THE MORNING OF POWER.
Measure the girth of this aspiring tree!
Glance upward where the green boughs, spreading wide,
Fling out their foliage, and thou shalt see
The promise of a Nation’s health and pride.
College life, as we have it in this country, is a romance. In the midst
of an age in whose thought poetry has found little lodgment; in which
love has become a matter of business, and literature a trade, the
American college is the home of sentiment, of ideas, and of letters. The
old institutions of romance have crumbled into ruins. The armed knight,
the amorous lady, the wandering minstrel, the mysterious monastery, the
mediæval castle with its ghosts and legends exist only in history. But
behind the academic walls there are passages-at-arms as fierce, loves as
sweet, songs as stirring, legends as wonderful, secrets as well
transmitted to posterity as ever existed in the brain of Walter Scott.
It was to such an enchanted life at Williams College, that Garfield
betook himself in the month of June, 1854. To go through college is like
passing before a great number of photographic cameras. A man leaves an
indelible picture of himself printed on the mind of each student with
whom he comes in contact.
When Garfield entered Williams, he was over six feet high, as awkward as
he was muscular, and looking every inch a backwoodsman. He had made
great progress, however, in his previous studies, and successfully
passed his examination for the junior class. A young fellow, named
Wilbur, a cripple, came with him from Ohio, and the couple from the
first attracted much attention. A classmate writes: “Garfield’s kindness
to his lame chum was remarked by every body.”
But many of the college boys were the sons of rich men. The strapping
young fellow from Ohio was, in his own language, a “greeny” of the most
verdant type. His clothes were homespun, and the idea of fitting him
seemed never to have entered their maker’s head. His language was marred
by uncouth provincialisms. His face had a kindly and thoughtful
expression, on which the struggle of boyhood had left little trace, but
this could not save him from many a cut. To a coarser-grained man, the
petty indignities, the sly sarcasms, the cool treatment of the Eastern
collegians would not have been annoying, but there are traces of a
bitter inward anguish in Garfield’s heart at this time. To make it
worse, he had not entered a lower class, where he perhaps might have had
companions as green as himself, or, at least, comparative obscurity;
but, entering an upper class, from whose members rusticity had long
since disappeared, he was considered a legitimate target for the entire
body of students.
But he had brains, and nowhere in the world, does ability rise to the
top, and mediocrity sink to the bottom, so surely and swiftly, as at
college. In a short time, his commanding abilities began to assert
themselves. In the class-room, he was not only a profound and accurate
scholar, but his large brain seemed packed with information of every
sort, and all ready for use at a moment’s notice. His first summer
before the regular fall term he spent in the college library. Up to that
time he had never seen a copy of Shakespeare; he had never read a novel
of Walter Scott, of Dickens, or of Thackeray.
The opportunity was a golden one. On the shelves of the Williams’
library were to be found the best books of all the ages. Plunging in at
once, he read poetry, history, metaphysics, science, with hardly a pause
for meals. He felt that his poverty had made him lose time, and that the
loss must be made good. His powerful frame seemed to know no fatigue,
and his voracious and devouring mind no satiety. Weaker minds would have
been foundered. Not so with this western giant. Note-book in hand, he
jotted down memoranda of references, mythologic, historical or literary,
which he did not fully understand, for separate investigation. The
ground was carefully gleaned, notwithstanding the terrific speed. This
outside reading was kept up all through his stay at Williams.
Hon. Clement H. Hill, of Boston, a classmate of Garfield, writing of his
studies and reading, says: “I think at that time he was paying great
attention to German, and devoted all his leisure time to that language.
In his studies, his taste was rather for metaphysical and philosophical
studies than for history and biography, which were the studies most to
my liking; but he read besides a good deal of poetry and general
literature. Tennyson was then, and has ever been since, one of his
favorite authors, and I remember, too, when _Hiawatha_ was published,
how greatly he admired it, and how he would quote almost pages of it in
our walks together. He was also greatly interested in Charles Kingsley’s
writings, particularly in _Alton Locke_ and _Yeast_. I first, I think,
introduced him to Dickens, and gave him _Oliver Twist_ to read, and he
roared with laughter over Mr. Bumble.”
There are but few stories told of Garfield’s life at Williams, and there
is a reason behind the fact. The college “yarn” is generally a tradition
of some shrewd trick, some insubordination to discipline, or some famous
practical joke. Every college has a constantly growing treasury of such
legend lore. There are stories of robbed hen-roosts, pilfered orchards,
and plundered watermelon patches; of ice-cream stolen from the back
porch just after the guests had assembled in the parlor; of mock
processions, of bogus newspapers, of wedding invitations gotten out by
some rascally sophomore, for the marriage of some young couple, who were
barely whispering the thought in their own imaginations. There are
stories of front doors painted red; of masked mobs ranging through town
on Halloween, and demanding refreshment; of the wonderful theft of the
college bell, right when a watchman with loaded revolver was in the
building, of hairbreadth escapes down lightning rods, and of the burning
in effigy of unpopular professors. There is a story told in nearly every
college in the country, of how a smart fellow, to revenge himself,
sprinkled several barrels of salt on the street and sidewalk in front of
a professor’s house; how he drove all the wandering cattle in the
village to that part of the street, and how no digging, nor sweeping,
nor scalding water, nor flourished broom handles did any good toward
driving away the meek but persistent kine, who, with monotonous bell and
monotonous bellow, for months afterward, day and night, chose that spot
for their parlor.
But no such legends hung round the name of Garfield at Williams College.
He was there under great pecuniary pressure, and for a high and solemn
purpose. He was there for work, not play. Every thing which looked like
a turning aside from the straight and narrow way, was indignantly
spurned. At one time he caught the fever for playing chess. He was a
superior player, and enjoyed the game immensely. But when he found it
carried him to late hours, he denied himself the pleasure entirely.
But he stepped at once to the front rank as a debater in his literary
society. His power of statement, his grasp of facts, his quick repartee,
combined to make him the leading orator of the college. His method of
preparation showed the mind of a master. The subject of debate he would
divide into branches, and assign a separate topic to each of his allies
for investigation, distributing each topic according to their respective
qualities of mind. Each man overhauled the college library, gathering
and annotating all the facts and authorities upon his particular branch
of study, and submitted his notes to Garfield, who would then analyze
the mass of facts, draw up the propositions, which were to bear down
like Macedonian phalanxes upon the enemy, and redistribute the branches
of the question to his debaters for presentation on the rostrum.
