13. Robert Fulton

ROBERT FULTON.

One of the pleasantest as well as one of the most prominent places in the city of New York is the grave-yard of old Trinity Church. A handsome iron railing separates it from Broadway, and the thick rows of grave-stones, all crumbling and stained with age, present a strange contrast to the bustle, vitality, and splendor with which they are surrounded. They stare solemnly down into Wall Street, and offer a bitter commentary upon the struggles and anxiety of the money kings of the great city. Work, toil, plan, combine as you may, they seem to say, and yet it must all come to this.

Not far from the south door of the church, and shaded by a venerable tree, is a plain brown stone slab, bearing this inscription: "The vault of Walter and Robert C. Livingston, sons of Robert Livingston, of the manor of Livingston." A stranger would pass it by without a second glance; yet it is one of the Meccas of the world of science, for the mortal part of Robert Fulton sleeps in the vault below, without monument or legendary stone to his memory, but in sight of the mighty steam fleets which his genius called forth. Very few visitors ever see this part of the churchyard, and the grave of Fulton is unknown to nine out of ten of his countrymen. Yet this man, sleeping so obscurely in his grave without a name, did far more for the world than either Napoleon or Wellington. He revolutionized commerce and manufactures, changed the entire system of navigation, triumphed over the winds and the waves, and compelled the adoption of a new system of modern warfare. Now he lies in a grave not his own, with no monument or statue erected to his memory in all this broad land.

Robert Fulton was born in the township of Little Britain (now called Fulton), in Lancaster County, Pennsylvania, in 1765. He was of Irish descent, and his father was a farmer in moderate circumstances. He was the eldest son and third child of a family of five children. The farm upon which he was born was conveyed by his father in 1766 to Joseph Swift, in whose family it still remains. It contains three hundred and sixty-four acres, and is one of the handsomest farms in Lancaster County.

After disposing of his farm, Mr. Fulton, senior, removed to the town of Lancaster, where he died in 1768, and there young Robert grew up under the care of his mother. He learned to read and write quickly, but did not manifest much fondness for his books after mastering his elementary studies. He early exhibited an unusual talent for drawing, however, greatly preferring the employment of his pencil to the more serious duties of the school. His instructors and companions considered him a dull boy, though all admitted that he showed no disposition to be idle. All his leisure time was spent either in drawing, or in visiting the shops of the mechanics in the place and eagerly watching their operations. He displayed a remarkable talent for mechanism, which was greatly assisted by his skill in drawing, and his visits to the machine shops were always welcomed by both the apprentices and their employers, who recognized the unusual genius of the boy, and predicted great things for him in the future. But to his teacher, who seems to have been rather more belligerent than is usual with Quakers, Robert's neglect of his studies and visits to the machine shops were so many indications of growing worthlessness. The indignant pedagogue once took occasion to remonstrate with him upon his course, and, failing to convince him by argument, rapped him sharply over the knuckles with a ruler, telling him he would make him do something. Robert at once placed his arms akimbo, and, looking his tutor sternly in the face, replied: "Sir, I came here to have something beat into my brains, not into my knuckles."

Some time after this Mrs. Fulton, in conversation with the teacher, expressed her solicitude lest her son should "turn out nothing," since he neglected his books so entirely. The teacher frankly confessed that he had done all in his power for the boy, but that he was discouraged, and added: "Only yesterday, madam, Robert pertinaciously declared to me that his head was so full of original notions that there was no vacant chamber to store away the contents of any dusty books." The lad was only ten years of age at the time, and, as may be supposed, the good Quaker who directed his education was not a little dismayed by such a remark.

The boyhood of Fulton was passed during the stormy period of the Revolution, and in a section so close to the theater of war that he was in the midst of all the excitement engendered by the conflict. He was an ardent patriot from the first, and used his pencil freely to caricature all who showed the slightest leaning to the cause of the enemy.

In 1778 the supply of candles was so low in Lancaster that the town authorities advised the people to refrain from illuminating their houses on the 4th of July of that year, in order to save their candles. Robert, at this time but thirteen years old, was determined not to forego a patriotic display of some sort. He had prepared a quantity of candles for the occasion, and after the proclamation of the Town Council was issued, he took them to a Mr. John Fisher, who kept a store in the place, and sold powder and shot. Mr. Fisher was somewhat astonished at Robert's desire to part with the candles, which were at that time scarce articles, and asked his reason for so doing. The boy replied: "Our rulers have requested the citizens to refrain from illuminating their windows and streets; as good citizens we should comply with their request, and I prefer illuminating the heavens with sky-rockets." Having procured the powder, he left Mr. Fisher's, and entered a small variety store kept by a Mr. Cossart, where he purchased several sheets of large-sized pasteboard. As Mr. Cossart was about to roll them, the boy stopped him, saying he wished to carry them open. Mr. Cossart, knowing Robert's mechanical genius, asked him what he was about to invent.

"Why," said the boy, "we are prohibited from illuminating our windows with candles, and I'm going to shoot my candles through the air."

"Tut, tut, tut," said Mr. Cossart, laughingly; "that's an impossibility."

"No, sir," said Robert, "there is nothing impossible." [Note: He proved that this was not impossible, for he had his display, making his rockets himself, and after his own model.]

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