There was one evening at the White House--just when Mrs. Garfield's
indisposition was at first manifested, and then was only apparent in
a slight chill, that caused a rather unseasonable wood fire to be
lighted--that none of those present can have forgotten; for there
were not many bright hours in the midst of the dismal shadowing of
the drama hastening to the tragic close. Mrs. Garfield was, with the
privilege of an invalid, whose chilly sensation was supposed to
be trivial, seated before the fire, the warmth of which was to her
pleasant; and she was pale but animated, surrounded by a group among
whom were several very dear to her. General Sherman arrived, and
was--as always when his vivacity was kindly, and it was never
otherwise with ladies--fascinating. The scene was brilliant, and had
a charming domestic character. The President was detained for half an
hour beyond the time when he was expected, and came in with a quick
step and hearty manner, and there was soon a flush of pleasure upon
his face, that had been touched with the lines of fatigue, as he saw
how agreeable the company were. A lady, who had never before seen him,
voiced the sentiment of all present, saying in a whisper: "Why, he is
the ideal President! How grand he is! How can they speak about him so?
What a magnificent gentleman he is! Talk about your canal boys!"
He was well dressed, of splendid figure, his coat buttoned over his
massive chest, his dome-like head erect, adequately supported
by immense shoulders, and he looked the President indeed, and an
embodiment of power. He was feeling that the dark days were behind
him, that he was equal to his high fortune, that the world was wide
and fair before him. It was a supreme hour--and only an hour--for the
occasion was informal, and there was a feeling that the lady of the
White House should not be detained from her rest; and the good-night
words were trustful that she would be well next morning; but then she
was in a fever, and after some weeks was taken to Long Branch, and
returned to her husband, called, to find him stricken unto death.
It happened on the last day of June, 1881, that I stopped in
Washington on the way to New York; and in the evening--it was
Thursday--walked from the Arlington to the White House, and sent my
card to the President, who was out. Then I strolled, passing through
Lafayette Square and sitting awhile there, thoughtful over the
President's troubles, and recalling the long letters I had written to
him at Mentor, urging that Levi P. Morton should be Secretary of the
Treasury, wondering whether things would have been better if that had
been done; for a good deal of the tempest that broke over Garfield was
because he sustained Thomas L. James in postal reforms. The testimony
taken during the trial of Guiteau shows that he was that night in that
square; and, knowing the President had left the White House, was on
the look-out, with intent to murder him. The incarnate sneak was lying
in wait, a horrible burlesque, to take his revenge because he thought
he had been slighted, and was so malignant a fool he believed public
opinion might applaud the deed. One of the dusky figures on the
benches was probably his.
At the Arlington, a few minutes after ten o'clock, I met
Postmaster-General James; and when told that I was going to New York
in the morning, he asked: "Have you seen the President?"
I had not, and General James said quite earnestly: "Go over and see
him now;" and he added: "The President, you know, is going to Williams
College the day after to-morrow, and I know he is not going to bed
early, and is not very busy, and will be glad to see you. He and I
have been out dining with Secretary Hunt; and the President left me
here a few minutes ago. Go over and see him. He has had a good deal of
disagreeable business this afternoon relating to my department, and
I am sure he would be glad to talk with you, and have something very
interesting to say."