The murderer is past finding out. In one way and another I fancy that I
am well acquainted with the assassins of history. Of those who slew
Cæsar I learned in my schooldays, and between Ravaillac, who did the
business for Henry of Navarre, and Booth and Guiteau, my familiar
knowledge seems almost at first hand. One night at Chamberlin’s, in
Washington, George Corkhill, the district attorney who was prosecuting
the murderer of Garfield, said to me: “You will never fully understand
this case until you have sat by me through one day’s proceedings in
court.” Next day I did this.
Never have I passed five hours in a theater so filled with thrills. I
occupied a seat betwixt Corkhill and Scoville, Guiteau’s brother-in-law
and voluntary attorney. I say “voluntary” because from the first
Guiteau rejected him and vilely abused him, vociferously insisting upon
being his own lawyer.
From the moment Guiteau entered the trial room it was a theatrical
extravaganza. He was in irons, sandwiched between two deputy sheriffs,
came in shouting like a madman, and began at once railing at the judge,
the jury and the audience. A very necessary rule had been established
that when he interposed, whatever was being said or done automatically
stopped. Then, when he ceased, the case went on again as if nothing had
happened.
Only Scoville intervened between me and Guiteau and I had an excellent
opportunity to see, hear and size him up. In visage and voice he was
the meanest creature I have, either in life or in dreams, encountered.
He had the face and intonations of a demon. Everything about him was
loathsome. I cannot doubt that his criminal colleagues of history were
of the same description.
Charlotte Corday was surely a lunatic. Wilkes Booth I knew. He was
drunk, had been drunk all that winter, completely muddled and perverted
by brandy, the inheritant of mad blood. Czolgosz, the slayer of
McKinley, and the assassin of the Empress Elizabeth were clearly
insane.