The fingers that harnessed the steed, Lightning were powerless.
The great brain, that had worked so hard for the world, was ready
for rest.
The great heart, that never kept an unkind thought, ceased to beat.
All America mourned for him.
Messages were received from Europe, Asia and Africa, paying tribute
to the dead.
Few men have lived such lives as did Samuel Finley Breese Morse.
[Illustration]
[Illustration: PETER COOPER.]
PETER COOPER.
On the seventh of April, in 1883, the great city of New York was in
mourning. Flags were at half-mast. The bells tolled.
Shops were closed, but in the windows were pictures of a kind-faced,
white-haired man.
These pictures were draped in black.
All day long tens of thousands of people passed by an open coffin in
one of the churches.
Some of these people were governors, some millionaires.
There were poor women, too, with little children in their arms.
There were workmen in their common clothes.
There were ragged newsboys.
And all these people had aching hearts.
The great daily papers printed many columns about the sad event.
People in England sent messages by the Atlantic cable that they,
too, had sad hearts.
Who was this man for whom the world mourned on that April day?
Was he a president? Oh, no.
A great general? Far from it.
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