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.