CHAPTER XLVI.

Reminiscences of Corydon E. Fuller.—Of one of the Pupils at Hiram Institute.—Garfield's Keen Observation.—His Kindness of Heart.—Anecdote of the Game of Ball.—Of the Lame Girl in Washington.—Of Brown, the ex-Scout and old Boat Companion.

Mr. Corydon E. Fuller, to whom the letters in the preceding chapter were addressed, was one of the most intimate of the late President Garfield's friends, and shared with him the early privations of his academic and collegiate life. Mr. Fuller said: "My first acquaintance with Mr. Garfield was in the Eclectic Institute at Hiram College in the year 1851. We entered the school at the same time. My first recollection of him is as a young man, looking all of twenty years old, about six feet in height, powerfully built, with a head of bushy hair, and weighing about one hundred and eighty-five pounds. I remember him attired in Kentucky jean clothes with calico sleeves, ringing the bell for the opening of recitations. We very soon became acquainted, and that was during the Fall term of 1851. At this time the Boynton boys and girls, numberingsix, were also at the school. These were closely related to Garfield. One of them was the Mrs. Arnold, killed at the Newberg railroad disaster at the same time with Thomas Garfield, uncle of the late President. In the winter of 1851-2 Mr. Garfield taught school at Warrensville, Cuyahoga County, and I at Hamilton, Geauga County. At that time we commenced corresponding, and kept it up until the time of his assassination."

"I remember once asking him," said one of Garfield's pupils, "what was the best way to pursue a certain study, and he said: 'Use several textbooks. Get the views of different authors as you advance. In that way you can plow a broader furrow. I always study in that way.' He tried hard to teach us to observe carefully and accurately. He broke out one day in the midst of a lesson with 'Henry how many posts are there under the building downstairs?' Henry expressed his opinion, and the question went around the class, hardly one getting it right. Then it was: 'How many boot-scrapers are there at the door?' 'How many windows in the building?' 'How many trees in the field!' 'What were the colors of different rooms, and the peculiarities of any familiar objects?' He was the keenest observer I ever saw, I think he noticed and numbered every button on our coats."

"There was one grand thing about PresidentGarfield," said one who knew him well, "and that was he never felt ashamed to work, no matter what position he filled. He was always engaged in something, and I have never seen him alone when his thoughts were not deeply engaged in something. One great thing that was no doubt the greatest secret of his success, was his constant desire to be elevated to a higher position. He was always reaching for something, and never gave up until he received that for which he was working. Again, he never was ashamed of his low condition or poverty, and I have often heard him say, during the course of conversations, that 'there never was a grander thing to see than a man or woman in earnest in anything they undertake. No matter whether they may be right or wrong, to see them in dead earnest and working for dear life for the object of their desire is a noble sight to witness.' I'll call your attention to another fact: he always went along with his eyes and ears open, catching up every opportunity to learn something. He would walk along the street, and to merely glance at a stranger would not satisfy him, but he would watch a person and try to discover something in his countenance, and he couldn't look at a lady without being able to tell you the color of every ribbon on her hat. He has often told me that the great keeness of his perceptive faculties were often painful to him. If travelling on a railroad train, andthe cars by chance would stop a short time, he was out inquiring the cause of the delay, and while walking leisurely along some highway he would meet a German or Irishman working, when he would stop and interrogate them, and then tell his friends what he had learned. He was always determined to learn something."

At one time when walking with a friend through the streets of Cleveland, Garfield suddenly stopped and then darted down a cellar-way. Over the door was the sign "Saws and Files," and a clicking sound could be heard below.

"I think this fellow is cutting files," said Garfield, "and I have never seen a file cut."

He was right; there was a man below stairs who was re-cutting an old file, so the two friends stayed there some ten minutes, until the whole process of file-cutting was thoroughly understood.

"Garfield would never go by anything," said his friend, "without understanding it."

His native kindness of heart is seen in an incident that occurred while he was principal at Hiram Institute. Ruling in the schoolroom with great firmness, he was always ready to join the boys in their games on the playground. One day, when he had taken his place in a game of ball, he happened to see some small boys close by the fence, who were looking on with wistful eyes.

"Are these boys not in the game?" he said to the players.

"What! those little tads? Of course not. They'd spoil the game."

"But they want to play," said the principal, "just as much as we do. Let them come in."

"Oh no!" was the exclamation; "it's no use to spoil the game; they can't play."

"Well," said Garfield, laying down his bat, "if they can't play I won't."

"All right, then, let them come in," was the answer, and so the kind-hearted teacher won the day.

