The Life and Public Services of James A. Garfield. E. E. Brown
href="#ulink_e7f1430b-8d9f-50e7-9ed0-c8c275dadc03">[From a Speech, at the unveiling of a Soldiers' Monument Painesville, Ohio, July 4, 1880.]
[From a Speech in New York, August 6, 1880.]
[Remarks at Chatauqua August 1, 1880]
[From an Address at the Anniversary of Hiram College, directly after the Chicago Convention, 1880.]
PRESIDENT GARFIELD'S FIRST OFFICIAL WORDS TO THE COUNTRY.
LIFE OF JAMES A. GARFIELD
CHAPTER I.
The "Great Heart of the People."—Bereaved of their Chief.—Universal Mourning.—Wondering Query of Foreign Nations.—Humble Birth in Log Cabin.—The Frontier Settlements in Ohio.—Untimely Death of Father.—Struggles of the Family.
"The great heart of the people will not let the old soldier die!"
So murmured the brave, patient sufferer in his sleep that terrible July night, when the whole nation, stricken down with grief and consternation at the assassin's deed, watched, waited, prayed—as one man—for the life of their beloved President.
And all through those weary eighty days that followed, of alternate hope and fear, how truly the great, loving, sympathetic heart of the people did battle, with millions of unseen weapons, for the strong, heroic spirit that never faltered, never gave up "the one chance," even while he whispered: "God's will be done; I am ready to go if my time has come."
Party differences were all forgotten; there was no longer any North or South—only one common brotherhood, one great, sorrowing household watching with tender solicitude beside the death-bed of their loved one.
How anxiously the varying bulletins were studied! How eagerly the faintest glimmer of hope was seized! And when, on that never-to-be-forgotten anniversary of Chickamauga's battle, the midnight bells tolled out their solemn requiem,
"The nation sent
Like Egypt, in her tenth and final blow.
Through all the land a loud and bitter cry;
And felt, like her, as o'er her dead she bent,
There is in every home a present woe!"
And yet, with renewed fervor, we repeat those pathetic words:
"The great heart of the people will not let the old soldier die!"
While bowing reverently, submissively to the decree of the Almighty Disposer of human affairs, the nation feels that "no canon of earth or Heaven can forbid the enshrining of his manly virtues and grand character, so that after-generations may profit by the contemplation of them."
A halo of immortal glory already gathers around the name of James A. Garfield.
The remembrance of his brave, self-forgetting endurance of pain, his strong, indomitable will, his tender regard for his aged mother, his simple, unaffected piety, his cheerful resignation, will never be effaced from the heart of the people.
And when expressions of sympathy and regret came to America from all parts of the world, the wondering query arose:
"How is it that republican manners and republican institutions can produce such a king among men as President Garfield?"
Let us go back to that humble log cabin in the wilds of Ohio where, fifty years ago, a little fair-haired, blue-eyed boy was born.
It is a bleak, bitter day in November, and the whistling of the winds through the crevices, mingles with the howl of hungry wolves in the woods close by.
But the new baby finds a warm welcome waiting him in that rough cabin home. The mother's love is fully reflected in the honest face of the great, warm-hearted father, as he folds the little stranger in his strong arms, and declares he is "worth his weight in gold."
Thomas, a boy of nine years, with Mehetabel and Mary, the two little sisters, look wonderingly upon their baby brother, and then run out to spread the good news through the neighborhood.
In those early days the frontier settlements seemed like one family, so interested were all in the joys and sorrows of each.
Eighteen months later, when the brave, strong father was cut down in the midst of his work, a circle of true-hearted, sympathizing friends stood, like a body-guard, around the little family.
One of those dreaded forest fires had been raging for days through the tract of country adjoining the Garfield farm. With the aid of his older children, Mehetabel and Thomas, the father had at last checked the flames, but, sitting down to rest by the open door, he took a severe cold which brought on congestion of the throat.
Before a physician could be called he was past all human aid, and, looking wistfully upon his children and heart-broken wife, he said, with dying breath—
"I am going to leave you, Eliza. I have planted four saplings in these woods, and I must now leave them to your care."
The blue-eyed baby, who bore his father's name, could not understand the sorrowful faces about him, and, toddling up to the bedside, he put his little hands on the cold lips, and called "Papa! Papa!" till the weeping mother bore him out of the room.
"What will become of those poor, fatherless children?" said one neighbor to another.
"It is a strange providence," was the reply. "The mother is too young and too frail to carry on the farm alone. She will have to sell everything, and find homes for the children among her friends."
But Eliza Garfield was not the weak, dependent woman they had imagined. Moreover, she had one brave little helper close at hand.
"Don't cry, mother dear," said Thomas, making a great effort to keep back his own tears. "I am ten years old now, you know. I will take care of you. I am big enough to plough and plant, and cut the wood and milk the cows. Don't let us give up the farm. I will work ever so hard if we can only keep together!"
Noble little fellow! No wonder the mother's heart grew lighter as she watched his earnest face.
"You are not strong enough, dear child, to do all that," she said, "but God helping us, we will keep