His mind never seemed foggy. Odd scraps of information, which ordinary
men would have been unable or afraid to use, he wielded like a club
about his adversaries’ heads. In a public debate in his junior year, the
preceding speaker had used a lengthy and somewhat irrelevant
illustration from _Don Quixote_. When Garfield’s turn for reply came, he
brought down the house by saying: “The gentleman is correct in drawing
analogies between his side of this question and certain passages in the
life of Don Quixote. There is a marked resemblance, which I perceive
myself, between his argument and the scene of the knight attacking the
windmill; or, rather, it would be more appropriate to say that he
resembles the _windmill attacking the knight_.” At the college supper,
which followed the public entertainment, Garfield’s extensive
acquaintance with standard literature was being talked about, when he
laughingly told his admiring friends that he had never read _Don
Quixote_, and had only heard a mention of the tournament between the
crazy knight and the windmill.
His classmates, in writing of the impressions made on them by their
college chum, speak much of his warm, social disposition, and his
fondness for jokes. He had a sweet, large, wholesome nature, a hearty
and cheerful manner, which endeared him most closely to the men among
whom he spent the two years of college life. By the poorer and younger
students he was almost worshiped for his kindliness and encouragement.
He was a warm friend of every boy in the college; but for the weak, or
sick, or poverty stricken, his heart overflowed with generous sympathy.
His morals were as spotless as the stars. A classmate, who knew him
well, writes: “I never heard an angry word, or a hasty expression, or a
sentence which needed to be recalled. He possessed equanimity of temper,
self-possession, and self-control in the highest degree. What is more, I
never heard a profane or improper word, or an indelicate allusion from
his lips. He was in habits, speech, and example, a pure man.”
Williamstown, Massachusetts, where the college is located, is one of the
most beautiful spots on the continent, and its magnificent mountain
scenery made a deep impression on the mind of the tall Ohioan, who had
been reared in a level country. It is only to people who live among them
that mountains are unimpressive, and, perhaps, even then they make their
impress on the character, giving it a religious loftiness and beauty.
An old institution of Williams College was “Mountain Day”—an annual
holiday given for expeditions to some picturesque point in the vicinity.
On one of these occasions, an incident revealed the courage and piety of
“Old Gar,” as the boys lovingly called their leader. They were on the
summit of “Old Greylock,” seven miles from the college. Although it was
midsummer, the mountain top was cool; and, as the great glowing sun sank
behind the western range, the air became chilly. The group of collegians
were gathered about a camp-fire that blazed up briskly in the darkening
air. Some were sitting, some standing, but all were silent. The splendor
and solemnity of the scene; the dark winding valley; the circling range
of mountains; the over-bending sky; the distant villages, with the
picturesque old college towers; the faint tinkle of the cowbell; the
unspeakable glories of the sunset,—
“As through the West, where sank the crimson day,
Meek twilight slowly sailed, and waved her banners gray,”—
filled every thoughtful heart with religious awe. Just as the silence
became oppressive, it was broken by the voice of Garfield: “Boys, it is
my habit to read a chapter in the Bible every evening with my absent
mother. Shall I read aloud?” The little company assented; and, drawing
from his pocket a well-worn Testament, he read, in soft, rich tones, the
chapter which the mother in Ohio was reading at the same time, and then
called on a classmate to kneel on that mountain top and pray.
The two months’ vacation of Garfield’s first winter at college was spent
at North Pownal, Vermont, teaching a writing-school, in a school-house
where, the winter before, Chester A. Arthur had been the regular
teacher. But, at that time, Garfield only knew his predecessor by name,
and the men whose destinies were in the future to become so closely
intertwined did not become acquainted.
At the end of his junior year Garfield’s funds were exhausted; but,
after a consultation with his mother, he resolved to borrow the money to
complete his course, rather than lose more time. His first arrangement
for the money failed; but Dr. J. P. Robison, of Bedford, who, five years
before, had prophesied so much of the widow’s son, readily assumed the
burden, asking no security but his debtor’s word, but receiving a life
insurance policy which Garfield, who seemed to inherit an apprehension
of sudden calamity, insisted on procuring.
At the beginning of his senior year, he was elected one of the editors
of the Williams _Quarterly_, the college paper. His associates in the
work were W. R. Baxter, Henry E. Knox, E. Clarence Smith, and John
Tatlock. The pages of this magazine were enriched by a great number of
the products of his pen. His originality of thought and pleasant style
is nowhere better shown than in the following extract from a brilliant
article upon Karl Theodore Korner:
“The greater part of our modern literature bears evident marks of
the haste which characterizes all the movements of this age; but, in
reading these older authors, we are impressed with the idea that
they enjoyed the most comfortable leisure. Many books we can read in
a railroad car, and feel a harmony between the rushing of the train
and the haste of the author; but to enjoy the older authors, we need
the quiet of a winter evening—an easy chair before a cheerful fire,
and all the equanimity of spirits we can command. Then the genial
good nature, the rich fullness, the persuasive eloquence of those
old masters will fall upon us like the warm, glad sunshine, and
afford those hours of calm contemplation in which the spirit may
expand with generous growth, and gain deep and comprehensive views.
The pages of friendly old Goldsmith come to us like a golden autumn
day, when every object which meets the eye bears all the impress of
the completed year, and the beauties of an autumnal forest.”
Another article, which attracted great attention at the college, was
entitled “The Province of History.” The argument was that history has
two duties, the one to narrate facts with their relations and
significance, the other to show the tendency of the whole to some great
end. His idea was that history is to show the unfolding of a great
providential plan in the affairs of men and nations. In the course of
the article he said:
“For every village, State, and nation there is an aggregate of
native talent which God has given, and by which, together with His
Providence, He leads that nation on, and thus leads the world. In
the light of these truths, we affirm that no man can understand the
history of any nation, or of the world, who does not recognize in it
the power of God, and behold His stately goings forth as He walks
among the nations. It is His hand that is moving the vast
superstructure of human history, and, though but one of the windows
were unfurnished, like that of the Arabian palace, yet all the
powers of earth could never complete it without the aid of the
Divine Architect.
“To employ another figure—the world’s history is a divine poem, of
which the history of every nation is a canto, and of every man a
word. Its strains have been pealing along down the centuries, and,
though there have been mingled the discord of roaring cannon and
dying men, yet to the Christian philosopher and historian—the humble
listener—there has been a divine melody running through the song,
which speaks of hope and halcyon days to come. The record of every
orphan’s sigh, of every widow’s prayer, of every noble deed, of
every honest heart-throb for the right, is swelling that gentle
strain; and when, at last, the great end is attained—when the lost
image of God is restored to the human soul; when the church anthem
can be pealed forth without a discordant note, then will angels join
in the chorus, and all the sons of God again ‘shout for joy.’”