Another story is told as follows: Two Southern ladies engaged in charitable work connected with their church society became interested in the case of a family consisting of a blind man, his invalid wife, and a lame daughter. The latter was at work in the fourth story of a government building in Washington, at a salary of $400 per annum, and to get this small amount she was obliged to walk (using a crutch) nearly three miles each way daily between her house and the printing-room, and to climb four nights of stairs to her labors. This so exhausted the poor child that she was fast losing her health. These two Southern ladies looked about them to see who, among the influential men in Washington, had the broadest human sympathy, and decided that General James A. Garfield, then M. C. was the man most likely to help them in benefiting this afflicted family. They accordinglyvisited General Garfield's house, and found a carriage before the door. Though complete strangers to him, they sent their cards to the general, who immediately came down stairs. He had his overcoat thrown over his arm, but very courteously greeted the ladies and asked what he could do for them. They said,—

"We notice you appear to be about leaving, and perhaps we detain you." He replied, "I am about to take the cars, but I will delay till next train if I can in any way be of service to you;" and he showed them into the parlor and introduced them to his wife. When he was told the case he replied that he should be away from Washington for two or three days, but if they would remind him on his return, he would do all he could to assist them. Mrs. Garfield engaged to remind the general on his return, which she did, and through his kindness and effort this lame girl was transferred from the fourth floor to the first, and her salary made $1200 instead of $400.

Still another instance of Garfield's kindness of heart is shown in the following story:—

One time when he was about to deliver an address at Cornell, a heavy hand was laid upon his shoulder, and turning about, he saw Brown, his ex-scout and old boat companion. He was a sad-looking wreck—with bleared eyes, bloated face, and garments that were half tatters. He hadcome, he said, while the tears rolled down his cheeks, to that quiet place to die, and now he could die in peace because he had seen his 'gineral.'

Garfield gave him money and got him quarters among some kind people, and left him, telling him to try to be a man; but, in any event, to let him know if he ever needed further help. A year or more passed, and no word came from Brown; but then the superintendent of the public hospital at Buffalo wrote the general that a man was there very sick, who, in his delirium, talked of him, of the Ohio Canal, and of the Sandy Valley expedition. Garfield knew at once that it was Brown, and immediately forwarded funds to the hospital, asking that he should have every possible care and comfort. The letter which acknowledged the remittance announced that the poor fellow had died—died, muttering, in his delirium, the name 'Jim Garfield.'

Garfield paid his funeral expenses.

"Poor Brown!" he exclaimed, "he had a rare combination of good and bad qualities, with strong traits, a ruined man; and yet, underneath the ruins, a great deal of generous, self-sacrificing noble-heartedness."

Remarks of a Personal Friend.—Reminiscences of the President's Cousin Henry Boynton.—Garfield as a Freemason.

Said a personal friend,—

"No one who saw President Garfield after his installation in the White House can fail to have observed the great change which his accession to power had occasioned in him. Only at intervals did his bright joyousness shine out again, as at the pleasant home at Mentor. The very day after he became President, the struggle for the spoils of office began with a fierceness hitherto unparalleled in all the strife of that kind which has been seen at Washington. He was half-maddened by his desire to do justice to all the contending factions. It was this feeling which made him slow to give irrevocable decisions. I was at the White House one morning, and he referred to his anxiety not to take a step in haste which he might repent at leisure. The humor of his own cautious slowness brought back the twinkle in his eye, the smile on the rosy lip. 'I don't know when I shall get around to that,' he said. 'You know, there's notelling when the Mississippi River will reach a given point.' The sluggish movement of the great Father of Waters was hit off to the life by this impromptu epigram."

Hardly had Garfield been nominated for the presidency, when his neighbors, those who had known him from boyhood, together with his kinsmen, gathered, and raised upon his old home, near the spot where he was born, a pole, and placed thereon the candidate's name. The pole was erected where the house stood which Garfield with his brother erected for their mother and sisters with their own hands, after the log hut, a little farther out in the field nearer the wood, had become unfit for habitation. Thomas Garfield, an old man eighty years of age, the one who was killed in a railroad accident soon after Gen. Garfield had been inaugurated President, directed the manual labor of rearing the shaft, and was proud of his work. Soon after it was erected Garfield himself came from Mentor to look over the old place again, and with proud satisfaction looked upon this expression of friendship of his old neighbors. There is nothing except this pole left to mark his birthplace, and the old well, not two rods off, which he and his brother dug to furnish water for the family. On the day of the funeral services, the torn and tattered banner which those who knew him from childhood to manhood had erectedin his honor, was lazily floating in the breeze half-way down the pole, showing in its plain way the sorrow of those who so gladly erected it less than twelve months ago. In the little maple grove to the left, children played about the country school-house, which has replaced the log one where the dead President first gathered the rudiments upon which he built to such purpose. The old orchard in its sere and yellow leaf, the dying grass, and the turning maple-leaves, seemed to join in the general mourning.

