This was the second great tragedy of Morse’s life; the first was the untimely death of his young wife, and this other marked the death of his hopes and ambitions as an artist.  He was stunned.  The blow was as unexpected as it was overwhelming, and what added to its bitterness was that it had been innocently dealt by the hand of one of his dearest friends, who had sought to render him a favor.  The truth came out too late to influence the decision of the committee; the die was cast, and his whole future was changed in the twinkling of an eye; for what had been to him a joy and an inspiration, he now turned from in despair.  He could not, of course, realize at the time that Fate, in dealing him this cruel blow, was dedicating him to a higher destiny.  It is doubtful if he ever fully realized this, for in after years he could never speak of it unmoved.  In a letter to this same friend, Fenimore Cooper, written on November 20, 1849, he thus laments:—­

“Alas!  My dear sir, the very name of pictures produces a sadness of heart I cannot describe.  Painting has been a smiling mistress to many, but she has been a cruel jilt to me.  I did not abandon her, she abandoned me.  I have taken scarcely any interest in painting for many years.  Will you believe it?  When last in Paris, in 1845, I did not go into the Louvre, nor did I visit a single picture gallery.

“I sometimes indulge a vague dream that I may paint again.  It is rather the memory of past pleasures, when hope was enticing me onward only to deceive me at last.  Except some family portraits, valuable to me from their likenesses only, I could wish that every picture I ever painted was destroyed.  I have no wish to be remembered as a painter, for I never was a painter.  My ideal of that profession was, perhaps, too exalted—­I may say is too exalted.  I leave it to others more worthy to fill the niches of art.”

Of course his self-condemnation was too severe, for we have seen that present-day critics assign him an honorable place in the annals of art, and while, at the time of writing that letter, he had definitely abandoned the brush, he continued to paint for some years after his rejection by the committee of Congress.  He had to, for it was his only means of earning a livelihood, but the old enthusiasm was gone never to return.  Fortunately for himself and for the world, however, he transferred it to the perfecting of his invention, and devoted all the time he could steal from the daily routine of his duties to that end.

His friends sympathized with him most heartily and were indignant at his rejection.  Washington Allston wrote to him:—­

I have learned the disposition of the pictures.  I had hoped to find your name among the commissioned artists, but I was grieved to find that all my efforts in your behalf have proved fruitless.  I know what your disappointment must have been at this result, and most sincerely do I sympathize with you.  That my efforts were both sincere and conscientious I hope will be some consolation to you.