This is really an oration. It is not the style of the essayist. It is
the style of the orator before his audience. The boldness of the figure
which would captivate an audience, is a little palling to the quiet and
receptive state of the reader. The mental attitude of Garfield when he
wrote that passage was not that of the writer in his study, but of the
orator on the platform with a hushed assemblage before him. It will be
noticed that this characteristic of style only became more marked with
Garfield after he had left the mimic arena of the college.
But the idea embodied in this article is as significant and
characteristic as its expression. In some form or other most of the
world’s great leaders have believed in some outside and controlling
influence, which really shaped and directed events. To this they
attributed their own fortune. Napoleon called and believed himself to be
“The Child of Destiny.” Mohammed was a fatalist:
“On two days it stood not to run from thy fate—
The appointed and the unappointed day;
On the first, neither balm nor physician can save,
Nor thee, on the second, the universe slay.”
Buddha believed in fatalism. So did Calvin. Julius Cæsar ascribed his
own career to an overweening and superimposed destiny. William III. of
England, thought men were in the grasp of an iron fate.
The idea expressed in this article of a providential plan in human
things, according to which history unfolds itself, and events and men
are controlled, is not seen here for the last time. It will reappear at
intervals throughout the life of the man, always maintaining a large
ascendancy in his mind. It is not a belief in fate, destiny, or
predestination, but it is a kindred and corresponding one. Whether such
beliefs are false or true, whether superstitious or religious, does not
concern the biographer. It is sufficient that Garfield had such a
belief, and that it was a controlling influence in his life.
But Garfield’s literary efforts in college also took the form of poetry.
The affectionate nature, and lofty imagination, made his heart the home
of sentiment, and poetry its proper expression. We reproduce entire a
poem entitled “Memory,” written during his senior year. At that time,
his intended profession was teaching, and it is possible that the
presidency of a Christian college was “the summit where the sunbeams
fell,” but in the light of events the last lines seem almost prophetic.
MEMORY.
’Tis beauteous night; the stars look brightly down
Upon the earth, decked in her robe of snow,
No light gleams at the window save my own,
Which gives its cheer to midnight and to me.
And, now, with noiseless step, sweet Memory comes
And leads me gently through her twilight realms.
What poet’s tuneful lyre has ever sung,
Or delicatest pencil e’er portrayed,
The enchanted, shadowy land where Memory dwells?
It has its valleys, cheerless, lone, and drear,
Dark shaded by the mournful cypress tree,
And yet its sunlit mountain-tops are bathed
In heaven’s own blue. Upon its craggy cliffs,
Robed in the dreamy light of distant years,
Are clustered joys serene of other days;
Upon its gentle, sloping hillside bend
The weeping willow o’er the sacred dust
Of dear departed ones: and yet in that land,
Where’er our footsteps fall upon the shore,
They that were sleeping rise from out the dust
Of death’s long, silent years, and ’round us stand,
As erst they did before the prison tomb
Received their clay within its voiceless halls.
The heavens that bend above that land are hung
With clouds of various hues; some dark and chill,
Surcharged with sorrow, cast their somber shade
Upon the sunny, joyous land below:
Others are floating through the dreamy air,
White as falling snow, their margins tinged:
With gold and crimsoned hues; their shadows fall
Upon the flowery meads and sunny slopes,
Soft as the shadow of an angel’s wing.
When the rough battle of the day is done,
And evening’s peace falls gently on the heart,
I bound away across the noisy years,
Unto the utmost verge of Memory’s land,
Where earth and sky in dreamy distance meet:
And memory dim, with dark oblivion joins;
Where woke the first remembered sounds that fell
Upon the ear in childhood’s early morn;
And wandering thence, along the rolling years,
I see the shadow of my former self
Gliding from childhood up to man’s estate.
The path of youth winds down through many a vale
And on the brink of many a dread abyss,
From out whose darkness comes no ray of light,
Save that a phantom dances o’er the gulf
And beckons toward the verge. Again the path
Leads o’er a summit where the sunbeams fall;
And thus in light and shade, sunshine and gloom,
Sorrow and joy, this life-path leads along.
It is said that every one has in some degree a prophetic instinct; that
the spirit of man reaching out into the future apprehends more of its
destiny than it admits even to itself. If ever this premonition finds
expression, it is in poetry. On the following page will be found a gem,
torn from the setting of Garfield’s college life, which was published
during his senior year, and is equally suggestive:
AUTUMN.
Old Autumn, thou art here! Upon the earth
And in the heavens the signs of death are hung;
For o’er the earth’s brown breast stalks pale decay,
And ’mong the lowering clouds the wild winds wail,
And sighing sadly, shout the solemn dirge,
O’er Summer’s fairest flowers, all faded now.
The winter god, descending from the skies,
Has reached the mountain tops, and decked their brows
With glittering frosty crowns, and breathed his breath
Among the trumpet pines, that herald forth
His coming.
Before the driving blast
The mountain oak bows down his hoary head,
And flings his withered locks to the rough gales
That fiercely roar among his branches bare,
Uplifted to the dark, unpitying heavens.
The skies have put their mourning garments on,
And hung their funeral drapery on the clouds.
Dead Nature soon will wear her shroud of snow
And lie entombed in Winter’s icy grave.
Thus passes life. As heavy age comes on,
The joys of youth—bright beauties of the Spring—
Grow dim and faded, and the long dark night
Of death’s chill winter comes. But as the Spring
Rebuilds the ruined wrecks of Winter’s waste,
And cheers the gloomy earth with joyous light,
So o’er the tomb the star of hope shall rise
And usher in an ever-during day.
There is considerable poetic power here. The picture of the mountain
oak, with its dead leaves shattered by the November blasts, and its bare
branches uplifted to the dark unpitying heavens, is equal to Thomson.
This poem, like the one on Memory, is full of sympathy with nature, and
a somber sense of the sorrowful side of human nature.
But a college boy’s feelings have a long range upward and downward.
Nobody can have the “blues” more intensely, and nobody can have more
fun. We find several comic poems by Garfield in his paper. One of them
is a parody on Tennyson’s “Light Brigade,” and served to embalm forever
in the traditions of Williams a rascally student prank which the
Freshmen played upon their Sophomore enemies. One stanza must suffice
for these pages. It was called “The Charge of the Tight Brigade”:
_Bottles to right of them,
Bottles to left of them,
Bottles in front of them,
Fizzled and sundered_,
Ent’ring with shout and yell,
Boldly they drank and well,
_They caught the Tartar then;
Oh, what a perfect sell!