Adjoining the field where the flag floats is an unpretentious farm almost as much identified with General Garfield's early history as the one he helped to clear of the forest timber while he was a child, but it is now free of buildings. Near by is the home of Henry B. Boynton, cousin of the dead President, and a brother of Dr. Boynton, who has been so conspicuously connected with the Garfield family since Mrs. Garfield's illness last spring. "General Garfield and I were like brothers," said he to a visitor, as he turned from giving some directions to his farm hands, now sowing the fall grain upon ground which the dead President first helped to break. He looked off tearfully, as he spoke, toward the flag at half-mast, marking the birthplace of his life-long friend. "His father died yonder, within a stone's throw of us, when the son was but one and a half years old and I wasbut three and a half. He knew no other father than mine, who watched over the family as if it had been his own. I bore a peculiar relation to the general. His father and my father were half-brothers, and his mother and my mother were sisters. This very house in which I live was as much his home as it was mine." They walked toward the house as he spoke, and had here reached the plain mansion which was the house of the speaker's ancestors, as well as General Garfield's, and passed inside, to find his good housewife silent and tearful, and whose swollen eyes told plainer than words the terrible sorrow they all felt.

"Over there," said he, pointing to the brick schoolhouse in the grove of maples, around which the happy children were playing, "is where he and I first went to school. I have read a statement that he could not read or write until he was nineteen. He could do both before he was nine; and before he was twelve, so familiar was he with the Indian history of the country, that he had named every tree in the orchard, which his father planted before he was born, with the name of some Indian chief. One favorite tree of his he named 'Tecumseh,' and the branches of many of those old trees have been cut since his promotion to the presidency by relic hunters and carried away. General Garfield was a remarkable boy, sir, as well as man. It is not possible to tell you thefight he made amid poverty for a place in life, and how gradually he obtained it. When he was a boy he would rather read than work. But he became a great student. He had to work after he was twelve years of age. In those days we were all poor, and it took hard knocks to get on. He worked clearing the fields yonder with his brother, and then cut cordwood and did other farm labor to get the necessaries of life for his mother and sisters.

"His experience upon the canal was a severe one, but perhaps useful. I can remember the winter when he came home after the summer's service there. He had the chills all that fall and winter, yet he would shake, and get his lessons at home; go over to the school and recite, and thus keep up with his class. The next spring found him weak from constant ague. Yet he intended to return to the canal. Here came the turning point in his life. Mr. Bates, who taught the school, pleaded with him not to do so, and said that, if he would continue in school until the next fall, he could get a certificate. I received my certificate about the same time. The next year we went to the seminary at Chester, only twelve miles distant. Here our books were furnished us, and we cooked our own victuals. We lived upon a dollar a week each. Our diet was strong, but very plain; mush and molasses, pork and potatoes. Saturdays wetook our axes and went into the woods and cut cordwood; during vacations we labored in the harvest field, or taught a district school, as we could. Yonder," said he, pointing off toward a beautiful valley, "about two miles distant stands the school-house where Garfield first taught school. He got twelve dollars a month and boarded around. I also taught school in a neighboring town. You see," continued the farmer, "that the general and myself were very close to one another from the time either of us could lisp until he became President. He visited me here just before election, and looked with gratification upon that pole yonder and its flag, erected by his neighbors and kinsmen. He wandered over the fields he himself had helped clear, and pointed out to me trees, from the limbs of which he had shot squirrel after squirrel, and beneath the branches of which he had played and worked in the years of his infancy and boyhood.

"I forgot to say that one of General Garfield's striking characteristics while he was growing up was that, when he saw a boy in the class excel him in anything, he never gave up until he reached the same standard, and even went beyond it. It got to be known that no scholar could be ahead of him. Our association as men has been almost as close as that of boys, although not as constant. The general never forgot his neighbors or less fortunate kinsmen, and often visited us, as we did him.

"Just before he was inaugurated I had a conversation with him, which impressed me more than any other talk of our lives. He said: 'Henry, I approach the duties of the Presidency with much reluctance. I had thought that at some future time it might be possible for me to aspire to that position, but I had been elected to the Senate, and should have preferred to serve the six years in that body to which my own State people had elected me. It would have been six years of comparative rest, for service in the Senate is much easier than in the House. I hope I may discharge the duties of the Presidency with satisfaction. There is one thing, however, that distresses me more than all else. All my life I have been making friends, and I have a great many sincere ones. But from the hour I assume the Presidency I must necessarily begin making enemies. Any man who wants an office and does not get it, will feel himself aggrieved.' Our conversation at this time was long and earnest, and seemed like returning to the days when we were schoolboys together."

