Almost every one who has rendered a great service to mankind, by
striking out inventions, whose objects are misconceived or imperfectly
understood by the world, has had to complain of the neglect or coldness
of his own generation. Even his best friends are apt to suspect his
motives and undervalue his labours. The real recompense, in such
circumstances, as in all others, is the consciousness of doing one’s
duty. Fulton, the inventor of the steam-boat in North America, which, in
a few years, has produced such an astonishing change in that vast
country, by connecting together its most distant states, sustained the
mortification of not being comprehended by his countrymen. He was,
therefore, treated as an idle projector, whose schemes would be useless
to the world and ruinous to himself. At a discourse, delivered at the
Mechanics’ Institute, Boston, in 1829, by Judge Story, the feelings of
Fulton, upon his first public experiment, are thus related:--
“I myself have heard the illustrious inventor of the steam-boat relate,
in an animated and affecting manner, the history of his labours and
discouragements. When, said he, I was building my first steam-boat at
New York, the project was viewed by the public, either with indifference
or with contempt, as a visionary scheme. My friends, indeed, were civil,
but they were shy. They listened with patience to my explanations, but
with a settled cast of incredulity on their countenances. I felt the
full force of the lamentation of the poet,
‘Truths would you teach, to save a sinking land,
All shun, none aid you, and few understand.’
As I had occasion to pass daily to and from the building-yard, while my
boat was in progress, I have often loitered unknown near the idle groups
of strangers, gathering in little circles, and heard various inquiries
as to the object of this new vehicle. The language was uniformly that of
scorn, or sneer, or ridicule. The loud laugh often rose at my expense;
the dry jest; the wise calculation of losses and expenditures; the dull
but endless repetition of the Fulton Folly. Never did a single
encouraging remark, a bright hope, or a warm wish, cross my path.
Silence itself was but politeness, veiling its doubts, or hiding its
reproaches. At length the day arrived when the experiment was to be put
into operation. To me it was a most trying and interesting occasion. I
invited many friends to go on board to witness the first successful
trip. Many of them did me the favour to attend, as a matter of personal
respect; but it was manifest that they did it with reluctance, fearing
to be the partners of my mortification, and not of my triumph. I was
well aware, that, in my case, there were many reasons to doubt of my own
success. The machinery was new and ill-made; many parts of it were
constructed by mechanics unaccustomed to such work; and unexpected
difficulties might reasonably be presumed to present themselves from
other causes. The moment arrived in which the word was to be given for
the vessel to move. My friends were in groups on the deck. There was
anxiety mixed with fear among them. They were silent, and sad, and
weary. I read in their looks nothing but disaster, and almost repented
of my efforts. The signal was given, and the boat moved on a short
distance, and then stopped, and became immoveable. To the silence of the
preceding moment now succeeded murmurs of discontent, and agitations,
and whispers, and shrugs. I could hear distinctly repeated, ‘I told you
it would be so, it is a foolish scheme; I wish we were well out of it.’
I elevated myself upon a platform, and addressed the assembly. I stated
that I knew not what was the matter; but if they would be quiet, and
indulge me for half an hour, I would either go on, or abandon the voyage
for that time. This short respite was conceded without objection. I went
below, examined the machinery, and discovered that the cause was a
slight mal-adjustment of some of the work. In a short period it was
obviated. The boat was again put in motion. She continued to move on.
All were still incredulous. None seemed willing to trust the evidence of
their own senses. We left the fair city of New York; we passed through
the romantic and ever-varying scenery of the highlands; we descried the
clustering houses of Albany; we reached its shores; and then, even then,
when all seemed achieved, I was the victim of disappointment.
Imagination superseded the influence of fact. It was then doubted if it
could be done again; or, if done, it was doubted if it could be made of
any great value.”
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