“Franklin needs no eulogy from me.  No one has more reason to venerate his name than myself.  May his illustrious example of devotion to the interest of universal humanity be the seed of further fruit for the good of the world.”

Morse was to have been an honored guest at the banquet in the evening, where in the speeches his name was coupled with that of Franklin as one of the great benefactors of mankind; but, yielding to the wishes of his family, he remained at home.  He had all his life been a sufferer from severe headaches, and now these neuralgic pains increased in severity, no doubt aggravated by his exposure at the unveiling.  When the paroxysms were upon him he walked the floor in agony, pressing his hands to his temples; but these seizures were, mercifully, not continuous, and he still wrote voluminous letters, and tried to solve the problems which were thrust upon him, even to the end.

One of the last acts of his life was to go down town with his youngest son, whose birthday was the 29th of March, to purchase for him his first gold watch, and that watch the son still carries, a precious memento of his father.

Gradually the pains in the head grew less severe, but great weakness followed, and he was compelled to keep to his bed, sinking into a peaceful, painless unconsciousness relieved by an occasional flash of his old vigor.  To his pastor, Reverend Dr. William Adams, he expressed his gratitude for the goodness of God to him, but added:  “The best is yet to come.”  He roused himself on the 29th of March, the birthday of his son, kissing him and gazing with pleasure on a drawing sent to the boy by his cousin, Mary Goodrich, pronouncing it excellent.

Shortly before the end pneumonia set in, and one of the attending physicians, tapping on his chest, said “This is the way we doctors telegraph”; and the dying man, with a momentary gleam of the old humor lighting up his fading eyes, whispered, “Very good.”  These were the last words spoken by him.

From a letter written by one who was present at his bedside to another member of the family I shall quote a few words:  “He is fast passing away.  It is touching to see him so still, so unconscious of all that is passing, waiting for death.  He has suffered much with neuralgia of the head, increased of late by a miserable pamphlet by F.O.J.S.  Poor dear man!  Strange that they could not leave him in peace in his old age.  But now all sorrow is forgotten.  He lies quiet infant.  Heaven is opening to him with its peace and perfect rest.  The doctor calls his sickness ‘exhaustion of the brain.’  He looks very handsome; the light of Heaven seems shining on his beautiful eyes.”

On April 1, consciousness returned for a few moments and he recognized his wife and those around him with a smile, but without being able to speak.  Then he gradually sank to sleep and on the next day he gently breathed his last.

His faithful and loving friend, James D. Reid, in the Journal of the Telegraph, of which he was editor, paid tribute to his memory in the following touching words:—­