Sold—the half hundred._
Grinned all the dentals bare,
Swung all their caps in air,
Uncorking bottles there,
Watching the Freshmen while
Every one wondered;
Plunged in tobacco-smoke,
With many a desperate stroke,
Dozens of bottles broke.
_Then they came back, but not,
Not the half hundred._
The winter vacation of his senior year Garfield spent at Poestenkill, a
little place a few miles from Troy, New York. While teaching his writing
school there, he became acquainted with some members of the Christian
Church and through them with the officers of the city schools in Troy.
Struck by his abilities, they resolved to offer him a position in the
schools at a salary of $1,500 a year. The proposition was exciting to
his imagination. It meant much more money than he could hope for back in
Ohio; it meant the swift discharge of his debt, a life in a busy city,
where the roar of the great world was never hushed. But on the other
hand, his mother and the friends among whom he had struggled through
boyhood, were back in Ohio.
The conflict was severe. At last his decision was made. He and a
gentleman representing the Troy schools were walking on a hill called
Mount Olympus, when Garfield settled the matter in the following words:
“You are not Satan, and I am not Jesus, but we are upon the mountain,
and you have tempted me powerfully. I think I must say, ‘Get thee behind
me.’ I am poor, and the salary would soon pay my debts and place me in a
position of independence; but there are two objections. I could not
accomplish my resolution to complete a college course, and should be
crippled intellectually for life. Then my roots are all fixed in Ohio,
where people know me and I know them, and this transplanting might not
succeed as well in the long run as to go back home and work for smaller
pay.”
During his two years at Williams, a most important phase of Garfield’s
intellectual development was his opinion upon questions of politics. It
will be remembered that in 1855, the volcanic flames from the black and
horrible crater of slavery began to burst through the crust of
compromise, which for thirty years had hidden the smoldering fires. In
Kansas, civil war was raging. Determined men from all parts of the
country had gone there to help capture the State for their side, and in
the struggle between the two legislatures, the slavery men resolved to
drive the Free-soilers from the State. The sky was red with burning farm
houses. The woods were full of corpses of antislavery men with knives
sticking in their hearts. Yet the brave Free-soilers held their ground.
One man who had gone there from Ohio, had two sons literally chopped to
pieces. His name was John Brown. He also remained, living six weeks in a
swamp, in order to live at all.
The entire country was becoming aroused. Old political parties were
breaking up, and the lines reformed upon the slavery question. Garfield,
though twenty-three years old, had never voted. Nominally he was an
antislavery Whig. But he took little interest in any party. So far, the
struggle of his own life and the study of literature had monopolized his
mind.
In the fall of 1855, John Z. Goodrich, a member of Congress from the
western district of Massachusetts, delivered a political address in
Williamstown. Garfield and a classmate attended the speaking. The
subject was the Kansas-Nebraska struggle, and the efforts of the
antislavery minority in Congress to save Kansas for freedom. Says the
classmate, Mr. Lavallette Wilson, of New York: “As Mr. Goodrich spoke, I
sat at Garfield’s side, and saw him drink in every word. He said, as we
passed out, ‘This subject is entirely new to me. I am going to know all
about it.’”
The following day he sent for documents on the subject. He made a
profound and careful study of the history of slavery, and of the heroic
resistance to its encroachments. At the end of that investigation, his
mind was made up. Other questions of the day, the dangers from foreign
immigration, and from the Roman Catholic Church, the Crimean war, the
advantage of an elective judiciary, were all eagerly debated by him in
his society, but the central feature of his political creed was
opposition to slavery. His views were moderate and practical. The type
of his mind gave his opinions a broad conservatism, rather than a
theoretical radicalism. Accordingly, when on June 17, 1856, the new-born
Republican party unfurled its young banner of opposition to slavery and
protection for Kansas, Garfield was ready for the party as the party was
ready for him.
It was shortly before his graduation, when news of Fremont’s nomination
came, the light-hearted and enthusiastic collegians held a ratification
meeting. There were several speakers, but Garfield, with his matured
convictions, his natural aptitude for political debate, and his
enthusiastic eloquence, far outshone his friends. The speech was
received with tremendous applause, and it is most unfortunate that no
report of it was made. It was natural that much should have been
expected of this man by the boys of Williams. He seemed to be cast in a
larger mold than the ordinary. The prophecy of the class was a seat in
Congress within ten years. He reached it in seven.
At graduation he received the honor of the metaphysical oration, one of
the highest distinctions awarded to graduates. The subject of his
address was: “Matter and Spirit; or, The Seen and Unseen.” One who was
present says:
“The audience were wonderfully impressed with his oratory, and at the
close there was a wild tumult of applause, and a showering down upon him
of beautiful bouquets of flowers by the ladies;” a fitting close to the
two years of privation, mortification and toil.
Speaking of his mental characteristics, as developed at Williams,
Ex-President Hopkins, one of the greatest metaphysicians of the age,
writes:
“One point in General Garfield’s course of study, worthy of remark, was
its evenness. There was nothing startling at any one time, and no
special preference for any one study. There was a large general capacity
applicable to any subject, and sound sense. As he was more mature than
most, he naturally had a readier and firmer grasp of the higher studies.
Hence his appointment to the metaphysical oration, then one of the high
honors of the class. What he did was done with facility, but by honest
and avowed work. There was no pretense of genius, or alternation of
spasmodic effort and of rest, but a satisfactory accomplishment in all
directions of what was undertaken. Hence there was a steady, healthful,
onward and upward progress.”
To pass over Garfield’s college life without mention of the influence of
President Hopkins upon his intellectual growth, would be to omit its
most important feature. No man liveth to himself alone. The intellectual
life of great men is largely determined and directed by the few superior
minds with which they come in contact during formative periods. The
biography of almost any thinker will show that his intellectual growth
was by epochs, and that each epoch was marked out and created by the
influence of some maturer mind. The first person to exercise this power
is, in most cases, the mother. This was the case with Garfield. The
second person who left an indelible impression on his mental life, and
supplied it with new nourishment and stimulant, was Miss Almeda Booth.
The third person who exercised an overpowering personal influence upon
him was Mark Hopkins. When Garfield came to Williams, his thought was
strong, but uncultured. The crudities and irregularities of his
unpolished manners were also present in his mind.
He had his mental eye-sight, but he saw men as trees walking. But under
the influence of Hopkins, the scales fell from his eyes. The vast and
powerful intellect of the man who was stepping to the front rank of the
world’s thinkers, imparted its wealth of ideas to the big Ohioan.
Through President Hopkins, Garfield’s thought rose into the upper sky.
