ASSASSINATIONS OF LINCOLN AND GARFIELD.
There had been a long and fratricidal war, the most pitiful that has
ever occurred in the history of the world, or even that of heaven,
described by Milton. For in the latter the rebellious ones were urged on
by envy and utter wickedness, with no thought of right on their side,
and their end was “outer darkness.” In the Civil War between the States,
both sides fought for what they deemed the right, and the patriotism of
both was as pure as mother love.
Born of the one side and nurtured by the other, Abraham Lincoln loved
both alike, but the logic of events and the uncontrollable influences of
environment made him the President and partisan of the Union, the head
and director of a stern, relentless, cruel and long-continued war, for
the preservation of that Union’s integrity on one side, for independence
and the strong claim of “States rights” on the other.
There had been marches and battles, sufferings unspeakable, misery,
sorrow, death, destruction, all the woes of war, on both sides, four
long, dark years, and through it all steadfast in duty, earnest and
honest, Abraham Lincoln, President of the United States, with a heart as
great as God giveth, and an intelligence as high as heaven, had, with
kindly face and even temper, borne through it his burden of
responsibility and his soul sorrow in it all.
The end of the war had come, and the great, good man, who had thousands
of times earned the satisfaction and sweet peace that should have come
to him and been to him a living joy, was, at the moment of his worthy
triumph of that which was to prove best for all, laid low in death, at
the hands of a monomaniac, an irresponsible, unfortunate enemy to both
causes and to himself.
The nation mourned; even Lincoln’s enemies condemned the deed, and from
that day to this there has been a deep regret in the heart of that
generation, and the generation that has succeeded, that Lincoln did not
live to see the great good that he had wrought. Yet in the finitude of
human understanding we may not have fully felt that Jehovah’s wisdom
called him to the higher and broader sphere of heaven that he might in a
more exalted and perfect manner enjoy the results of his great work.
But Lincoln lived to see the dawn of peace. When he came to deliver his
second inaugural address the way was clear, but in that splendid effort
there was not a note of victory; there was no exultation over a fallen
foe. It breathed but the spirit of brotherly love and the incense of
prayerful hopes.
“With malice toward none, with charity for all, with firmness in the
right as God gives us to see the right, let us finish the work we are
in, to bind up the nation’s wounds, to care for him who shall have borne
the battle, and for his widow and his orphans, to do all which may
achieve and cherish a just and lasting peace among ourselves and with
all nations.” This was the word and spirit of his way in all the trying
time. He went down to death with that flowing from his soul and as a
benediction to the people, the republic and its institutions.
It was not long after this beautiful message that General Lee gave up
his stronghold at Richmond, departing with about half of his original
army, and that closely pursued by the victorious hosts led by General
Grant. The army in blue overtook the gray remnant at Appomattox, and
there one April day, amid its sunshine and showers, its smiles and its
tears, War’s sable plume bowed before the white banner of Peace, and
Lincoln’s great mission had been performed.
The flag of the Union had once more become the flag of all the country,
and in this condition of affairs President Lincoln visited Richmond and
the final scenes of the mighty conflict and then returned to Washington
to begin his new work of “binding up the nation’s wounds.”
He had now reached the climax of his career and had touched the highest
point of his greatness. His great task was done and the heavy burden
that had so long worn upon his heart had been lifted off and carried
away. Then, when the whole nation was rejoicing over the return of
peace, the Saviour of the Union was stricken down by the hand of an
assassin.
From early youth, Mr. Lincoln had been followed by presentiments that he
would die a violent death, or that his final days would be marked by
some great tragic event. And yet from the time of his first election to
the Presidency it had been an unsuccessful task upon the part of his
closest friends to endeavor to make him understand that he was in
constant danger of assassination; for, notwithstanding his
presentiments, he always laughed at their fears in that direction, in
his splendid courage.
During the summer months he lived at the Soldiers’ Home, some miles from
Washington, and frequently made the trip between the White House and the
Home, unguarded and without escort. Secretary of War Stanton and Ward
Lamon, Marshal of the District of Columbia, were in a constant state of
alarm over this unnecessary exposure of the President to the danger of
assassination. They frequently warned him and provided suitable
bodyguards to attend him. But Lincoln as constantly gave the guards the
slip, and, mounting his favorite saddle-horse, would set out alone, and
often after dark, for the lone ride to his place of rest.