Garfield was made a Mason in Magnolia Lodge, No. 20, at Columbus, Nov. 22, 1861, while he was commander at Camp Chase. His affiliation at the time of his death was with Pentalpha Lodge, No. 23, and Columbia Commandery, No. 2, Knights Templars, at Washington, D. C. Suitar says that he was the eighth Mason, but the first KnightTemplar, who was ever honored with the Presidency. He was a true and courteous knight, and was not only an earnest supporter, but a charter member of Pentalpha Lodge. After his election to the Presidency, his commandery sought to express their esteem for him by attending the inauguration, and, although the Masonic law forbids any interference with or participation in politics, the occasion was regarded by the right eminent grand commander as sufficiently important and devoid of partisan coloring to grant the desired permission for five platoons of sixteen knights each to attend President Garfield. On the 19th of July, 1881, he was elected an honorary member of Hanselmann Commandery, No. 16, at Cincinnati, and they sent him handsomely engraved resolutions of sympathy, which were brought to his personal notice during his sickness, to which he appropriately replied through his private secretary.

Poems in Memory of Garfield, by Longfellow.—George Parsons Lathrop.—FromLondon Spectator.—Oliver Wendell Holmes.—N. Bernard Carpenter.—John Boyle O'Reilly.—Joaquin Miller. M. J. Savage.—Julia Ward Howe.—Rose Terry Cooke.—Prize Ode.—Kate Tannett Woods.

To the tributes we have already given, we add a few of the many fine poems published in memory of the martyred President.

These words the poet heard in Paradise,Uttered by one who, bravely dying here,In the true faith, was living in that sphere,Where the Celestial Cross of sacrificeSpread its protecting arms athwart the skies;And, set thereon, like jewels crystal clear,The souls magnanimous, that knew not fear,Flashed their effulgence on his dazzled eyes.Ah, me! how dark the discipline of pain,Were not the suffering followed by the senseOf infinite rest and infinite release!This is our consolation; and againA great soul cries to us in our suspense:"I come from martyrdom unto this peace!"

CAMBRIDGE, MASS, Sept 26, 1881.The Independent.

What is this silence, that calls?What is this deafness that hears?The silence is Death. Like a voice it falls;It rings in the heedless earsThat never shall hearken againTo the words of our blame or praise,Nor the low-hushed moan of a nation's painAs it rolls through the darkened days!And the motionless body must yieldTo the spell of that hushed command.Oh, that one of us, dying, had been the shieldTo save that life for our land!Man that was trusted of men—Brave, and not fearing to dieMore than to face life's meanness, whenIt clamored its partisan lie!Though you leave us, we lose you not!In the Republic you liveSacred, and part of its deathless lot,For whose life your life you give.Garfield—the name so plain,The name we knew so well!—The name we shall never forget again,Of the man who for honesty fell!Like another Winkelried,You drew to yourselves the spearsOf tyrannous hate, though yourself must bleed;And left us—our pride and our tears.Legacy meet and rare,Of one who dared to be pure!In the hearts of the people who love what is fair,That precious renown shall endure.O sorrow that falls like a stoneIn the midst of the calm of our peace,As the waves of pity around you have grown,So may our truth increase!George Parsons Lathrop.

What is this silence, that calls?What is this deafness that hears?The silence is Death. Like a voice it falls;It rings in the heedless ears

That never shall hearken againTo the words of our blame or praise,Nor the low-hushed moan of a nation's painAs it rolls through the darkened days!

And the motionless body must yieldTo the spell of that hushed command.Oh, that one of us, dying, had been the shieldTo save that life for our land!

Man that was trusted of men—Brave, and not fearing to dieMore than to face life's meanness, whenIt clamored its partisan lie!

Though you leave us, we lose you not!In the Republic you liveSacred, and part of its deathless lot,For whose life your life you give.

Garfield—the name so plain,The name we knew so well!—The name we shall never forget again,Of the man who for honesty fell!

Like another Winkelried,You drew to yourselves the spearsOf tyrannous hate, though yourself must bleed;And left us—our pride and our tears.

Legacy meet and rare,Of one who dared to be pure!In the hearts of the people who love what is fair,That precious renown shall endure.

O sorrow that falls like a stoneIn the midst of the calm of our peace,As the waves of pity around you have grown,So may our truth increase!

George Parsons Lathrop.

In England, Sept. 20, 1881.New York Tribune.

