree of the modern Telegraph, 'American' is not the highest term of the series that connects the past with the present; there is at least one higher term, the highest of all, which cannot and must not be ignored. If not a sparrow falls to the ground without a definite purpose in the plans of infinite wisdom, can the creation of an instrumentality so vitally affecting the interests of the whole human race have an origin less humble than the Father of every good and perfect gift?
"I am sure I have the sympathy of such an assembly as is here gathered if, in all humility and in the sincerity of a grateful heart, I use the words of inspiration in ascribing honor and praise to Him to whom first of all and most of all it is preëminently due. 'Not unto us, not unto us, but to God be all the glory.' Not what hath man, but 'What hath God wrought?'"
More applause followed as Morse took his seat, and other speeches were made by such men as Professor Goldwin Smith, the Honorable William M. Evarts, A.A. Low, William Cullen Bryant, William Orton, David Dudley Field, the Honorable William E. Dodge, Sir Hugh Allan, Daniel Huntington, and Governor Curtin of Pennsylvania.
While many of these speeches were most eloquent and appropriate, I shall quote from only one, giving as an excuse the words of James D. Reid in his excellent work "The Telegraph in America": "As Mr. Huntington's address contains some special thoughts showing the relationship of the painter to invention, and is, besides, a most affectionate and interesting tribute to his beloved master, Mr. Morse, it is deemed no discourtesy to the other distinguished speakers to give it nearly entire."
I shall, however, omit some portions which Mr. Reid included.
"In fact, however, every studio is more or less a laboratory. The painter is a chemist delving into the secrets of pigments, varnishes, mixtures of tints and mysterious preparations of grounds and overlaying of colors; occult arts by which the inward light is made to gleam from the canvas, and the warm flesh to glow and palpitate.
"The studio of my beloved master, in whose honor we have met to-night, was indeed a laboratory. Vigorous, life-like portraits, poetic and historic groups, occasionally grew upon his easel; but there were many hours—yes, days—when absorbed in study among galvanic batteries and mysterious lines of wires, he seemed to us like an alchemist of the middle ages in search of the philosopher's stone.
"I can never forget the occasion when he called his pupils together to witness one of the first, if not the first, successful experiment with the electric telegraph. It was in the winter of 1835-36. I can see now that rude instrument, constructed with an old stretching-frame, a wooden clock, a home-made battery and the wire stretched many times around the walls of the studio. With eager interest we gathered about it as our master explained its operation while, with a click, click, the pencil, by a succession of dots and lines, recorded the message in cypher. The idea was born. The words circled that upper chamber as they do now the globe.
"But we had little faith. To us it seemed the dream of enthusiasm. We grieved to see the sketch upon the canvas untouched. We longed to see him again calling into life events in our country's history. But it was not to be; God's purposes were being accomplished, and now the world is witness to his triumph. Yet the love of art still lives in some inner corner of his heart, and I know he can never enter the studio of a painter and see the artist silently bringing from the canvas forms of life and beauty, but he feels a tender twinge, as one who catches a glimpse of the beautiful girl he loved in his youth whom another has snatched away.
"Finally, my dear master and father in art, allow me in this moment of your triumph in the field of discovery, to greet you in the name of your brother artists with 'All hail.' As an artist you might have spent life worthily in turning God's blessed daylight into sweet hues of rainbow colors, and into breathing forms for the delight and consolation of men, but it has been His will that you should train the lightnings, the sharp arrows of his anger, into the swift yet gentle messengers of Peace and Love."