DOI Page / Citation link:
https://doi.org/10.11588/diglit.68288#0196
i £o MEMORIES OF A SCULPTOR’S WIFE
paper, nor a card. It was simply a piece of white paper,
torn from a pad. Upon the outside was scribbled in pencil,
‘ Miss Brady.’ She opened it and upon the inside, in a dash-
ing handwriting, was, also in pencil:
Roses! And from you!
In hot haste,
Conkling
The country was thrown into the wildest confusion by
the announcement that Garfield had been shot, a quiet,
dignified gentleman who had probably done as little in
his life to deserve such an end as any man who ever
lived.
Guiteau, the poor simple crank of a murderer, was for
months in the jail at the edge of the town, and as our friend,
Mr. George Caswell, was at that time commissioner of
something, and had much to do with the jail and that
neighborhood generally, I happened to hear a great deal
about him. Guiteau had always been considered harmless
and had a certain intelligence, but, as is usual with such
people, an abnormal ego. He apparently lost what little
mind he had possessed over the idea that he had a griev-
ance: that Garfield had promised him an office which
he had failed to give him; that if he was so unfair to him, he
must be unfair to others, and a menace in so high a place.
He was only a youth, and many people insisted upon feel-
ing sorry for him, but there was small need to worry about
his state of mind, for he was happy enough while in jail.
George Eliot says, somewhere, that she never has any pity
for conceited people because they carry their comfort along
with them, and to Guiteau this most assuredly seemed to
apply, as it does to all murderers of his class. He was un-
paper, nor a card. It was simply a piece of white paper,
torn from a pad. Upon the outside was scribbled in pencil,
‘ Miss Brady.’ She opened it and upon the inside, in a dash-
ing handwriting, was, also in pencil:
Roses! And from you!
In hot haste,
Conkling
The country was thrown into the wildest confusion by
the announcement that Garfield had been shot, a quiet,
dignified gentleman who had probably done as little in
his life to deserve such an end as any man who ever
lived.
Guiteau, the poor simple crank of a murderer, was for
months in the jail at the edge of the town, and as our friend,
Mr. George Caswell, was at that time commissioner of
something, and had much to do with the jail and that
neighborhood generally, I happened to hear a great deal
about him. Guiteau had always been considered harmless
and had a certain intelligence, but, as is usual with such
people, an abnormal ego. He apparently lost what little
mind he had possessed over the idea that he had a griev-
ance: that Garfield had promised him an office which
he had failed to give him; that if he was so unfair to him, he
must be unfair to others, and a menace in so high a place.
He was only a youth, and many people insisted upon feel-
ing sorry for him, but there was small need to worry about
his state of mind, for he was happy enough while in jail.
George Eliot says, somewhere, that she never has any pity
for conceited people because they carry their comfort along
with them, and to Guiteau this most assuredly seemed to
apply, as it does to all murderers of his class. He was un-