The hush of the sick-room; the muffled tread;Fond, questioning eye; mute lip, and listening ear;Where wife and children watch 'twixt hope and fear,A father's, husband's living-dying bed!—The hush of a great nation, when its headLies stricken! Lo! along the streets he's borne,Pale, through rank'd crowds, this gray September morn,'Mid straining eyes, sad brows unbonneted,And reverent speechlessness!—a "people's voice!"Nay but a peoples silence! through the soulOf the wide world its subtler echoes roll,O brother nation England for her partIs with thee: God willing she whose heartThrobbed with thy pain shall with thy joy rejoice.

Sept. 6, 1881.London Spectator.

Fallen with autumns falling leaf,Ere yet his summers noon was past,Our friend, our guide, our trusted chief,—What words can match a woe so vast?And whose the chartered claim to speakThe sacred grief where all have part,When sorrow saddens every cheek,And broods in every aching heart?Yet nature prompts the burning phraseThat thrills the hushed and shrouded hall,The loud lament, the sorrowing praise,The silent tear that love lets fall.In loftiest verse, in lowliest rhyme,Shall strive unblamed the minstrel choir,—The singers of the new born time,And trembling age with outworn lyre.No room for pride, no place for blame—We fling our blossoms on the grave,Pale, scentless, faded,—all we claim,This only,—what we had we gave.Ah, could the grief of all who mournBlend in one voice its bitter cry,The wail to heaven's high arches borneWould echo through the caverned sky.II.O happiest land whose peaceful choiceFills with a breath its empty throne!God, speaking through thy people's voice,Has made that voice for once his own.No angry passion shakes the StateWhose weary servant seeks for rest,—And who could fear that scowling hateWould strike at that unguarded breast?He stands, unconscious of his doom,In manly strength, erect, serene,—Around him summer spreads her bloom:He falls,—what horror clothes the scene!How swift the sudden flash of woeWhere all was bright as childhood's dream!As if from heaven's ethereal bowHad leaped the lightning's arrowy gleam.Blot the foul deed from history's page,—Let not the all-betraying sunBlush for the day that stains an ageWhen murder's blackest wreath was won.III.Pale on his couch the sufferer lies,The weary battle-ground of pain;Love tends his pillow, science triesHer every art, alas! in vain.The strife endures how long! how long!Life, death, seem balanced in the scale;While round his bed a viewless throngAwaits each morrow's changing tale.In realms the desert ocean parts,What myriads watch with tear filled eyes,His pulse beats echoing in their hearts,His breathings counted with their sighs!Slowly the stories of life are spent,Yet hope still battles with despair,—Will heaven not yield when knees are bent?Answer, O Thou that hearest prayer!But silent is the brazen sky,—On sweeps the meteor's threatening train,—Unswerving Nature's mute replyBound in her adamantine chain.Not ours the verdict to decideWhom death shall claim or skill shall save:The hero's life though Heaven denied,It gave our land a martyr's grave.Nor count the teaching vainly sentHow human hearts their griefs may share,—The lesson woman's love has lentWhat hope may do, what faith can bear!Farewell! the leaf-strewn earth enfoldsOur stay, our pride, our hopes, our fears,And autumn's golden sun beholdsA nation bowed, a world in tears.Boston Globe.

Fallen with autumns falling leaf,Ere yet his summers noon was past,Our friend, our guide, our trusted chief,—What words can match a woe so vast?

And whose the chartered claim to speakThe sacred grief where all have part,When sorrow saddens every cheek,And broods in every aching heart?

Yet nature prompts the burning phraseThat thrills the hushed and shrouded hall,The loud lament, the sorrowing praise,The silent tear that love lets fall.

In loftiest verse, in lowliest rhyme,Shall strive unblamed the minstrel choir,—The singers of the new born time,And trembling age with outworn lyre.

No room for pride, no place for blame—We fling our blossoms on the grave,Pale, scentless, faded,—all we claim,This only,—what we had we gave.

Ah, could the grief of all who mournBlend in one voice its bitter cry,The wail to heaven's high arches borneWould echo through the caverned sky.

II.

O happiest land whose peaceful choiceFills with a breath its empty throne!God, speaking through thy people's voice,Has made that voice for once his own.

No angry passion shakes the StateWhose weary servant seeks for rest,—And who could fear that scowling hateWould strike at that unguarded breast?

He stands, unconscious of his doom,In manly strength, erect, serene,—Around him summer spreads her bloom:He falls,—what horror clothes the scene!

How swift the sudden flash of woeWhere all was bright as childhood's dream!As if from heaven's ethereal bowHad leaped the lightning's arrowy gleam.

Blot the foul deed from history's page,—Let not the all-betraying sunBlush for the day that stains an ageWhen murder's blackest wreath was won.

III.

Pale on his couch the sufferer lies,The weary battle-ground of pain;Love tends his pillow, science triesHer every art, alas! in vain.

