She was but twenty-five, and had shared only the sorrows and privations of her young husband. How pitiful it seemed that she could not live to share his grand success. Whatever may come into a man's life afterwards, he never forgets an affection like this. It blossoms in the warm sunlight of his youth; it never withers, even though other flowers take root in the heart.
Truly says George Eliot: "There is no despair so absolute as that which comes with the first moments of our first great sorrow, when we have not yet known what it is to have suffered and be healed, to have despaired and to have recovered hope."
This despair seemed to have settled upon Morse. He went back to New York, and now had plenty of work, but he said, "After being fatigued at night, and having my thoughts turned to my irreparable loss, I am ready almost to give up. The thought of seeing my dear Lucretia, and returning home to her, served always to give me fresh courage and spirits whenever I felt worn down by the labors of the day, and now I hardly know what to substitute in her place."
Hard, indeed, it seemed, that this "plenty of work" did not come in Lucretia's life-time. Why are so many of the best and sweetest things in this world a little too late in their coming? Is it because perfection attained is not best for mortals?
About this time the National Academy of Design was organized, and Morse was made president, holding this position for eighteen years, till his work on the telegraph required his whole attention. These years were extremely busy years. So numerous were his sitters, that he was obliged to send many to his artist friends. In his evenings he prepared a series of lectures on the Fine Arts, which he delivered to large and fashionable audiences at the New York Athenæum. He also wrote at this time a life of Lucretia Maria Davidson, a young poet who died at Plattsburg, N. Y., when she was seventeen, and several pamphlets against the growing power of the Romish Church.
Four years after the death of his wife he sailed for Italy, still further to study his beloved art. In London he again met Rogers, the poet,—"he has not the proverbial lot of the poet,—he is not poor, for he is one of the wealthiest bankers, and lives in splendid style," said Morse,—Turner, "the best landscape-painter living," Irving, our secretary of legation, and other distinguished men.
For three years Morse remained in Europe, in Rome becoming the friend of Thorwaldsen, whose portrait he painted; in Florence, of Horatio Greenough, the sculptor, of James Fenimore Cooper, and many others. In Paris, Morse painted the "Gallery of the Louvre," working from nine till four daily, meeting Baron Humboldt, and receiving the cordial hospitality of General Lafayette.
October 1, 1832, he sailed from Havre, on the packet ship Sully, for New York. That passage marked an epoch not only in the life of S. F. B. Morse, but an epoch in American progress. At the dinner-table the conversation turned upon recent discoveries in electro-magnetism, and the experiments of Ampère with the electro-magnet. Morse said, "If the presence of electricity can be made visible in any part of the circuit," and he had seen that it could years before in the class-room at Yale College, "I see no reason why intelligence may not be transmitted instantaneously by electricity."
He thought the subject over as he walked upon the deck, and as he lay in his berth, too deeply interested to sleep. If intelligence could be transmitted, it could be recorded. He took from his pocket a note-book, and thought out his alphabet of dots and lines. He showed his sketches to his fellow-passengers,—not a wise thing, as it proved, when, later, one of the persons on board laid claim to the invention, causing some years of litigation.
When the vessel reached New York, Morse said, "Well, captain, should you hear of the telegraph one of these days as the wonder of the world, remember the discovery was made on board the good ship Sully."