The Life and Work of James A. Garfield, Twentieth President of the United States / Embracing an Account of the Scenes and Incidents of His Boyhood; the Struggles of His Youth; the Might of His Early Manhood; His Valor As a Soldier; His Career As a Statesman; His Election to the Presidency; and the Tragic Story of His Death.

by John Clark Ridpath

“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?’