The strife endures how long! how long!Life, death, seem balanced in the scale;While round his bed a viewless throngAwaits each morrow's changing tale.

In realms the desert ocean parts,What myriads watch with tear filled eyes,His pulse beats echoing in their hearts,His breathings counted with their sighs!

Slowly the stories of life are spent,Yet hope still battles with despair,—Will heaven not yield when knees are bent?Answer, O Thou that hearest prayer!

But silent is the brazen sky,—On sweeps the meteor's threatening train,—Unswerving Nature's mute replyBound in her adamantine chain.

Not ours the verdict to decideWhom death shall claim or skill shall save:The hero's life though Heaven denied,It gave our land a martyr's grave.

Nor count the teaching vainly sentHow human hearts their griefs may share,—The lesson woman's love has lentWhat hope may do, what faith can bear!

Farewell! the leaf-strewn earth enfoldsOur stay, our pride, our hopes, our fears,And autumn's golden sun beholdsA nation bowed, a world in tears.

Boston Globe.

Lo! as a pure white statue wrought with careBy some strong hand, which moulds from Life and DeathBeauty more beautiful than blood or breath,And straight 'tis veiled, and, whilst all men repairTo see this wonder in the workshops there!Behold it gleams unveiled to curious eyeFar-seen, high-placed in Art's pale gallery,Where all stand mute before a work so fair:So he, our man of men, in vision stands,With Pain and Patience crowned imperial,Death's veil has dropped, far from this house of woeHe hears one love chant out of many lands,Whilst from his mystic noon-height he lets fallHis shadow o'er these hearts that bleed below.

Sept. 26, 1881.The Independent.

Once in a lifetime we may see the veilTremble and lift, that hides symbolic things:The spirit's vision, when the senses fail,Sweeps the weird meaning that the outlook brings.Deep in the midst of turmoil it may be,—A crowded street, a forum, or a field,—The soul inverts the telescope, to seeTo-day's event in future years revealed.Back from the present, let us look at Rome;Now see what Cato meant, what Brutus said.Hark! the Athenians welcome Cimon home!How clear they are, those glimpses of the dead!But we hard toilers, we who plan and weaveThrough common days the web of common life,What word, alas! shall teach us to receiveThe mystic meaning of our peace and strife?Whence comes our symbol? Surely God must speak;No less than he can make us heed or pause:Self-seekers we, too busy or too weakTo search beyond our daily lives and laws.'Gainst things occult our earth-turned eyes rebel;No sound of destiny can reach our ears;We have no time for dreaming—Hark! a knell,—A knell at midnight! All the nation hears!A second grievous throb! The dreamers wake;The merchant's soul forgets his goods and ships;The humble workmen from their slumbers break;The women raise their eyes with quivering lips;The miner rests upon his pick to hear;The printer's type stops midway from the case;The solemn sound has reached the roisterer's ear,And brought the shame and sorrow to his face.Again it booms! Oh, mystic veil, upraise!—Behold, 'tis lifted! On the darkness drawn,A picture, lined with light! The people's gaze,From sea to sea, beholds it till the dawn:A death-bed scene—a sinking sufferer lies,Their chosen ruler, crowned with love and pride;Around, his counsellors, with streaming eyes;His wife, heart-broken, kneeling by his side:Death's shadow holds her, it will pass too soon;She weeps in silence—bitterest of tears;He wanders softly—Nature's kindest boon,And as he whispers all the country hears.For him the pain is past, the struggle ends:His cares and honors fade: his younger lifeIn peaceful Mentor comes, with dear old friends;His mother's arms take home his sweet young wife;He stands among the students, tall and strong,And teaches truths republican and grand:He moves—ah, pitiful!—he sweeps along,O'er fields of carnage leading his command!He speaks to crowded faces; round him surgeThousands and millions of excited men:He hears them cheer, sees some great light emerge,Is borne as on a tempest: then—ah, then!The fancies fade, the fever's work is past;A moment's pang—then recollections thrill:He feels the faithful lips that kiss their last,His heart beats once in answer, and is still!The curtain falls; but hushed, as if afraid,The people wait, tear-stained, with heaving breast;'Twill rise again, they know, when he is laidWith Freedom, in the Capitol, at rest.Once more they see him, in his coffin there,As Lincoln lay in blood-stained martyr sleep;The stars and stripes across his honored bier,While Freedom and Columbia o'er him weep.Boston Globe.

Once in a lifetime we may see the veilTremble and lift, that hides symbolic things:The spirit's vision, when the senses fail,Sweeps the weird meaning that the outlook brings.

