Determination to rise, steadfastness of purpose, well-directed commonsense, commendable ambition. These were the factors that made the man, whose unsullied name is graven high in the history of the republic, and whose life was a satisfaction to himself, his associates and his people. Exalted without ostentation, great without conceit, helpful to his family, his friends, his race, his country and himself, blessed of God, the beginning and end of a benediction.
His death was an accident of fate.
Saturday, July 2, 1881, was a fair, hot midsummer day. The inmates of the White House were astir early. The President was going to Massachusetts to attend the commencement exercises at his old college at Williamstown, and afterward to take a holiday jaunt through New England, accompanied by several members of the Cabinet and other friends. His wife, who was at Long Branch, New Jersey, just recovering from a severe attack of malarial fever, was to join him at New York. He had looked forward with almost boyish delight to his trip, and was in high spirits as he and Secretary Blaine drove off to the railway station.
There was no crowd about. Most of those who were to take the train had already gone on board. Among the few persons in the waiting-room was a slender, middle-aged man, who walked up and down rather nervously, occasionally looking out of the door as if expecting some one. There was nothing about him to attract special notice, and no one paid much attention to him. When President Garfield and Mr. Blaine entered, he drew back, took a heavy revolver from his pocket, and, taking deliberate aim, fired. The ball struck the President on the shoulder. He turned, surprised, to see who had shot him. The assassin recocked his revolver and fired again, and then turned to flee. The President fell to the floor, the blood gushing from a wound in his side.
In a moment all was confusion and horror. Secretary Blaine sprang after the assassin, but, seeing that he was caught, turned again to the President. The shock had been great, and he was very pale. A mattress was brought, his tall form was lifted tenderly into an ambulance, and he was swiftly borne to the Executive Mansion. His first thought was for his wife—the beloved wife of his youth, just recovering from sickness, expecting in a few hours to meet him. How would she bear the tidings of this blow?
“Rockwell,” he said, faintly, to a friend, “I want you to send a message to ‘Crete’” (the pet name for his wife, Lucretia). “Tell her I am seriously hurt—how seriously I cannot yet say. I am myself, and hope she will come to me soon. I send my love to her.” During the dictation of the dispatch, Dr. Bliss and several other physicians arrived. A hasty inspection demonstrated that the President was terribly wounded.
A swift train brought Mrs. Garfield to her husband’s side that evening. The persons present in the sick-room retired to allow Mrs. Garfield to meet her husband alone, as he had requested. They remained together only five minutes; but the effect of this brief interview was soon seen in the rallying of the almost dying man. At the end of that time the doctors were again admitted, and then began the long struggle for life, with its fluctuations between hope and dread, which lasted for almost three months. Just after Mrs. Garfield’s arrival there was a sudden collapse which seemed to be the end, and the family of the President were hastily summoned to his bedside; but, to the surprise of every one, the crisis passed, and for three weeks he seemed to improve. Then came a turn for the worse, and from that time the President lost ground. The hot summer days, hard to bear even for those in full health, wasted and weakened him terribly. He sank steadily; and it was seen that unless relief from the intense heat could be had, he would inevitably die within a few days. It was decided to remove him to Elberon, on the ocean shore, near Long Branch, New Jersey; and on September 7th, accompanied by his family and the members of the Cabinet, he was borne by a swift special train northward to the seaside. A summer cottage had been offered for his use, and there for two anxious weeks lay the man who, it may be truly said, had become
“The pillar of a people’s hope,
The center of a world’s desire.”
The cooling breezes of the seaside brought some relief, and the change no doubt prolonged his life; but it could not be saved. In the night of September 19th, almost without warning, the end came; the feeble flame of life, so anxiously watched and cherished, flickered a moment, and then went out in the darkness.