One night, while thus riding, a would-be assassin fired on him from
ambush, the bullet passing through his famous high hat. But Lincoln
never would admit that the shot had been fired to kill him. He persisted
in attributing the incident to an accident, and begged his friends to
forget it and say nothing concerning it.
Now that all the circumstances are known as to the assassination, it has
been made plain that there was a deep-laid and well-conceived plot to
kill President Lincoln long before the crime was actually committed.
When Lincoln was delivering his second inaugural address, on the steps
of the Capitol, an excited individual attempted to force his way through
the guards in the building to get on the platform with the President. It
was afterward learned that this man was John Wilkes Booth, who was
afterward more successful in his assassin intent. On the night of April
14, 1865, at Ford’s Theater, Washington, the assassin accomplished his
terrible purpose.
The manager of that theater had invited the President to witness a
performance of a new play, “Our American Cousin,” in which the then
famous actress, Laura Keane, was playing. Lincoln was peculiarly fond of
the theater. It was his most satisfactory source of relaxation from the
burdens and anxieties of his life. He particularly delighted in
Shakespeare’s plays and never lost a reasonable opportunity to witness
their worthy presentation. Mrs. Lincoln was even more fond of the drama,
and was less discriminating in her choice as to plays.
As “Our American Cousin” was a new play, the President was not specially
anxious to see it, but as Mrs. Lincoln was very much inclined to attend,
her husband consented and accepted the invitation.
General Grant was in Washington at the time, and as he was extremely
anxious about the personal safety of the President, he reported every
day regularly at the White House. Thus the General and Mrs. Grant had
been invited by the President to accompany him and Mrs. Lincoln on this
occasion, and Grant had accepted, but at the moment while the General
and the President were talking on the subject, a message came from Mrs.
Grant to the effect that she wished to leave Washington that evening to
visit her daughter in Burlington. General Grant thereupon made his
excuses to the President and went his way to accompany his wife to the
railway station. It afterwards became known that it was part of the plot
to assassinate General Grant also, and but for the fortunate departure
of Mrs. Grant from Washington, the great commander would have fallen
with his illustrious chief.
General Grant afterward remarked that as he and Mrs. Grant were riding
along Pennsylvania avenue to the railway station, a horseman rode
rapidly by them, but wheeled his horse and came back, peering into the
carriage as he passed.
Mrs. Grant, at the time, said to the General: “That is the very man who
sat near us at luncheon to-day, and tried to overhear our conversation.
He was so rude, you remember, as to cause us to leave the dining-room.
Here he is again, riding after us.”
General Grant attributed the actions of the man to idle curiosity, but
learned afterward that the man was John Wilkes Booth.
It has been suggested that the probable reason for Lincoln’s
disinclination to attend the theater on that fatal night was something
of a promise that he had made to his friend and bodyguard, who had once
been his law partner, Ward Lamon, then Marshal of the District of
Columbia.
Two days previous Lincoln had sent Lamon to Richmond on business
connected with the call of a convention to discuss reconstruction.
Before his departure, Lamon had held an interview with Mr. Usher,
Secretary of the Interior, in which he had requested the Secretary to
endeavor to persuade the President to be more cautious as to his
personal safety, and to go out as little as possible while Lamon was
absent. Together they called upon the President, and Lamon preferred his
request for the promise.
“I think I can venture to say I will,” was the reply. “What is it?”
“Promise me that you will not go out, after night, while I am gone,”
said Lamon, “particularly to the theater.”
President Lincoln turned to Secretary Usher and said: “Usher, this boy
is a monomaniac on the subject of my safety. I can hear him or hear of
him being around at all times in the night, to prevent somebody from
murdering me. He thinks I shall be killed, and we think he is going
crazy. What does any one want to assassinate me for? If any one wants to
do so, he can do it any day or night, if he is ready to give his life
for mine. It is nonsense.”
The Secretary, however, insisted that it would be well to heed Lamon’s
warning, as he was thrown, all the time, among persons from whom he had
better opportunities to know concerning such matters, than any one else.
“Well,” said the President to the Marshal, “I promise to do the best I
can toward it.”