Under the inspiration of the teacher’s lectures and private
conversation, the pupil’s mind unfolded its immense calyx toward the sun
of speculative thought. From this teacher Garfield derived the great
ideas of law, of the regularity and system of the Universe, of the
analogy between man and nature, of God as the First Cause, of the
foundation of right conduct, of the correlation of forces, of the
philosophy of history. In after years, Garfield always said that
whatever perception he had of general ideas came from this great man.
One winter in Washington the National Teacher’s Association was in
session, and Garfield frequently dropped in to take a share in the
discussion. One day he said: “You are making a grand mistake in
education in this country. You put too much money into brick and mortar,
and not enough into brains. You build palatial school-houses with domes
and towers; supply them with every thing beautiful and luxuriant, and
then put puny men inside. The important thing is not what is taught, but
the teacher. It is the teacher’s personality which is the educator. I
had rather dwell six months in a tent, with Mark Hopkins, and live on
bread and water, than to take a six years’ course in the grandest brick
and mortar university on the continent.”
With graduation came separation. The favorite walks around Williamstown
were taken for the last time. The last farewells were said, the last
grasp of the hand given, and Garfield turned his face toward his Ohio
home. He was at once elected instructor in the ancient languages at the
Western Eclectic Institute, later known as Hiram College. Two years
later he became president of this institution, overrun with its four
hundred pupils. The activities of the man during this period were
immense. Following his own ideas of teaching, he surcharged the
institution with his personality. The younger student, on entering,
_felt_ the busy life which animated the place. With his teaching,
Garfield kept up an enormous amount of outside reading; he delivered
lectures on scientific and miscellaneous subjects, making some money by
it; he engaged in public debates on theologic and scientific questions;
he took the stump for the Republican party; on Sundays he preached in
the Disciples Church; in 1857 he took up the study of the law, mastered
its fundamental principles, and was admitted to practice at the
Cleveland bar on a certificate of two years’ study. Yet with all this
load on him, he impressed himself on each pupil in Hiram College as a
personal friend. One of these, Rev. J. L. Darsie, gives a vivid picture
of Garfield at this time:
“I recall vividly his method of teaching. He took very kindly to me,
and assisted me in various ways, because I was poor and was janitor
of the buildings, and swept them out in the morning and built the
fires, as he had done only six years before, when he was a pupil at
the same school. He was full of animal spirits, and he used to run
out on the green almost every day and play cricket with us. He was a
tall, strong man, but dreadfully awkward. Every now and then he
would get a hit on the nose, and he muffed his ball and lost his hat
as a regular thing. He was left-handed, too, and that made him seem
all the clumsier. But he was most powerful and very quick, and it
was easy for us to understand how it was that he had acquired the
reputation of whipping all the other mule-drivers on the canal, and
of making himself the hero of that thoroughfare when he followed its
tow-path ten years earlier.
“No matter how old the pupils were, Garfield always called us by our
first names, and kept himself on the most familiar terms with all.
He played with us freely, scuffled with us sometimes, walked with us
in walking to and fro, and we treated him out of the class-room just
about as we did one another. Yet he was a most strict
disciplinarian, and enforced the rules like a martinet. He combined
an affectionate and confiding manner with respect for order in a
most successful manner. If he wanted to speak to a pupil, either for
reproof or approbation, he would generally manage to get one arm
around him and draw him close up to him. He had a peculiar way of
shaking hands, too, giving a twist to your arm and drawing you right
up to him. This sympathetic manner has helped him to advancement.
When I was janitor he used sometimes to stop me and ask my opinion
about this and that, as if seriously advising with me. I can see now
that my opinion could not have been of any value, and that he
probably asked me partly to increase my self-respect, and partly to
show me that he felt an interest in me. I certainly was his friend
all the firmer for it.
“I remember once asking him what was the best way to pursue a
certain study, and he said: ‘Use several text-books. Get the views
of different authors as you advance. In that way you can plow a
broader furrow. I always study in that way.’ He tried hard to teach
us to observe carefully and accurately. He was the keenest observer
I ever saw. I think he noticed and numbered every button on our
coats.
“Mr. Garfield was very fond of lecturing to the school. He spoke two
or three times a week, on all manner of topics, generally
scientific, though sometimes literary or historical. He spoke with
great freedom, never writing out what he had to say, and I now think
that his lectures were a rapid compilation of his current reading,
and that he threw it into this form partly for the purpose of
impressing it on his own mind.
“At the time I was at school at Hiram, Principal Garfield was a
great reader, not omnivorous, but methodical, and in certain lines.
He was the most industrious man I ever knew or heard of. At one time
he delivered lectures on geology, held public debates on
spiritualism, preached on Sunday, conducted the recitations of five
or six classes every day, attended to all the financial affairs of
the school, was an active member of the legislature, and studied law
to be admitted to the bar. He has often said that he never could
have performed this labor if it had not been for the assistance of
two gifted and earnest women,—Mrs. Garfield herself, his early
schoolmate, who had followed her husband in his studies; and Miss
Almeda A. Booth, a member of the faculty. The latter was a graduate
of Oberlin, and had been a teacher of young Garfield when he was a
pupil; and now that he had returned as head of the faculty, she
continued to serve him in a sort of motherly way as tutor and guide.
When Garfield had speeches to make in the legislature or on the
stump, or lectures to deliver, these two ladies ransacked the
library by day, and collected facts and marked books for his
digestion and use in the preparation of the discourses at night.”
In the canvass of 1877, after one of his powerful stump speeches,
Garfield was lying on the grass, talking to an old friend of these Hiram
days. Said he:
“I have taken more solid comfort in the thing itself, and received
more moral recompense and stimulus in after-life from capturing
young men for an education than from any thing else in the world.”
“As I look back over my life thus far,” he continued, “I think of
nothing that so fills me with pleasure as the planning of these
sieges, the revolving in my mind of plans for scaling the walls of
the fortress; of gaining access to the inner soul-life, and at last
seeing the besieged party won to a fuller appreciation of himself,
to a higher conception of life, and to the part he is to bear in it.