Deep in the midst of turmoil it may be,—A crowded street, a forum, or a field,—The soul inverts the telescope, to seeTo-day's event in future years revealed.

Back from the present, let us look at Rome;Now see what Cato meant, what Brutus said.Hark! the Athenians welcome Cimon home!How clear they are, those glimpses of the dead!

But we hard toilers, we who plan and weaveThrough common days the web of common life,What word, alas! shall teach us to receiveThe mystic meaning of our peace and strife?

Whence comes our symbol? Surely God must speak;No less than he can make us heed or pause:Self-seekers we, too busy or too weakTo search beyond our daily lives and laws.

'Gainst things occult our earth-turned eyes rebel;No sound of destiny can reach our ears;We have no time for dreaming—Hark! a knell,—A knell at midnight! All the nation hears!

A second grievous throb! The dreamers wake;The merchant's soul forgets his goods and ships;The humble workmen from their slumbers break;The women raise their eyes with quivering lips;

The miner rests upon his pick to hear;The printer's type stops midway from the case;The solemn sound has reached the roisterer's ear,And brought the shame and sorrow to his face.

Again it booms! Oh, mystic veil, upraise!—Behold, 'tis lifted! On the darkness drawn,A picture, lined with light! The people's gaze,From sea to sea, beholds it till the dawn:

A death-bed scene—a sinking sufferer lies,Their chosen ruler, crowned with love and pride;Around, his counsellors, with streaming eyes;His wife, heart-broken, kneeling by his side:

Death's shadow holds her, it will pass too soon;She weeps in silence—bitterest of tears;He wanders softly—Nature's kindest boon,And as he whispers all the country hears.

For him the pain is past, the struggle ends:His cares and honors fade: his younger lifeIn peaceful Mentor comes, with dear old friends;His mother's arms take home his sweet young wife;

He stands among the students, tall and strong,And teaches truths republican and grand:He moves—ah, pitiful!—he sweeps along,O'er fields of carnage leading his command!

He speaks to crowded faces; round him surgeThousands and millions of excited men:He hears them cheer, sees some great light emerge,Is borne as on a tempest: then—ah, then!

The fancies fade, the fever's work is past;A moment's pang—then recollections thrill:He feels the faithful lips that kiss their last,His heart beats once in answer, and is still!

The curtain falls; but hushed, as if afraid,The people wait, tear-stained, with heaving breast;'Twill rise again, they know, when he is laidWith Freedom, in the Capitol, at rest.

Once more they see him, in his coffin there,As Lincoln lay in blood-stained martyr sleep;The stars and stripes across his honored bier,While Freedom and Columbia o'er him weep.

Boston Globe.

I.From out my deep, wide-bosomed West,Where unnamed heroes hew the wayFor worlds to follow, with stern zest,—Where gnarled old maples make array,Deep-scarred from red men gone to rest,—Where pipes the quail, where squirrels playThrough tossing trees, with nuts for toy,—A boy steps forth, clear-eyed and tall,A bashful boy, a soulful boy,Yet comely as the sons of Saul,—A boy, all friendless, poor, unknown,Yet heir-apparent to a throne.II.Lo! Freedom's bleeding sacrifice!So like some tall oak tempest-blownBeside the storied stream he liesNow at the last, pale-browed and prone.A nation kneels with streaming eyes,A nation supplicates the throne,A nation holds him by the hand,A nation sobs aloud at this:The only dry eyes in the landNow at the last, I think, are his.Why, we should pray, God knoweth best,That this grand, patient soul should rest.III.The world is round. The wheel has runFull circle. Now behold a graveBeneath the old loved trees is done.The druid oaks lift up, and waveA solemn welcome back. The braveOld maples murmur, every one,"Receive him, Earth!" In centre land,As in the centre of each heart,As in the hollow of God's hand,The coffin sinks. And with it partAll party hates! Now, not in vainHe bore his peril and hard pain.IV.Therefore, I say, rejoice! I say,The lesson of his life was much,—This boy that won, as in a day,The world's heart utterly; a touchOf tenderness and tears; the pageOf history grows rich from such;His name the nation's heritage,—But oh! as some sweet angel's voiceSpake this brave death that touched us all,Therefore, I say, Rejoice! rejoice!Run high the flags! Put by the pall!Lo! all is for the best for all!Boston Globe.

From out my deep, wide-bosomed West,Where unnamed heroes hew the wayFor worlds to follow, with stern zest,—Where gnarled old maples make array,Deep-scarred from red men gone to rest,—Where pipes the quail, where squirrels playThrough tossing trees, with nuts for toy,—A boy steps forth, clear-eyed and tall,A bashful boy, a soulful boy,Yet comely as the sons of Saul,—A boy, all friendless, poor, unknown,Yet heir-apparent to a throne.