The assassination of President Lincoln was most carefully planned, even
to the smallest detail. The box set apart for the President’s party was
a double one, in the second tier, and at the left of the stage. It had
two doors with spring locks, but Booth had loosened the screws with
which the locks were fastened, so that it was impossible to secure them
from the inside. In one door he had made a gimlet hole, in order to be
able to see what was going on inside.
An employe of the theater, named Spangler, who was an accomplice of the
assassin, had even gone so far as to arrange the seats in the box to
suit the purpose of the assassin.
On that eventful night the body of the theater was densely crowded with
people. The presidential party arrived a few minutes after nine o’clock
and was composed of the President and Mrs. Lincoln, Miss Harris and
Mayor Rathbone, daughter and step-son of Senator Harris of New York, and
the vast audience arose and cheered as the President was ushered to his
box.
Booth, the assassin, came into the theater about ten o’clock, and being
a well-known actor, of influence in his circle, could easily take
unusual liberties about the theater.
He had not only planned to kill the President, but had also made
excellent arrangements to escape into Maryland. A swift horse, saddled,
bridled and ready for the venturesome race, was in waiting at the rear
of the theater. For a few minutes the assassin pretended to be
interested in the play, and then he gradually made his way around the
back of the seats in the second tier to the door of the President’s box.
Before reaching that point, however, he was halted by a messenger of the
President, who had been stationed at the end of the passage leading to
the boxes to prevent the intrusion of unwelcome persons. To this man
Booth delivered a card purporting to be a message from the President to
the effect that he had sent for the bearer. Thus Booth was permitted to
enter.
Inside the passageway leading to the boxes the assassin closed the outer
door and secured it with a bar that had been provided for the occasion.
Thus it became impossible for any one on the outside to follow the
assassin by means immediately at hand. Booth quickly entered the box by
the right hand door to where the President was sitting in the left hand
corner, nearest the audience and in an easy armchair. He was leaning on
one hand and held with the other a fold of the drapery. He, with the
others, was intently watching the performance on the stage, and a
pleasant smile was on his face.
In the right hand the assassin carried a small, silver-mounted derringer
pistol and in his left a long-bladed double-edged dagger. The pistol he
placed behind the President’s left ear and fired, and at the report the
victim bent slightly forward, his eyes closed, but in every other
respect his attitude remained unchanged.
The report of the pistol startled Major Rathbone, who sprang to his feet
and grappled with the assassin, who was then about six feet away from
the President. Booth escaped from the grasp of Major Rathbone and
throwing down the pistol struck at Rathbone with the dagger, inflicting
a severe wound. The assassin then placed his hand lightly on the railing
of the box and vaulted to the stage, eight or ten feet below.
The President’s box had been heavily draped with a large flag of the
Union, and in jumping Booth’s spurs caught in the folds of the flag,
which was carried with him, and as he fell heavily his ankle was
sprained, an incident that more than anything else led to his capture
and death.
The assassin, as he arose, walked, without sign of pain, and
theatrically, across the stage, and as he did so turned to the audience,
flourished his dagger and exclaimed, “Sic semper tyrannis!” adding, “The
South is avenged!”
The audience was stunned for the moment with horror, and seemed
incapable of action, excepting one man, a lawyer named Stuart. He
instantly comprehended the situation and leaping to the stage attempted
the capture of the assassin, but Booth, being familiar with the
arrangement of the stage, eluded his pursuer by darting out through one
of the stage entrances to a rear door, where the horse stood, held in
readiness for him, and vaulting into the saddle, dashed away, taking a
street leading into Virginia.
Miss Keane rushed to the President’s box with water and stimulants, and
medical aid was quickly at hand.
The full import of the act dawned upon the audience and it realized the
tragedy, then followed a scene such as has never been witnessed in any
other public gathering. Women wept, shrieked and fainted, men raved and
swore, and horror was depicted upon every face. Before the audience
could emerge from the theater horsemen were dashing through the streets,
and the telegraph was carrying the details of the awful tragedy to all
the world.
The assassin’s bullet did not produce instant death, but the President
never again became conscious. He was carried to a house opposite the
theater, where he died the next morning. In the meantime the authorities
had become aware of the wide-reaching conspiracy, and the capital was in
a state of terror.
On the night of the assassination of Lincoln, Secretary of State Seward
was attacked, though in bed with a broken arm, by Booth’s
fellow-conspirators and badly wounded.
The assassins had also planned to take the lives of Vice-President
Johnson and Secretary Stanton. Booth had called on Vice-President
Johnson the day before, and not finding him, had left a card.
