Guiteau Gets Garfield


“I am a Stalwart of the Stalwarts … Arthur is President now,” an assassin named Charles Julius Guiteau said after shooting the 20th President of the United States, James Abram Garfield in the back at the Baltimore and Potomac Railway station in Washington D.C., on July 2, 1881. (New York Herald, July 3, 1881).  

Charles Guiteau believed he played an instrumental role in the presidential election of James Garfield, and he thought the administration owed him a job. He believed he was a Stalwart, a hard working, supporter of the cause, and when the administration decided not to reward him for his efforts, he decided to shoot the president. He dressed the motive up later, saying that he was on a mission from God to save the party and the country, but the motive that drove him to borrow money for a gun, practice target shooting, and stalk the president arose because the president wouldn’t give him a job.  

There are no records of a meeting between Garfield and Guiteau, so there were no personal rejections, but Garfield’s Secretary of State told Guiteau to “Never bother me again about the Paris consulship so long as you live.” There are also no records of a direct relationship between Guiteau’s annoying persistence and the Garfield administration’s decision to end the practice of offering positions to Stalwarts, also known as the patronage or spoils system. Ending this practice, encouraged Guiteau to believe he should assassinate a president.  

Why did Charles Guiteau do it? What drove this man to want to commit such a violent? What was his motive? Inquiring rubberneckers of history want to know. We could say people just have a natural curiosity, but that would suggest that once we have our answer, we all walk away. We’re obsessed with serial killers, mass murderers, psychopaths, sociopaths, and assassins. We want to know what drives them to violence. 

Is our drive to find out what drove them all about intrigue, or do we have a motive behind wanting to know the motive? Who cares why a man kills people? Who cares why a man tries to assassinate a world leader? Some suggest that if we know the motive, we might be able to prevent future incidents of a similar nature. To do that, we need to understand the criminal mind. To do what? What if the violent perpetrator has no motive? What if he lies? What if he realizes that assassinating a president, because that president wouldn’t give him a job is a pretty stupid reason to kill a man? What if he invents a motive to assign some level of importance to what he did? What if the truth is that he always wanted to commit a random act of violence?  

Do we appreciate it when a killer provides a specific motive for his actions? Does knowing a motive provide us some level of comfort? Some accept the fact that someone shot a bunch of people, because a dog told him to do it. It’s better to believe that than it is to think that they did it because they just wanted to commit a random act of violence.   

In service to his Stalwart duties, Guiteau gave poorly attended speeches on candidate Garfield’s behalf. The audience to these speeches suggest Guiteau thought President Ulysses S. Grant was going to seek a third term. They thought he simply crossed out the name Grant and replaced it with Garfield. They said this because Guiteau accidently attributed Grant’s accomplishments to Garfield. The mentally unstable Guiteau still believed he proved instrumental in Garfield’s victory, and he wrote numerous letters to Garfield, and he visited the White House and the State Department numerous times, to argue that they should reward him for his efforts with a position in Garfield’s administration. When these efforts failed, the narcissist Guiteau decided he needed to assassinate the president to save his party and his land. 

“[S]aved my party and my land. Glory hallelujah!” Guiteau wrote in a poem he recited, as his last words before execution. “But they have murdered me for it, and that is the reason I am going to the Lordy.”  

Before the assassination attempt [Guiteau] wrote an “Address to the American People,” making the case for Garfield’s assassination. In his address, Guiteau accused Garfield of “the basest ingratitude to the Stalwarts” and said the president was on a course to “wreck the once grand old Republican party.” Assassination, Guiteau wrote, was “not murder; it is a political necessity.” He concluded, “I leave my justification to God and the American people.”  

Guiteau wrote a second justification for his planned assassination or, as he called it, “the President’s tragic death.” Guiteau, claiming himself to be “a Stalwart of the Stalwarts,” wrote that “the President … will be happier in Paradise than here.” He ended his note with the words, “I am going to jail.” 

Guiteau arrived at the station about 8:30. He felt ready for the job, having practiced his marksmanship on a riverbank on the way to his destination. Garfield entered the nearly empty station at 8:25 with Secretary Blaine and a bag-carrying servant. They walked several steps into the carpeted “ladies’ waiting room” when Guiteau fired his first shot. It grazed Garfield’s arm. Guiteau moved two steps and fired a second shot. The bullet entered Garfield’s back just above the waist. The president fell as the back of his gray summer suit filled with blood. 

