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For many years Morse had fought foreign conspiracies against America, as he and others viewed anti-democratic forces abroad. But unknown to him, a cabal was now forming at home to make his last days a torment. It grew out of widely publicized plans for erecting two statues of him. The National Monument Association proposed placing his figure on the pedestal of a huge sculptured memorial to the telegraph, in Washington. Western Union also proposed a statue, to be raised in New York City. As President William Orton explained in a company circular,

The venerable “Father of all the Telegraphs” … is nearing rapidly the verge of that dark river from whose further shore no message ever comes. It becomes, therefore, all those who know and love him … not to delay their tributes of respect and affection.

Maybe so, but with Congress now debating a bill for establishing a federal postal telegraph system, Morse had good reason to be wary of further homage from Western Union. He managed to think of the statue as a gesture of friendship. “I rather shrink from the notoriety while I cannot but feel gratified at the kind feeling manifested to me personally.”

Western Union telegraphed a message through its nationwide network, soliciting $1 contributions from the company’s superintendents, operators, and messengers. The $5000 statue was fashioned by a sculptor named Byron Pickett. He rendered Morse eight feet tall in bronze, bearded and frock-coated, standing beside a waist-high column supporting a telegraph receiver. Given a preview, Morse thought the figure both successful aesthetically and a faithful likeness.

Western Union got permission from local officials to place the statue at a prominent, indeed celebrated point in New York City, the Central Park Mall. Monuments to Shakespeare and Schiller already ornamented this promenade, but Morse was the first American to be honored there. The statue was raised on a seven-foot-high granite pedestal, the name MORSE boldly chiseled into the block. It was unveiled on June 10, 1871, a cool sunny day, before a crowd estimated at ten thousand persons. The sea of top hats, bustles, and parasols included a thousand or so telegraph workers who had come from around the country. After William Orton and the Governor of Massachusetts threw aside the drapery, a military band played “The Star-Spangled Banner.” Then William Cullen Bryant addressed the throng, remarking that the statue could be deemed unnecessary: “the great globe itself has become his monument.”

Morse did not attend the unveiling—out of modesty, some said. But he did come to the follow-up ceremony the same evening, held at the plush Academy of Music. Opened in 1854 as the largest opera house in the world, the hall seated 4000 but was packed for the occasion. In the dramatic highlight of the evening, the telegraph instruments used on the original Washington-Baltimore line were placed at center stage, but set up to connect with lines all over the world. A young female operator clicked off to the global telegraph community a greeting chosen by Morse, the same one he had selected for the opening of the transatlantic cable: “Glory to God in the highest, on earth peace, good will to men.” As she left the table, Morse approached it, Morse statue in Central Park (Princeton University Library) escorted by Orton. The tremendous applause ceased as his hand touched the key and began slowly tapping the letters of his name in the dotdash code. As he came to the final e, a single dot, the telegraphers in the audience stood up, cheering and waving handkerchiefs. Speaking from the stage, Orton commented to the crowd, “Thus the Father of the Telegraph bids farewell to his children.”

Morse statue in Central Park (Princeton University Library)

Responses to Morse’s message began coming in to the Academy of Music from all over the earth. They arrived first from nearby cities, then from New Orleans, Quebec, San Francisco, lastly from Hong Kong and Bombay. Morse was almost overcome with emotion.