Secretary Stanton acted with his usual promptness and courage, and
though acting as President during the period of excitement, he directed
the plans for the capture of Booth.
After President Lincoln had been taken to the house where he died, he
was at once divested of his clothing by the surgeons in attendance.
Surgeon-General Barnes presiding, examined the wound, and it was at once
seen that he could not possibly survive many hours. The ball had entered
on the left side of the head, behind the left ear, and three inches from
it. Its course was obliquely forward, traversing the brain, and lodging
just behind the right eye. The President was at once surrounded by the
prominent officers of the government. Mrs. Lincoln, overcome with
emotion, was led from the theater to the house where her husband lay.
Secretary McCullough, Attorney-General Speed, Secretary Welles, Senator
Sumner, and other distinguished gentlemen, remained in the room through
the night.
When first brought into the house the President’s breathing was regular,
but difficult. This continued throughout the night, he giving, with
occasional exceptions, no indications of suffering, and remaining, with
closed eyes, perfectly unconscious. At about seven in the morning his
breathing became more difficult, and was interrupted at intervals
sometimes for so long a time that he was supposed to be dead. At
twenty-two minutes past seven he ceased breathing, and thus expired.
There was no convulsive action, no rattling in the throat, no appearance
of suffering of any kind—none of the symptoms which ordinarily attend
dissolution and add to its terrors. From the instant he was struck by
the ball of the assassin, he had not given the slightest indication that
he was conscious of anything that occurred around him.
The news that the President had been shot spread at once through the
town, and was instantly followed by tidings of a murderous assault,
still more terrible in its details, upon the Secretary of State. Some
days previously Mr. Seward had been thrown from his carriage, and
seriously injured. His right arm was broken above the elbow, his jaw was
fractured, and his whole system seriously shattered. For nearly a
fortnight he had been confined to his bed, unable to swallow anything
but liquids, and reduced, by pain and this enforced abstinence, to a
state of extreme debility. His room was on the third floor of his
residence in Madison Place, fronting on President Square, and the bed on
which he lay stood opposite the door by which the room was entered, and
about ten feet from it. At a few minutes past ten—within five minutes of
the time when the President was shot—a man, proved afterwards to be
Lewis Payne Powell, generally known as Payne, rang at the door of Mr.
Seward’s residence, and said to the colored lad who opened it that he
had some medicines prescribed for Mr. Seward by Dr. Verdi, his family
physician, which he must deliver in person. The lad said that no one
could go up to Mr. Seward’s room; but Payne pushed him aside and rushed
up stairs. He had reached the third floor, and was about to enter Mr.
Seward’s room, when he was confronted by Mr. Frederick W. Seward, the
Secretary’s son, to whom he made the same statement of his errand. He
was refused admission, when he drew a pistol and snapped it at Frederick
without effect; he then struck him with it upon the head twice, with
such force as to break the pistol and prostrate his victim, fracturing
his skull. Hearing the noise, Miss Fannie Seward, who was in her
father’s room, opened the door, into which Payne instantly rushed, and,
drawing a bowie-knife, threw himself upon the bed, and made three
powerful stabs at the throat of Mr. Seward, who had raised himself up at
the first alarm, and who instantly divined the real nature and intention
of the assault. Each blow inflicted a terrible wound, but, before the
assassin could deal another, he was seized around the body by an invalid
soldier named Robinson, who was in attendance as nurse, and who strove
to drag the murderer from his victim. Payne at once struck at Robinson
and inflicted upon him several serious wounds, but did not succeed in
freeing himself from his grasp. Mr. Seward, the instant his murderer’s
attention was withdrawn from him, threw himself off the bed at the
farther side; and Payne, finding that his victim was thus beyond his
reach, broke away from Robinson, and rushed to the door. The colored lad
in the lower hall had run into the street for help, and Miss Fannie
Seward shouted “Murder!” from the upper window. The assassin, on
reaching the upper hall, met Major Augustus Seward, another son of the
Secretary, whom he struck with his dagger, and on the stairs encountered
Mr. Hansell, one of the Secretary’s attendants, whom he stabbed in the
back. Forcing his way through all these obstacles, he rushed down the
stairs, and finding, to his surprise, no one there to oppose his
progress, he passed out at the front door, mounted a horse he had left
standing in front of the house, and rode leisurely away.