After shooting the president, Guiteau tried to calm the onlookers, “It’s all right, it’s all right,” he said before the police officer on duty arrested him. 

“I did not kill the President,” Guiteau said during his trial. “The doctors did that. I merely shot him.” Though a laughable defense in a criminal proceeding, historians suggest that when used as a defense against execution in a murder in the first-degree case, it might merit some consideration. Esteemed historians, such as Candace Millard, author of the excellent Destiny of the Republic, suggests that if President James A. Garfield’s doctors did nothing, Garfield might have recovered. Her assumption is based on the idea that the doctors who attempted to locate Guiteau’s bullet were untrained in Listerian antiseptic methods that would be in widespread use a decade later. Historian, and Garfield biographer, Allan Peskin disagrees. He stated, “That medical malpractice did not contribute to Garfield’s death; the inevitable infection and blood poisoning that would ensue from a deep bullet wound resulted in damage to multiple organs and spinal bone fragmentation.” An autopsy identified the cause of death as a rupturing of an aneurysm in the splenic artery. 

In the hours after his arrest, Guiteau acted strangely. On the way to city jail with a police detective, Guiteau asked the officer if the detective was a Stalwart. When the detective replied that he was, Guiteau promised to make him chief of police. In jail, he balked at removing his shoes, complaining that if he walked barefoot over the jail’s stone floors “I’ll catch my death of cold.” When a photographer snapped his photo, he demanded a royalty payment of $25.  

Prosecutor John K. Porter demanded to know whether Guiteau was familiar with the Biblical commandment, “Thou shalt not kill.” Guiteau responded that in this case “the divine authority overcame the written law.” He insisted, “I am a man of destiny as much as the Savior, or Paul, or Martin Luther.” 

Guiteau approached his hanging with a sense of opportunity, but he eventually abandoned his plan to appear for the event dressed only in underwear (to remind spectators of Christ’s execution) after being persuaded that the immodest garb might be seen as further evidence of his insanity. 

The problem for Guiteau, as it applied to a first-degree murder case, was that he displayed the characteristics of malice and forethought. He stalked President Garfield, he practiced shooting the gun he purchased at a riverbank, and he abandoned a previous attempt to assassinate the president, because the president was with his wife at the time, and Guiteau didn’t want to upset the wife.  

The trial of Charles Julius Guiteau was what some call “the most celebrated insanity trial of the century” with many alienists (psychiatrists) debating whether Guiteau was sane. Many historians, and almost all neurologists, now agree that, by today’s standards, Guiteau was clinically insane. After Guiteau’s execution, public opinion on the issue of insanity shifted.  

Although modern and future readers, who sit in the proverbial jury room, might sympathize with some of the antiquated measures used to determine sanity in 1881, but they might also calculate some of Charles Guiteau’s premeditated calculations into the equation. Months prior to the 100-year anniversary of Guiteau’s assassination attempt (March 30, 1981), John Hinkley provided a case similar to Guiteau’s, as Hinkley premeditated his assassination attempt (on President Ronald Reagan), and he did not kill the president either (reagan would live 23 more years, but Garfield died 8 weeks after Guiteau’s attempt). We might consider a stereotypical clinically insane individual to act on impulse, but the more modern jury of his peers, declared Hinkley clinically insane, and he spent 35 years in a psychiatric institution before being released. Hinkley now uploads love songs on YouTube. 

Further Reading

Welcome to the Bruhniverse 


“It’s not bra, it’s Bruh!” Scott Greenlee said. “It has nothing to do with women’s undergarments. You have to add an ‘H’ to the end of it.” * 

Ask a Gen Z (Generation Z, born between 1997-2012) to Gen A (Generation Alpha, born after 2013) what they watch, and it’s all about YouTube. They might add Netflix with a sigh, and a few others, but YouTube is so popular among these generations that cultural observers call them the YouTube generation.  

So, if a kid you know uses some derivation of brother (bruh, brah, bro, bruvvy or bruv) you know who to blame.** 

The language some influencers (AKA hosts, talent, or content creators) use on YouTube involves an inclusive, exclusive way of truncating language to form an inclusive, exclusive path to a fraternal order. What’s the difference between these truncations of brother and man, buddy and dude? Short answer the differences are as common as the similarities, or “It is what it is bro.” 

