CHAPTER XX.

W

THE ORATOR'S POWER.

E must now invite the reader's attention to Garfield as he appears in his speeches, and if we cannot follow him as fully as we would like to show his rare oratorical power and splendid statesmanship, to develop in his own words what he is-it is because space forbids. His speeches alone make volumes and we can only cull here and there a flower from the thickly blossoming fields.

It was impossible for a man so large hearted, so patriotic as Garfield is not to have felt deeply the death of Abraham Lincoln. He saw that it was not the hand of one man but the spirit of secession aiming a last despairing blow at the great principles that had conquered it. Naturally then his was the tongue to give some expression to the nation's grief. And in the exciting hours that followed Booth's cowardly pistol shot, when the whole North was roused with a whirlwind of mad passion, Garfield's hand was apparent in staying the impending storm, in counseling that course that led to the wiser way, the better plan.

In the incident we are about to relate the extraordinary moral power always exerted over men by

the nominee for the Presidency, was perhaps never shown to a better advantage. The incident is contributed to this volume by a distinguished public man, who was an eye-witness of the exciting scene:

"I shall never forget the first time I saw General Garfield. It was the morning after President Lincoln's assassination. The country was excited to its utmost tension, and New York city seemed ready for the scenes of the French revolution. The intelligence of Lincoln's murder had been flashed by the wires over the whole land. The newspaper head-lines of the transaction were set up in the largest type, and the high crime was on every one's tongue. Fear took possession of men's minds as to the fate of the Government, for in a few hours the news came on that Seward's throat was cut, and that attempts had been made upon the lives of others of the Government officers. Posters were stuck up everywhere, in great black letters, calling upon the loyal citizens of New York, Brooklyn, Jersey City and neighboring places to meet around the Wall-Street Exchange and give expression to their sentiments. It was a dark and terrible hour. What might come next no one could tell, and men spoke with bated breath. The wrath of the workingmen was simply uncontrollable, and revolvers and knives were in the hands of thousands of Lincoln's friends, ready, at the first opportunity, to take the law into their own hands, and avenge the death of their martyred President upon any and all who dared to utter a word against him. Eleven o'clock A. M was the hour set for the rendezvous. Fifty thousand people crowded around the Exchange Building, cramming and jamming the streets, and wedged in tight as men could stand together. With a few to whom a special favor was extended, I went over from Brooklyn at nine A. M., and, even then, with the utmost difficulty, found my way to the reception room for the speakers in the

front of the Exchange Building, and looking out

on the

high and massive balcony, whose front was protected by a heavy iron railing. We sat in solemnity and silence, waiting for General Butler, who, it was announced, had started from Washington, and was either already in the city or expected every moment. Nearly a hundred generals, judges, statesmen, lawyers, editors, clergymen and others were in that room waiting Butler's arrival. We stepped out to the balcony to watch the fearfully solemn and swaying mass of people. Not a hurrah was heard, but for the most part a dead silence, or a deep, ominous muttering ran like a rising wave up the street toward Broadway, and again down toward the river on the right. At length the batons of the police were seen swinging in the air, far up on the left, parting the crowd and pressing it back to make way for a carriage that moved slowly, and with difficult jogs, through the compact multitude. Suddenly the silence was broken, and the cry of 'Butler !' 'Butler!' 'Butler !' rang out with tremendous and thrilling effect, and was taken up by the people. But not a hurrah! Not once! It was the cry of a great people, asking to know how their President died. The blood bounced in our veins, and the tears ran like streams down our faces. How it was done I forget, but Butler was pulled through and pulled up, and entered the room, where we had just walked back to meet him. A broad crape, a yard long, hung from his left arm-terrible contrast with the countless flags that were waving the nation's victory in the breeze. We first realized, then, the truth of the sad news that Lincoln was dead. When Butler entered the room we shook hands. Some spoke, some could not; all were in tears. The only word Butler had for us all, at the first break of the silence, was, Gentlemen, he died in the fullness of his fame! and as he spoke it his lips quivered and the tears ran fast down his cheeks. Then, after a few moments, came the speaking. And you can imagine the effect, as the crape fluttered in the wind, while his arm was uplifted. Dickinson, of New York

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State, was fairly wild. The old man leaped over the iron railing of the balcony and stood on the very edge, overhanging the crowd, gesticulating in the most vehement manner, and almost bidding the crowd burn up the rebel, seed, root and branch,' while a bystander held on to his coat-tails to keep him from falling over. By this time the wave of popular indignation had swelled to its crest. Two men lay bleeding on one of the side streets, the one dead, the other next to dying; one on the pavement, the other in the gutter. They had said a moment before that 'Lincoln ought to have been shot long ago!' They were not allowed to say it again. Soon two long pieces of scantling stood out above the heads of the crowd, crossed at the top like the letter X, and a looped halter pendent from the junction, a dozen men following its slow motion through the masses, while 'Vengeance' was the cry. On the right, suddenly, the shout rose, The World!' 'the World!''the office of the World!' 'World!' 'World !' and a movement of perhaps eight thousand or ten thousand turning their faces in the direction of that building began to be executed. It was a critical moment. What might come no one could tell, did that crowd get in front of that office. Police and military would have availed little or been too late. A telegram had just been read from Washington, 'Seward is dying. Just then, at that juncture, a man stepped forward with a small flag in his hand, and beckoned to the crowd. 'Another telegram from Washington!' And then, in the awful stillness of the crisis, taking advantage of the hesitation of the crowd, whose steps had been arrested a moment, a right arm was lifted skyward, and a voice, clear and steady, loud and distinct, spoke out, 'Fellow-citizens ! Clouds and darkness are round about Him! His pavilion is dark waters and thick clouds of the skies! Justice and judgment are the establishment of His throne! Mercy and truth shall go before His face! Fellow-citizens! God reigns, and the Government at Washington still lives!' The effect was tremendous. The crowd stood riveted to the ground with awe,

gazing at the motionless orator, and thinking of God and the security of the Government in that hour. As the boiling waves subsides and settles to the sea, when some strong wind beats it down, so the tumult of the people sank and became still. All took it as a divine omen. It was a triumph of eloquence, inspired by the moment, such as falls to but one man's lot, and that but once in a century. The genius of Webster, Choate, Everett, Seward, never reached it. What might have happened had the surging and maddened mob been let loose, none can tell. The man for the crisis was on the spot, more potent than Napoleon's guns at Paris. I inquired what was his name. The answer came in a low whis

per, 'It is General Garfield, of Ohio!'"'

It was Garfield who made the speech when the House took official action on the death of the President, and it was he, again, who (February 12th, 1878), retouched with his eloquent powers the same theme on receiving F. B. Carpenter's painting of Lincoln and Emancipation, on behalf of the nation.

The reader pauses here, and recalls instinctively the terrible days with which this July (1881) opened: the dastardly assassination, the long hours of the President's tarrying at the gate of death, the suspense of the people, the silent agony of a nation! And how, as it were the mighty voice of some past-time prophet comes ringing, like the cheer of a relief party, Garfield's words, with which he held a whole city at bay: "Fellowcitizens: God reigns, and the Government at Washington still lives!" Was it the hand of