This was the greatest invention of modern times. I am speaking of what happened in 1808, only thirty-four years ago. There are now many thousand steamboats throughout the world. The great rivers are navigated by them, and even the Atlantic is now traversed by steam power. The journey of a week is at present but the trip of a day—a voyage of two months is but the passage of a fortnight. This very Hudson river, upon which Fulton achieved his noble invention, before but a pathway for a few straggling vessels, is now the thoroughfare of millions. It is a literal fact that millions of persons pass up and down this river every year, where before only a few hundred annually performed the trip. Before, it was often a fortnight’s work to get a vessel from New York to Albany; now a steamboat with five hundred passengers will accomplish it in twelve hours!
Such are the mighty results, proceeding from one man’s labors. Let us all reflect a moment upon this. What a great blessing is a great man who devotes himself to the good of his country! How ought such a man to be honored! How paltry, how base is that littleness of soul which leads some persons to run down the great and the good—the public benefactor!
Let the story of Fulton teach us all another lesson, which is this—When we feel that we are right in our devotion to any cause, let not the scoffs of the world move us. Even though there may be dark days, when we seem given up to ridicule by the world around; when even friends desert us, and poverty besets us, and slander assails us, and sorrow and gloom seem gathering around our path, let us look to the beautiful example of Fulton and be comforted. Let us say to ourselves, “Fulton persevered, and we will persevere. Fulton met with difficulties and suffered from poverty; but he met them patiently, and at last he triumphed.” Let us imitate his steadfastness, and gather confidence from his success.
The little steamboat approached us rapidly. Never in my life have I felt a deeper excitement than at that moment! All the people on board our little sloop were leaning over the side, straining their eyes to watch this wonder of the water. On she came, cutting the current and seeming like a thing of life, moving by her own power. She came nearer and more near. I have seen other steamboats since; those that were ten times as large; but never one that touched my imagination like that. We passed close to her side. There was a tall, slender man standing upon her deck. His face was dark, and careworn; his eye black, deep-set, and sparkling; his hair black and curling—though perchance a little grizzled. It was Robert Fulton! His name was spoken by our captain, and instantly a cheer broke from every man on board our little vessel. “Fulton! Fulton!” was the cry; and the name was echoed a hundred times among the hills. This was a bright spot in my life. I shall never forget it—I could not tell my feelings then—I cannot express them now. I have often thought of this scene: the image of Fulton, calm, thoughtful and modest in that day of triumph, always comes back as distinctly to my memory, as when he stood before me then. It has not been to me a barren incident; for in my humble career, I too have had difficulties, cares, sorrows; and I have drawn comfort, I trust composure, from his example. The humblest plant may extract beams from the sun—and Robert Merry would say to his readers, that he, poor as he is, humble as he is, has a sort of feeling that Robert Fulton, though dead and departed, comes to cheer him in his lonely journey through life. Often, in some dark hour, has his image broke in upon him like a ray of light; thus converting gloom into sunshine. I know that this may seem to be a mere fancy, yet there is reason in it, or, if not, there is comfort in it.
In a day or two after meeting the steamboat, we arrived at the city of New York. Nearly ten years had elapsed since I had left it. I recollected very little of it. It was indeed like a new place to me at first. I felt as if I had never seen it before, until, after a day or two, it became familiar to me as if I had once seen it in a dream. Though it was then a great city, New York was much smaller than it is now. It had not more than one fourth part as many inhabitants.
Nothing of importance occurred here, and after three days, Matthew and I entered a sloop and sailed to Norwalk, in Connecticut. Having landed, we immediately set out on foot for Salem, which is a distance of about twenty miles. I had now been gone a month, and was exceedingly anxious to get home. I had a great desire to see my uncle; for although I had not much intercourse with him when at home, still he was always kind to me, and I was so accustomed to his good-humored face, that I seemed solitary and homesick without it.
As I began to approach the village, my heart beat quick at the idea of getting home, of meeting my uncle, and seeing my friends and companions once more. Not a thought of evil fortune crossed my mind. I expected to see them all well and happy as when I left them. When we reached the village, it was night. We met no one in the street—all was still and solitary. We came to the tavern. There was a bright light in the bar-room, and it looked as cheerful as ever. I was about to enter, when a dusky figure took hold of my arm and said, “Go not in there. Come with me.” I perceived in a moment that it was old Sarah of the mountain. She led me to the front door, and as we passed along, she said, in a low, but solemn tone, “He is gone, lad, he is gone. There is trouble for you here. When it is all over, come and see me in the mountain.”
I was struck with horror, and stood still for a moment. I was alone, for Matthew had gone into the bar-room. I was convinced that my uncle was dead. I grew giddy, and the dim objects that were near me seemed to swim around. I recovered, however, lifted the latch and went in. The entry was dark, and I was obliged to grope my way to the stairs. I ascended and approached my uncle’s chamber. It was partly open, and there was a dim light within. I was about to enter, but paused a moment at the threshold and looked round. On a low couch lay the lifeless form of my uncle, and at a little distance sat Raymond, pale as marble, and wrapped in profound meditation. My step was so light that he did not hear my approach, but my quick and convulsed breath roused him. He instantly came to me, but spoke not. Words were indeed vain. Nothing could break the force of the stern reality. My uncle, my kind-hearted uncle, my only relative,—he who had been to me as father and mother, was no more.
I cannot dwell upon the scene, nor could I describe my feelings, should I attempt it. For nearly an hour my heart was stunned, my mind bewildered. But tears at length came to my relief, and after a time I was able to hear from Raymond the sad story of my uncle’s death. He had died in a fit, cut down without a moment’s warning, and, as I afterwards learned, in consequence of his intemperate habits.
The funeral took place the next day. I walked in the procession to the burial ground, but I was so completely overwhelmed with my loss as scarcely to notice anything around me. But when the coffin was let down into the ground and the earth was thrown upon it, I felt such a pang at the idea of being forever separated from my uncle, as almost to distract me. For a moment, I was on the point of leaping into the grave and asking to be buried with him; but it was closed, and the procession moved away. I returned, and I was then alone, without a relative in the world, so far as I knew.