We might consider their linguistic adaptations worrisome, as we fear no one will take them seriously, but linguists find nothing unusual about the derivations. Every generation makes subtle changes to the language to create something they can call their own. By defining how their audience should use the lingo they make language more interesting and individualistic. 

As with other generational terms of endearment, their inclusive exclusivity prohibits participation of other generations. Any attempts to participate, observe, or analyze their language results in a cringe, subsequent violations lead to derisive laughter, until they drop a “Stop saying that!” on us to try to prevent us from tainting the Bruh.

A linguistics professor at the University of Pittsburgh, Scott Kiesling, states there might be something deeper to linguistic adaptations. He suggests that the various forms of usage might also ease the transition into adulthood. “‘I’ve got [it] together,’ or ‘I’m going to get what I want and I don’t have to try too hard,’” Kiesling explains. “It’s almost like a swagger. I think about powerful men in suits, but sitting in a laid-back, relaxed way, because they don’t have to be in the job interview, sitting straight-up, right? Then this idea that I’m going to be able to just say things and they’re going to happen.   

“Basically, [using such terms is] just another way of “being in the club,” he continues, “which is most clearly indicated by knowing how to use it the right way. They’re all the kind of thing where you’re showing solidarity with a person. I kind of have a theory about how masculinity also has this valence of masculine ease. People talk about masculinity being associated with power, but it’s not just about trying to be powerful, but how easily it comes for me.” 

How hard was it for us to work our way through the complicated algorithms of youth into adulthood? What rhetorical devices did we use to form some sort of brotherhood with our peers? We weren’t concerned with overwhelming questions regarding what we were going to do for a living at that point. We just wanted friends, and to accomplish that we needed to learn how to talk like them. Making friends established a certain, unspecified level of confidence that led to a swagger that benefitted us greatly in life. If we could convince them we were confident, how far away were we from convincing ourselves?

How many successful people say, “If we can get out of our own way, we might actually become successful.” Doing something substantial in life might not be half as difficult as developing the confidence to do it, in other words, and the confidence that comes from language can be a powerful force in this regard.  

* The slang term Brah originated in Hawaii.    

** Bruv is a British truncation of their terms bruvver and bruvvy. 

Further reading on this topic can be found at: https://melmagazine.com/en-us/story/bro-brah-bruv-bruh-and-breh-meanings-explained 

Horrible People: Abram and the Princess


“How can you not hear that?” Abram asked his wife after Princess woke him from another evening nap with all of her barking, yipping, or whatever we call the sound that spirals into our thoracic vertebrae.

“I guess I hear it so often that I just don’t hear it anymore,” she said. “It’s like white noise to me.”

“It’s like nails on a chalkboard to me,” he said. “How in the world can you get used to that?”

Princess didn’t bark at anything in particular. She just enjoyed hearing herself bark. Abram was done with it. Princess just tapped his last nerve. Waking him from this evening’s nap was the straw that broke the camel’s back. 

Everyone has a threshold, and Princess just met his. He couldn’t nap with her around, he couldn’t watch his shows without that sound drowning out punchlines, and he couldn’t even enjoy a pizza roll. Once he began eating one, she’d start in, and he’d throw a three-quarters full box of pizza into the waste receptacle. He couldn’t even enjoy a peaceful moment of solitude in the waste removal room without hearing that yip. “I can’t enjoy a good BM anymore,” he told his wife after a particularly obnoxious night of yipping. “How can you not hear that?” He worked hard, and the otherwise uneventful evenings were his rewards for hard work, but Princess would have none of it.

Abram had a word with them over the fence, the neighbor’s, the owners of Princess, and it was a nice word, because he was a very nice man, good man. They said they would do something about it. And they did, for about two nights.  

Princess had a regular bark that she yipped throughout the night, but she let you know when someone was approaching with a more shrill and rapid yip. When that person reached a point where they were close enough to pet her, Princess stopped barking. The yip was replaced by a soft, earnest whine. The ten seconds or so that person spent petting her were the only breaks Abram had from her barking throughout the night. 

Everybody loved Princess, and Princess loved everybody. She didn’t care for Abram though. Even though he never did a damned thing to her, Princess refused to let him pet her. He reached over to pet her a number of times, while speaking with her owner, because that’s what a very nice, good man does when they’re talking to a neighbor, and their dog is present. When Abram reached over to pet Princess, however, she growled her cute, little Poodle growl and backed away barking with her teeth showing. Every time she did it, and she did it every time, why her owners were just aghast. “Princess?!” the owner said with shocked dismay. “I’m sorry, she’s never done that before.” They said that every time.