When the news of this appalling tragedy spread through the city, it
carried consternation to every heart. Treading close on the heels of the
President’s murder—perpetrated, indeed, at the same instant—it was
instinctively felt to be the work of a conspiracy, secret, remorseless,
and terrible. The Secretary of War, Mr. Stanton, had left Mr. Seward’s
bedside not twenty minutes before the assault, and was in his private
chamber, preparing to retire, when a messenger brought tidings of the
tragedy, and summoned his instant attendance. On his way to Mr. Seward’s
house, Mr. Stanton heard of the simultaneous murder of the President,
and instantly felt that the Government was enveloped in the meshes of a
conspiracy, whose agents were unknown, and which was all the more
terrible for the darkness and mystery in which it moved. Orders were
instantly given to close all drinking-shops and all places of public
resort in the city, guards were stationed at every point, and all
possible precautions were taken for the safety of the Vice-President and
other prominent Government officials. A vague terror brooded over the
population of the town. Men whispered to each other as they met, in the
gloom of midnight, and the deeper gloom of the shadowy crime which
surrounded them. Presently, passionate indignation replaced this
paralysis of the public heart, and, but for the precautions adopted on
the instant by the Government, the public vengeance would have been
wreaked upon the rebels confined in the Old Capitol Prison. All these
feelings, however, gradually subsided, and gave way to a feeling of
intense anxiety for the life of the President. Crowds of people
assembled in the neighborhood of the house where the dying martyr lay,
eager for tidings of his condition, throughout the night; and when,
early in the morning, it was announced that he was dead, a feeling of
solemn awe filled every heart, and sat, a brooding grief, upon every
face.
And so it was through all the length and breadth of the land. In every
State, in every town, in every household, there was a dull and bitter
agony, as the telegraph bore tidings of the awful deed. Everywhere
throughout the Union, the public heart, bounding with exultation at the
triumphant close of the great war, and ready to celebrate with a mighty
joy the return of peace, stood still with a sacred terror, as it was
smitten by the terrible tidings from the capital of the Nation. In the
great cities of the land all business instantly stopped—no man had the
heart to think of gain—flags drooped half-mast from every winged
messenger of the sea, from every church spire, from every tree of
liberty, and from every public building. Masses of the people came
together by a spontaneous impulse, to look in each other’s faces, as if
they could read there some hint of the meaning of these dreadful
deeds—some omen of the country’s fate. Thousands upon thousands, drawn
by a common feeling, crowded around every place of public resort, and
listened eagerly to whatever any public speaker chose to say. Wall
street, in New York, was thronged by a vast multitude of men, to whom
eminent public officials addressed words of sympathy and of hope.
Gradually as the day wore on, emblems of mourning were hung from the
windows of every house throughout the town, and before the sun had set
every city, throughout the length and breadth of the land, to which
tidings of the great calamity had been borne by the telegraph, was
enshrouded in the shadow of the national grief. On the next day, which
was Sunday, every pulpit resounded with eloquent eulogies of the
murdered President, and with such comments on his death as faith in an
overruling Providence alone could prompt. The whole country was plunged
into profound grief—and none deplored the crime which had deprived the
Nation of its head with more sincerity than those who had been involved
in the guilt of the rebellion, and who had just begun to appreciate
those merciful and forgiving elements in Mr. Lincoln’s character, whose
exercise they themselves would need so soon.
Immediately after his death, the body of the President was removed to
the Executive Mansion, embalmed, and placed in the Green Room, which had
been prepared by suitable emblems of mourning for its reception. Near
the center of the room stood the grand catafalque four feet high, upon
which rested the mahogany coffin, covered with flowers—the last sad
offerings of affection—in which the body was placed for its final rest.
The conspiracy to assassinate President Lincoln involved altogether
twenty-five people. Among the number captured and tried were David C.
Herold, G. W. Atzerodt, Louis Payne, Edward Spangler, Michael
O’Loughlin, Samuel Arnold, Mrs. Surratt and Dr. Samuel Mudd. Dr. Mudd
was deported to the Dry Tortugas. While there an epidemic of yellow
fever broke out and he rendered such good service that he was granted a
pardon and died some years ago in Maryland.
John Surratt, the son of the woman who was hanged, made his escape to
Italy, where he became one of the Papal guards in the Vatican at Rome.