The principal guards which I have found it necessary to overcome in
gaining these victories are the parents or guardians of the young
men themselves. I particularly remember two such instances of
capturing young men from their parents. Both of those boys are
to-day educators of wide reputation—one president of a college, the
other high in the ranks of graded school managers. Neither, in my
opinion, would to-day have been above the commonest walks of life
unless I or some one else had captured him. There is a period in
every young man’s life when a very small thing will turn him one way
or the other. He is distrustful of himself, and uncertain as to what
he should do. His parents are poor, perhaps, and argue that he has
more education than they ever obtained, and that it is enough. These
parents are sometimes a little too anxious in regard to what their
boys are going to do when they get through with their college
course. They talk to the young men too much, and I have noticed that
the boy who will make the best man is sometimes most ready to doubt
himself. I always remember the turning period in my own life, and
pity a young man at this stage from the bottom of my heart. One of
the young men I refer to came to me on the closing day of the spring
term and bade me good-bye at my study. I noticed that he awkwardly
lingered after I expected him to go, and had turned to my writing
again. ‘I suppose you will be back again in the fall, Henry,’ I
said, to fill in the vacuum. He did not answer, and, turning toward
him, I noticed that his eyes were filled with tears, and that his
countenance was undergoing contortions of pain.
“He at length managed to stammer out: ‘No, I am not coming back to
Hiram any more. Father says I have got education enough, and that he
needs me to work on the farm; that education don’t help along a
farmer any.’
“‘Is your father here?’ I asked, almost as much affected by the
statement as the boy himself. He was a peculiarly bright boy—one of
those strong, awkward, bashful, blonde, large-headed fellows, such
as make men. He was not a prodigy by any means. But he knew what
work meant, and when he had won a thing by the true endeavor, he
knew its value.
“‘Yes, father is here, and is taking my things home for good,’ said
the boy, more affected than ever.
“‘Well, don’t feel badly,’ I said. ‘Please tell him that Mr.
Garfield would like to see him at his study before he leaves the
village. Don’t tell him that it is about you, but simply that I want
to see him.’ In the course of half an hour the old gentleman, a
robust specimen of a Western Reserve Yankee, came into the room, and
awkwardly sat down. I knew something of the man before, and I
thought I knew how to begin. I shot right at the bull’s-eye
immediately.
“‘So you have come up to take Henry home with you, have you?’ The
old gentleman answered: ‘Yes.’ ‘I sent for you because I wanted to
have a little talk with you about Henry’s future. He is coming back
again in the fall, I hope?’
“‘Wal, I think not. I don’t reckon I can afford to send him any
more. He’s got eddication enough for a farmer already, and I notice
that when they git too much they sorter git lazy. Yer eddicated
farmers are humbugs. Henry’s got so far ’long now that he’d rother
hev his head in a book than be workin’. He don’t take no interest in
the stock, nor in the farm improvements. Every body else is
dependent in this world on the farmer, and I think that we’ve got
too many eddicated fellows settin’ round now for the farmers to
support.’
“‘I am sorry to hear you talk so,’ I said; ‘for really I consider
Henry one of the brightest and most faithful students I ever had. I
have taken a very deep interest in him. What I wanted to say to you
was, that the matter of educating him has largely been a constant
out-go thus far; but, if he is permitted to come next fall term, he
will be far enough advanced so that he can teach school in the
winter, and begin to help himself and you along. He can earn very
little on the farm in winter, and he can get very good wages
teaching. How does that strike you?’
“The idea was a new and a good one to him. He simply remarked: ‘Do
you really think he can teach next winter?’
“‘I should think so, certainly,’ I replied. ‘But if he can not do so
then, he can in a short time, anyhow.’
“‘Wal, I will think on it. He wants to come back bad enough, and I
guess I’ll have to let him. I never thought of it that way afore.’
“I knew I was safe. It was the financial question that troubled the
old gentleman, and I knew that would be overcome when Henry got to
teaching, and could earn his money himself. He would then be so far
along, too, that he could fight his own battles. He came all right
the next fall; and, after finishing at Hiram, graduated at an
Eastern college.”
“The other man I spoke of was a different case. I knew that this
youth was going to leave mainly for financial reasons also, but I
understood his father well enough to know that the matter must be
managed with exceeding delicacy. He was a man of very strong
religious convictions, and I thought he might be approached from
that side of his character; so when I got the letter of the son
telling me, in the saddest language that he could muster, that he
could not come back to school any more, but must be content to be
simply a farmer, much as it was against his inclination, I revolved
the matter in my mind, and decided to send an appointment to preach
in the little country church where the old gentleman attended. I
took for a subject the parable of the talents, and, in the course of
my discourse, dwelt specially upon the fact that children were the
talents which had been intrusted to parents, and, if these talents
were not increased and developed, there was a fearful trust
neglected. After church, I called upon the parents of the boy I was
besieging, and I saw that something was weighing upon their minds.
At length the subject of the discourse was taken up and gone over
again, and, in due course, the young man himself was discussed, and
I gave my opinion that he should, by all means, be encouraged and
assisted in taking a thorough course of study. I gave my opinion
that there was nothing more important to the parent than to do all
in his power for the child. The next term the young man again
appeared upon Hiram Hill, and remained pretty continuously till
graduation.”
One relic of his famous debates at this time, on the subject of
Christianity, still exists in a letter written to President Hinsdale,
which we give:
“HIRAM, January 10, 1859.
“The Sunday after the debate I spoke in Solon on ‘Geology and
Religion,’ and had an immense audience. Many Spiritualists were
out.... The reports I hear from the debate are much more decisive
than I expected to hear. I received a letter from Bro. Collins, of
Chagrin, in which he says: ‘Since the smoke of the battle has
partially cleared away, we begin to see more clearly the victory we
have gained.’ I have yet to see the first man who claims that Denton
explains his position; but they are all jubilant over his attack on
the Bible. What you suggest ought to be done I am about to
undertake. I go there next Friday or Saturday evening, and remain
over Sunday. I am bound to carry the war into Carthage, and pursue
that miserable atheism to its hole.
“Bro. Collins says that a few Christians are quite unsettled because
Denton said, and I admit, that the world has existed for millions of
years. I am astonished at the ignorance of the masses on these
subjects. Hugh Miller has it right when he says that ‘the battle of
the evidences must now be fought on the field of the natural
sciences.’”
In the year preceding the date which this letter bears, the sweet
romance of his youth reached its fruition, in the marriage of Garfield
to Lucretia Rudolph. During the years which of necessity elapsed since
the first-whispered vows, on the eve of his departure to Williams, the
loving, girlish heart had been true. They began life, “for better for
worse,” in an humble cottage fronting on the waving green of the college
campus. In their happy hearts rose no picture of another cottage,
fronting on the ocean, where, in the distant years, what God had joined
man was to put asunder. Well for them was it that God veiled the future
from them.