II.

Lo! Freedom's bleeding sacrifice!So like some tall oak tempest-blownBeside the storied stream he liesNow at the last, pale-browed and prone.A nation kneels with streaming eyes,A nation supplicates the throne,A nation holds him by the hand,A nation sobs aloud at this:The only dry eyes in the landNow at the last, I think, are his.Why, we should pray, God knoweth best,That this grand, patient soul should rest.

III.

The world is round. The wheel has runFull circle. Now behold a graveBeneath the old loved trees is done.The druid oaks lift up, and waveA solemn welcome back. The braveOld maples murmur, every one,"Receive him, Earth!" In centre land,As in the centre of each heart,As in the hollow of God's hand,The coffin sinks. And with it partAll party hates! Now, not in vainHe bore his peril and hard pain.

IV.

Therefore, I say, rejoice! I say,The lesson of his life was much,—This boy that won, as in a day,The world's heart utterly; a touchOf tenderness and tears; the pageOf history grows rich from such;His name the nation's heritage,—But oh! as some sweet angel's voiceSpake this brave death that touched us all,Therefore, I say, Rejoice! rejoice!Run high the flags! Put by the pall!Lo! all is for the best for all!

Boston Globe.

With finger on lip, and breath batedWith an eager and sad desire,The world stood hushed, as it waitedFor the click of the fateful wire,—"Better:" and civilizationBreathed freer and hoped again;"Worse:" and through every nationWent throbbing a thrill of pain.A cry at midnight! and listening—"Dead!" tolled out the bells of despair;And millions of eyelids were glisteningAs sobbed the sad tones on the air.But who is he toward whom all eyes are turning.And who is he for whom all hearts are yearning?What is the threat at which earth holds its breathWhile one lone man a duel fights with death?No thrones are hanging in suspense;No kingdoms totter to their fall.Peace, with her gentle influence,Is hovering over all.'Tis just one man at Elberon,Who waiteth day by day,Whose patience all our hearts hath wonAs ebbs his life away.His birthday waked no cannon-boom;No purple round him hung;A backwoods cabin gave him room;And storms his welcome sung.He seized the sceptre of that kingWho treads a freehold sod;He wore upon his brow that ringThat crowns a son of God.By his own might he built a throne,With no unhuman arts,And by his manhood reigned aloneO'er fifty millions hearts.Thus is humanity's long dream,Its highest, holiest hope begunTo harden into fact, and gleamA city 'neath the sun—A city, not like that which cameIn old-time vision from the skies;But wrought by man through blood and flame,From solid earth to rise,—Man's city; the ideal reignWhere every human right hath place;Where blood, nor birth, nor priest againShall bind the weary race,—In which no king but man shall be.'Twas this that thrilled with loving painThe heart of all the earth, as heDied by the sobbing main.For, mightiest ruler of the earth,He was the mightiest, not becauseOf priestly touch or blood, or birth.But by a people's laws.

With finger on lip, and breath batedWith an eager and sad desire,The world stood hushed, as it waitedFor the click of the fateful wire,—

"Better:" and civilizationBreathed freer and hoped again;"Worse:" and through every nationWent throbbing a thrill of pain.

A cry at midnight! and listening—"Dead!" tolled out the bells of despair;And millions of eyelids were glisteningAs sobbed the sad tones on the air.

But who is he toward whom all eyes are turning.And who is he for whom all hearts are yearning?

What is the threat at which earth holds its breathWhile one lone man a duel fights with death?

No thrones are hanging in suspense;No kingdoms totter to their fall.Peace, with her gentle influence,Is hovering over all.

'Tis just one man at Elberon,Who waiteth day by day,Whose patience all our hearts hath wonAs ebbs his life away.

His birthday waked no cannon-boom;No purple round him hung;A backwoods cabin gave him room;And storms his welcome sung.

He seized the sceptre of that kingWho treads a freehold sod;He wore upon his brow that ringThat crowns a son of God.

By his own might he built a throne,With no unhuman arts,And by his manhood reigned aloneO'er fifty millions hearts.

Thus is humanity's long dream,Its highest, holiest hope begunTo harden into fact, and gleamA city 'neath the sun—

A city, not like that which cameIn old-time vision from the skies;But wrought by man through blood and flame,From solid earth to rise,—

Man's city; the ideal reignWhere every human right hath place;Where blood, nor birth, nor priest againShall bind the weary race,—

In which no king but man shall be.'Twas this that thrilled with loving painThe heart of all the earth, as heDied by the sobbing main.

For, mightiest ruler of the earth,He was the mightiest, not becauseOf priestly touch or blood, or birth.But by a people's laws.

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