His presence there was discovered by Archbishop Hughes, and although
there were no extradition laws to cover the case, the Italian Government
gave him up to the United States authorities.
He had two trials. At the first the jury disagreed; the long delay
before his second trial allowed him to escape by pleading the statute of
limitation. Spangler and O’Loughlin were sent to the Dry Tortugas and
served their time.
Ford, the owner of the theater in which the President was assassinated,
was a Southern sympathizer, and when he attempted to reopen his theater,
after the great national tragedy, Secretary Stanton refused to allow it.
The Government afterward bought the property and turned it into a
national museum.
Booth, the arch-conspirator, accompanied by David C. Herold, finally
made his way into Maryland, where, eleven days after the assassination,
the two were discovered in a barn. Herold surrendered, but Booth, who
refused to be taken alive, was shot and killed by Boston Corbett, a
sergeant of cavalry.
ASSASSINATION OF GARFIELD.
In this fair republic of ours, a fabric of government strong in
structure, superb and imposing, chaste and grand; a temple whose real
devotees are true-hearted patriots, there has not been one who has more
perfectly exemplified the possibilities of American youth than James
Abram Garfield, child of penury, farmer boy, canal-boat lad, student,
teacher, statesman, soldier, President, martyr. In all, true and brave,
endowed with the royalty of right manhood, that was becoming as a
sovereign citizen, a pattern and a patriot.
He won his way, almost from babyhood to the most exalted place in the
nation, by conscientious and industrious work, purity of purpose,
carefulness of character, guided, at every moment, by simple rules of
truth and honor.
His heritage was that of every healthy boy in the United States,
stronger than money, fairer than influence, better than brilliancy, more
potent than genius.
Determination to rise, steadfastness of purpose, well-directed
commonsense, commendable ambition. These were the factors that made the
man, whose unsullied name is graven high in the history of the republic,
and whose life was a satisfaction to himself, his associates and his
people. Exalted without ostentation, great without conceit, helpful to
his family, his friends, his race, his country and himself, blessed of
God, the beginning and end of a benediction.
His death was an accident of fate.
Saturday, July 2, 1881, was a fair, hot midsummer day. The inmates of
the White House were astir early. The President was going to
Massachusetts to attend the commencement exercises at his old college at
Williamstown, and afterward to take a holiday jaunt through New England,
accompanied by several members of the Cabinet and other friends. His
wife, who was at Long Branch, New Jersey, just recovering from a severe
attack of malarial fever, was to join him at New York. He had looked
forward with almost boyish delight to his trip, and was in high spirits
as he and Secretary Blaine drove off to the railway station.
There was no crowd about. Most of those who were to take the train had
already gone on board. Among the few persons in the waiting-room was a
slender, middle-aged man, who walked up and down rather nervously,
occasionally looking out of the door as if expecting some one. There was
nothing about him to attract special notice, and no one paid much
attention to him. When President Garfield and Mr. Blaine entered, he
drew back, took a heavy revolver from his pocket, and, taking deliberate
aim, fired. The ball struck the President on the shoulder. He turned,
surprised, to see who had shot him. The assassin recocked his revolver
and fired again, and then turned to flee. The President fell to the
floor, the blood gushing from a wound in his side.
In a moment all was confusion and horror. Secretary Blaine sprang after
the assassin, but, seeing that he was caught, turned again to the
President. The shock had been great, and he was very pale. A mattress
was brought, his tall form was lifted tenderly into an ambulance, and he
was swiftly borne to the Executive Mansion. His first thought was for
his wife—the beloved wife of his youth, just recovering from sickness,
expecting in a few hours to meet him. How would she bear the tidings of
this blow?
“Rockwell,” he said, faintly, to a friend, “I want you to send a message
to ‘Crete’” (the pet name for his wife, Lucretia). “Tell her I am
seriously hurt—how seriously I cannot yet say. I am myself, and hope she
will come to me soon. I send my love to her.” During the dictation of
the dispatch, Dr. Bliss and several other physicians arrived. A hasty
inspection demonstrated that the President was terribly wounded.
A swift train brought Mrs. Garfield to her husband’s side that evening.