But the enormous activities already enumerated of this man did not
satisfy his unexhausted powers. The political opinions formed at college
began to bear fruit. In those memorable years just preceding the
outbreak of the Rebellion—the years “when the grasping power of slavery
was seizing the virgin territories of the West, and dragging them into
the den of eternal bondage;” the years of the underground railroad and
of the fugitive slave law; of the overseer and the blood-hound; the
years of John Brown’s heroic attempt to incite an insurrection of the
slaves themselves, such as had swept every shackle from San Domingo; of
his mockery trial, paralleled only by those of Socrates and Jesus, and
of his awful martyrdom,—the genius of the man, whose history this is,
was not asleep. The instincts of resistance to oppression, and of
sympathy for the oppressed, which he inherited from his dauntless
ancestry, began to stir within him. As the times became more and more
stormy, his spirit rose with the emergency, and he threw his strength
into political speeches. Already looked upon as the rising man of his
portion of the State, it was natural that the people should turn to him
for leadership. In 1859, he was nominated and elected to the State
Senate, as member from Portage and Summit counties.
The circumstances attending Garfield’s first nomination for office are
worthy to be recounted. It was in 1859, an off year in politics. Portage
County was a doubtful battle-field; generally it had gone Democratic,
but the Republicans had hopes when the ticket was fortified with strong
names. The convention was held in August, in the town of Ravenna. There
was a good deal of beating about to find a suitable candidate for State
Senator. At length a member of the convention arose and said:
“Gentlemen, I can name a man whose standing, character, ability and
industry will carry the county. It is President Garfield, of the Hiram
school.” The proposition took with the convention, and Garfield was
thereupon nominated by acclamation.
It was doubtful whether he would accept. The leaders of the church
stoutly opposed his entering into politics. It would ruin his character,
they said. At Chagrin Falls, at Solon, at Hiram and other places where
he had occasionally preached in the Disciples’ meeting-houses, there was
alarm at the prospect of the popular young professor going off into the
vain struggle of worldly ambition. In this juncture of affairs, the
yearly meeting of the Disciples took place in Cuyahoga County, and among
other topics of discussion, the Garfield matter was much debated. Some
regretted it; others denounced it; a few could not see why he should not
accept the nomination. “Can not a man,” said they, “be a gentleman and a
politician too?” In the afternoon Garfield himself came into the
meeting. Many besought him not to accept the nomination. He heard what
they had to say. He took counsel with a few trusted friends, and then
made up his mind. “I believe,” said he, “that I can enter political life
and retain my integrity, manhood and religion. I believe that there is
vastly more need of manly men in politics than of preachers. You know I
never deliberately decided to follow preaching as a life work any more
than teaching. Circumstances have led me into both callings. The desire
of brethren to have me preach and teach for them, a desire to do good in
all ways that I could, and to earn, in noble callings, something to pay
my way through a course of study, and to discharge debts, and the
discipline and cultivation of mind in preaching and teaching, and the
exalted topics for investigation in teaching and preaching, have led me
into both callings. I have never intended to devote my life to either,
or both; although lately Providence seemed to be hedging my way and
crowding me into the ministry. I have always intended to be a lawyer,
and perhaps to enter political life. Such has been my secret ambition
ever since I thought of such things. I have been reading law for some
time. This nomination opens the way, I believe, for me to enter into the
life work I have always preferred. I have made up my mind. Mother is at
Jason Robbins’. I will go there and talk with her. She has had a hope
and desire that I would devote my life to preaching ever since I joined
the church. My success as a preacher has been a great satisfaction to
her. She regarded it as the fulfillment of her wishes, and has, of late,
regarded the matter as settled. If she will give her consent, I will
accept the nomination.”
He accordingly went to his mother, and received this reply: “James, I
have had a hope and a desire, ever since you joined the church, that you
would preach. I have been happy in your success as a preacher, and
regarded it as an answer to my prayers. Of late, I had regarded the
matter as settled. But I do not want my wishes to lead you into a life
work that you do not prefer to all others—much less into the ministry,
unless your heart is in it. If you can retain your manhood and religion
in political life, and believe you can do the most good there, you have
my full consent and prayers for your success. A mother’s prayers and
blessing will be yours.” With this answer as his assurance, he accepted
the nomination, and placed his foot on the first round in the aspiring
ladder.
From this time on, Garfield ceased forever to be a private citizen, and
must thereafter be looked on as a public man. Twenty-eight year of age,
a giant in body and mind, of spotless honor and tireless industry, it
was inevitable that Garfield should become a leader of the Ohio Senate.
During his first winter in the legislature, his powers of debate and his
varied knowledge gave him conspicuous rank. A committee report, drawn by
his hand, upon the Geological Survey of Ohio, is a State document of
high order, revealing a scientific knowledge and a power to group
statistics and render them effective, which would be looked at with
wide-eyed wonder by the modern State legislator. Another report on the
care of pauper children; and a third, on the legal regulation of weights
and measures, presenting a succinct sketch of the attempts at the thing,
both in Europe and America, are equally notable as completely out of the
ordinary rut of such papers. During this and the following more exciting
winter at Columbus, he, somehow, found time to gratify his passion for
literature, spending many evenings in the State library, and carrying
out an elaborate system of annotation. But Garfield’s chief activities
in the Ohio legislature did not lie in the direction of peace. The times
became electric. Men felt that a terrible crisis upon the slavery and
States-rights questions was approaching. The campaign of 1860, in which
Abraham Lincoln, the Great Unknown, was put forward as the
representative of the antislavery party, was in progress. In the midst
of the popular alarm, which was spreading like sheet lightning over the
Republic, Garfield’s faith in the perpetuity of the nation was unshaken.
His oration at Ravenna, Ohio, on July 4, 1860, contains the following
passage:
“Our nation’s future—shall it be perpetual? Shall the expanding
circle of its beneficent influence extend, widening onward to the
farthest shore of time? Shall its sun rise higher and yet higher,
and shine with ever-brightening luster? Or, has it passed the zenith
of its glory, and left us to sit in the lengthening shadows of its
coming night? Shall power from beyond the sea snatch the proud
banner from us? _Shall civil dissension or intestine strife rend the
fair fabric of the Union?_ The rulers of the Old World have long and
impatiently looked to see fulfilled the prophecy of its downfall.
Such philosophers as Coleridge, Alison and Macaulay have, severally,
set forth the reasons for this prophecy—the chief of which is, that
the element of stability in our Government will sooner or later
bring upon it certain destruction. This is truly a grave charge. But
whether instability is an element of destruction or of safety,
depends wholly upon the sources whence that instability springs.
