The Life and Public Services of James A. Garfield

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 together. I will sell off part of the farm to pay our debts, and we shall then have thirty acres left, which will be quite enough for you and me to take care of."

It was now late in the spring, but Thomas managed to sow the wheat, plant the corn and potatoes and with the help of a kind neighbor complete the little barn his father had begun to build.

In cultivating the ground, his mother and sisters were always ready to help, and together they split the rails, and drove the stakes for the heavy fence around the wheat-field.

With such example of untiring industry and perseverance constantly before his eyes, it is no wonder the restless baby brother soon tried to lend a helping hand.

"Me do it too," he would cry, when Thomas took down the rake or the hoe, and started off for his work in the fields.

"One of these days, Jimmy," the boy-farmer would reply, with a merry smile: though even then he could not help hoping there might be better things in store for the little brother he loved so dearly.

Walking all the way to Cleveland, Thomas secures a little job, and brings home his first earnings, with a bounding heart.

"Now Jimmy can have a pair of shoes," he says to his mother who cannot keep back her tears as she looks at his own bare feet.

The old cobbler comes and boards at the cabin while he makes the little shoes, and when they are completed it is hard to tell which is the happier boy,-Thomas or little Jimmy.

Four years after the father's death, a school-house is built a mile and a half away.

"Jimmy and the girls must go," says Thomas.

"Yes," replies the mother, "but I wish you could go, too."

"It wouldn't do for me to leave the farm, mother dear," says the noble boy. "One of these days, perhaps I can study at home."

The mile and a half walk to the school-house was a long, hard pull for little Jimmy, in spite of those new shoes; and many a time Mehetabel might have been seen, carrying him back and forth on her broad shoulders.

It was a happy day for all the children when the new log school-house was put up on one corner of the Garfield farm. The land had been given by Mrs. Garfield, and the neighbors clubbed together and built the house, which was only twenty feet square, with a slab roof, a puncheon floor, and log benches without backs.

The master was a young man from New Hampshire. He boarded with Mrs. Garfield, and between him and little James a warm friendship was soon established.

The bright active child was never tired of asking questions.

"He will make his mark in the world, one of these days-you may take my word for it!" exclaimed the teacher, as he recounted James' wonderful progress at school.

The happy mother never forgot these words, and determined to give her little boy every possible advantage.

But the Ohio schools in those days were very poor. The three "R's," with spelling and geography, were the only branches taught, and oftentimes the teachers knew but little more than the scholars.

As soon as James could read, he eagerly devoured every book that came within his reach. The family library comprised not more than half a dozen volumes, but among these, Weems' "Life of Marion" and Grimshaw's "Napoleon" were especial favorites with the eager enthusiastic boy.

Every night the mother would read to her children from her old, well-worn Bible: and oftentimes James would puzzle his little playmates with unexpected scripture questions. His wonderful memory held a strange variety of information in its tenacious grasp. He delighted to hear his mother read poetry, and would often commit long passages by heart. His vivid imagination peopled the old orchard with all sorts of strange characters. Each tree was named after some noted Indian chief, or some favorite hero he had read about; and from a high ledge of rocks in the neighborhood, he would sometimes deliver long harangues to his imaginary audiences. Thomas watched the progress of his little brother with fatherly pride and admiration, and James looked up to him with loving confidence.

He could now help about the farm in many ways, and when Thomas got an opportunity to work out and earn a few extra pennies, James would look after the stock, chop the wood, hoe the corn, and help his mother churn and milk.

"One of these days, James," she said to him, as he was working diligently by her side, "I expect Thomas will go out into the world to earn his living, and then you will have to take his place here on the farm."

"But, how soon will that be, mother?" asked the little fellow, who felt then that he could not possibly get along without his big brother.

"Not until Thomas is twenty-one, and then you will be twelve years old-older by two years than Thomas was when your father died."

"I wish I could be as good a farmer as he," said James; "but I think I would rather be a carpenter."

"And I would rather have you a teacher or a preacher," said his mother; "but we must take our work just as Providence gives it to us, and farming, my boy, comes first to you."

It was a trying day to the whole family when Thomas left the little home to work on a clearing, "way off in Michigan." He would be gone six months, at least, and there was very little communication in those days between Ohio and the farther west.

"I wish you could have found work nearer home," said the fond mother.

"But I shall earn higher wages there-twelve dollars a month,"-answered the self-forgetting son; "and, when I get back, I shall have money enough to build you a frame house."

The little log cabin was fast coming to pieces, and for five years Thomas had been cutting and seasoning lumber for the new house, but they had never been able to hire a carpenter to put it up.

James tried very hard to fill his brother's place, but he could never throw his whole soul into farming as Thomas had done. He read and studied all the time he could get out of working hours, and his thirst for knowledge was constantly increasing. But how was he to procure the education for which he longed?

"Providence will open the way," said the good mother; "though how and when I cannot tell."

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