The persons present in the sick-room retired to allow Mrs. Garfield to
meet her husband alone, as he had requested. They remained together only
five minutes; but the effect of this brief interview was soon seen in
the rallying of the almost dying man. At the end of that time the
doctors were again admitted, and then began the long struggle for life,
with its fluctuations between hope and dread, which lasted for almost
three months. Just after Mrs. Garfield’s arrival there was a sudden
collapse which seemed to be the end, and the family of the President
were hastily summoned to his bedside; but, to the surprise of every one,
the crisis passed, and for three weeks he seemed to improve. Then came a
turn for the worse, and from that time the President lost ground. The
hot summer days, hard to bear even for those in full health, wasted and
weakened him terribly. He sank steadily; and it was seen that unless
relief from the intense heat could be had, he would inevitably die
within a few days. It was decided to remove him to Elberon, on the ocean
shore, near Long Branch, New Jersey; and on September 7th, accompanied
by his family and the members of the Cabinet, he was borne by a swift
special train northward to the seaside. A summer cottage had been
offered for his use, and there for two anxious weeks lay the man who, it
may be truly said, had become
“The pillar of a people’s hope,
The center of a world’s desire.”
The cooling breezes of the seaside brought some relief, and the change
no doubt prolonged his life; but it could not be saved. In the night of
September 19th, almost without warning, the end came; the feeble flame
of life, so anxiously watched and cherished, flickered a moment, and
then went out in the darkness.
During the long, sultry days of that anxious summer, for many hours of
the day and night, throughout all the land, wherever there was a
newspaper or a telegraph office, about such places stood groups of
people, measured in numbers by the degree of population, waiting and
watching eagerly for the slips of paper which from time to time were
posted in a conspicuous place on the front of the building. In the
intervals they would gather in little knots and talk together in low
tones. To one who did not know what had happened on July 2d, it would
have been hard to guess what gathered these waiting crowds, day after
day, throughout the land. With intense, foreboding suspense fifty
millions of people were watching for the news from the bedside of the
President of the United States, who had been stricken down by the bullet
of the assassin. Who that lived through that long summer can forget
those anxious days and nights? And when at last the brave struggle for
life was ended, and the silent form was borne from the seaside to rest
on the shores of Lake Erie, who can forget the solemn hush which seemed
to prevail everywhere as the tomb opened to receive all that was mortal
of the beloved President, James A. Garfield?
The President’s body was borne back to Washington, where it lay in
state, viewed by great throngs of mourning people; then it was taken
westward to Cleveland, and laid in the tomb by the shores of Lake Erie,
almost in sight of his old home. The journey was one long funeral
pageant. For almost the entire distance the railway tracks were lined
with crowds of people, who, with uncovered heads, stood in reverent
silence as the train passed. Not since the day when that other dead
President, the great Lincoln, was borne to his last resting place, had
such an assembly been gathered; and the love and grief which followed
Garfield to his grave are the best tribute to the worth of his
character.
Five months later, in the hall of the House of Representatives at
Washington, amid such a throng as that chamber has seldom seen,
Secretary Blaine delivered his eulogy of the dead President; and from
that splendid and pathetic address we take the concluding words, which
will fitly close this brief sketch:
“As the end drew near, his early craving for the sea returned. The
stately mansion of power had been to him the wearisome hospital of pain,
and he begged to be taken from its prison walls, from its oppressive,
stifling air, from its homelessness and hopelessness. Gently, silently,
the love of a great people bore the pale sufferer to the longed-for
healing of the sea, to live or to die, as God should will, within sight
of its heaving billows, within sound of its manifold voices. With wan,
fevered face tenderly lifted to the cooling breeze, he looked out
wistfully upon the ocean’s changing wonders; on its fair sails,
whitening in the morning light; on its restless waves, rolling shoreward
to break and die beneath the noonday sun; on the red clouds of evening,
arching low to the horizon; on the serene and shining pathway of the
stars. Let us think that his dying eyes read a mystic meaning which only
the rapt and parting soul may know. Let us believe that in the silence
of the receding world he heard the great waves breaking on a further
shore, and felt already upon his wasted brow the breath of the eternal
morning.”
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Transcriber’s note:
1. Added degree sign ° to the presidents temperature where missing for
consistency.
2. Silently corrected typographical errors and also variations in
spelling. One occurrence of an unpaiared double quotation
mark could not be corrected with confidence.
3. Retained anachronistic, non-standard, and uncertain spellings as
printed.