“The granite hills are not so changeless and abiding as the restless
sea. Quiet is no certain pledge of permanence and safety. Trees may
flourish and flowers may bloom upon the quiet mountain side, while
silently the trickling rain-drops are filling the deep cavern behind
its rocky barriers, which, by and by, in a single moment, shall hurl
to wild ruin its treacherous peace. It is true, that in our land
there is no such outer quiet, no such deceitful repose. Here society
is a restless and surging sea. The roar of the billows, the dash of
the wave, is forever in our ears. Even the angry hoarseness of
breakers is not unheard. But there is an understratum of deep, calm
sea, which the breath of the wildest tempest can never reach. There
is, deep down in the hearts of the American people, a strong and
abiding love of our country and its liberty, which no surface-storms
of passion can ever shake. That kind of instability which arises
from a free movement and interchange of position among the members
of society, which brings one drop to glisten for a time in the crest
of the highest wave, and then gives place to another, while it goes
down to mingle again with the millions below; such instability is
the surest pledge of permanence. On such instability the eternal
fixedness of the universe is based. Each planet, in its circling
orbit, returns to the goal of its departure, and on the balance of
these wildly-rolling spheres God has planted the broad base of His
mighty works. So the hope of our national perpetuity rests upon that
perfect individual freedom, which shall forever keep up the circuit
of perpetual change. God forbid that the waters of our national life
should ever settle to the dead level of a waveless calm. It would be
the stagnation of death—the ocean grave of individual liberty.”
Meanwhile blacker and blacker grew the horizon. Abraham Lincoln was
elected President, but it brought no comfort to the anxious North. Yet,
even then, but few men thought of war. The winter of 1860–’61 came on,
and with it the reassembling of the State legislatures. Rising with the
emergency Garfield’s statesmanship foresaw the black and horrible fate
of civil war. The following letter by him to his friend, President
Hinsdale, was prophetic of the war, and of the rise of an Unknown to
“ride upon the storm and direct it”:
COLUMBUS, January 15, 1861.
“My heart and thoughts are full almost every moment with the
terrible reality of our country’s condition. We have learned so long
to look upon the convulsions of European states as things wholly
impossible here, that the people are slow in coming to the belief
that there may be any breaking up of our institutions, but stern,
awful certainty is fastening upon the hearts of men. _I do not see
any way, outside a miracle of God, which can avoid civil war, with
all its attendant horrors._ Peaceable dissolution is utterly
impossible. Indeed, I can not say that I would wish it possible. To
make the concessions demanded by the South would be hypocritical and
sinful; they would neither be obeyed nor respected. I am inclined to
believe that the sin of slavery is one of which it may be said that
without the shedding of blood there is no remission. All that is
left us as a State, or say as a company of Northern States, is to
arm and prepare to defend ourselves and the Federal Government. I
believe the doom of slavery is drawing near. Let war come, and the
slaves will get the vague notion that it is waged for them, and a
magazine will be lighted whose explosion will shake the whole fabric
of slavery. Even if all this happen, I can not yet abandon the
belief that one government will rule this continent, and its people
be one people.
“Meantime, what will be the influence of the times on individuals?
Your question is very interesting and suggestive. The doubt that
hangs over the whole issue bears touching also. It may be the duty
of our young men to join the army, or they may be drafted without
their own consent. If neither of these things happen, there will be
a period when old men and young will be electrified by the spirit of
the times, and one result will be to make every individuality more
marked, and their opinions more decisive. I believe the times will
be even more favorable than calm ones for the formation of strong
will and forcible characters.
* * * * *
“Just at this time (have you observed the fact?) we have no man who
has power to ride upon the storm and direct it. The hour has come,
but not the man. The crisis will make many such. But I do not love
to speculate on so painful a theme. I am chosen to respond to a
toast on the Union at the State Printers’ Festival here next
Thursday evening. It is a sad and difficult theme at this time.”
This letter is the key to Garfield’s record in the Ohio Senate. On the
24th of January he championed a bill to raise and equip 6,000 State
militia. The timid, conservative and politically blind members of the
legislature he worked with both day and night, both on and off the floor
of the Senate, to prepare them for the crisis which his genius foresaw.
But as his prophetic vision leaped from peak to peak of the mountain
difficulties of the future, he saw not only armies in front, but
traitors in the rear. He drew up and put through to its passage a bill
defining treason—“providing that when Ohio’s soldiers go forth to
maintain the Union, there shall be no treacherous fire in the rear.”
In the hour of darkness his trumpet gave no uncertain sound. He was for
coercion, without delay or doubt.
He was the leader of what was known as the “Radical Triumvirate,”
composed of J. D. Cox, James Monroe, and himself—the three men who, by
their exhaustless efforts, wheeled Ohio into line for the war. The Ohio
legislature was as blind as a bat. _Two days after Sumter had been fired
on, the Ohio Senate, over the desperate protests of the man who had for
months foreseen the war, passed the Corwin Constitutional Amendment,
providing that Congress should have no power ever to legislate on the
question of slavery!_ Notwithstanding this blindness, through the
indomitable zeal of Garfield and his colleagues, Ohio was the first
State in the North to reach a war footing. When Lincoln’s call for
75,000 men reached the legislature, Senator Garfield was on his feet
instantly, moving, amid tumultuous cheers, that 20,000 men and
$3,000,000 be voted as Ohio’s quota. In this ordeal, the militia
formerly organized proved a valuable help.
The inner history of this time will probably never be fully written.
Almost every Northern legislative hall, particularly in border States,
was the scene of a _coup d’état_. Without law or precedent, a few
determined men broke down the obstacles with which treason hedged the
path of patriotism. As we have said, the inner history of those high and
gallant services, of the midnight counsels, the forced loans, the
unauthorized proclamations, will never be written. All that will be
known to history will be that, when the storm of treason broke, every
Northern State wheeled into line of battle; and it is enough.
Of Garfield it is known that he became at once Governor Dennison’s
valued adviser and aid. The story of one of his services to the Union
has leaked out. After the attack on Sumter, the State capital was
thronged with men ready to go to war, but there were no guns. Soldiers
without guns were a mockery. In this extremity it was found out that at
the Illinois arsenal was a large quantity of muskets. Instantly,
Garfield started to Illinois with a requisition. By swift diplomacy he
secured and shipped to Columbus five thousand stand of arms, a prize
valued at the time more than so many recruits. But while the interior
history of the times will never be fully known, the exterior scenes are
still fresh in memory. The opening of the muster-rolls, the incessant
music of martial bands, the waving of banners, the shouts of the
drill-sergeant, the departure of crowded trains carrying the brave and
true to awful fields of blood and glory,—all this we know and remember.
The Civil War was upon us, and James A. Garfield, in the morning of his
power, was to become a soldier of the Union.