Part 13

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.

[Illustration: SAMUEL F. B. MORSE. [From the Portrait Gallery of Eminent Men and Women.]]

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.