Nightly evidence bolstered that characterization. Abram was seemingly the only person on the planet Princess didn’t like. It humiliated and embarrassed him. She sidled up to his wife, the kid, and every stranger who happened to pass by, but she didn’t like Abram, and he hated her all the more for it. 

He was used to it though. When his manager needed to fire someone, and it happened. It happens in every business. The manager slash owner (his nickname was Slash)  of the local Lube Your Lube scheduled that person to work with Abram. 

“He was in on it,” Charlie “Slash” Hyde said. “Abram enjoyed being that guy. It all started when he was new, about six months into his job, and he started to get real comfortable with the fellas at Lube Your Lube. He started becoming more comfortable being himself, which we learned was the worst thing for the business. I know that sounds harsh, and I apologize to Abram if he ever reads this, but full on Abram is a disagreeable sort. He had an ability to get under people’s skin. The problem for me, as an owner slash manager was Abram outworked every single person on our staff. He was dependable and willing to sacrifice whatever it took for the business. He’d work weekends, overtime, and if someone called in sick, he’d be there for me within the half hour. No matter if it was his day off, or if he just clocked out less than thirty minutes ago. The problem I had was that if I wanted to keep a full staff, Abram couldn’t be comfortable being himself, because no one wanted to work with him. So, he and I devised a six-point plan to keep him employed. I won’t provide the details of that confidential plan, but Abram followed it to the letter for me.

“Flash forward about three months, and I had to fire someone,” Slash continued. “The problem for me was that I wanted Lube Your Lube to be a family. We all got along at The Lube and we had numerous get-togethers, holiday parties, and after work bar nights. I never had a big family, so the fellas at The Lube were my extended family. They were my brothers, cousins and nephews. I got to know their wives, their kids, and their dogs. So, when it came time to fire one of them, I pictured their kids, and a crying, desperate wife, and I just couldn’t do it. I should’ve never got that close to them to begin with. ‘Remember that six-point plan we developed months ago,’ I told Abram in a one-on-one. ‘Yeah, turn that off for about two weeks. Open the spigot, be full-on Abram with this guy I put in the pit with you.’ Long story short, I didn’t have to fire anyone for about three and a half years, thanks to Abram.” 

*** 

When the yipping drowned out  his favorite sitcom, he cranked the volume, when he tasted it on his pizza roll, he threw three-fourths of a box into the garbage, but when he dreamed about Princess sitting at the bottom of a tower, yipping at him while he tried to climb Rapunzel’s hair, he knew something had to be done.  

How does a cute, fluffy little dog’s bark drive someone so crazy?” was the question put to Abram by one of the Lube Your Lube fellas. 

“You ever hear about how the Chinese water torture technique can drive a person insane?” he said. “It’s like that. Except Princess’s version of the insanity-inducing drip, drip, drip is yip, yip, yip.”

He knew he got a little too hot and bothered by it at times, but who wouldn’t be at least a little ticked? After the patterned barking established itself, he shared a kind word with the owners. They didn’t do anything about it. They did in the beginning, for a couple days, and then they forgot. He thought about stressing the point angrily, but he wasn’t a confrontational guy. The city had noise ordinances that specifically addressed dog barking, a three-step plan that could lead to the owners losing the dog if they didn’t address the issue properly. The problem was that noise ordinance dealt with dogs barking after 10 p.m., but Princess didn’t bark until 10 P.M. She stopped barking, or her owners brought her back in at 8 P.M. He wouldn’t have initiated that process anyway. He was no snitch.

They don’t know who they’re messing with, he thought watching Princess bark at nothing from behind the drapes. They don’t think I’ll do anything. They don’t know me. I’m fixing to do something. I’ll take matters into my own hands. It’s what a man does, he takes care of matters. He takes care of matters himself. There are extremes, of course, but a very nice, good man, doesn’t take matters involving a snowy white, ten-pound little puppy to extremes. A man handles matters in such a way that is impossible to prove or trace, and everyone knows that there will come a day when Princess will no longer able to control her bowels. It happens, maybe it’s age, and maybe she got into something. No one knows why it happens, but it happens. It even happens to cute, snowy white Poodles named Princess. 

***

“We’re moving,” the neighbor told Abram’s wife over the backyard fence, weeks later.

“Are you serious?” she said. “You haven’t been here that long? You’re such nice neighbors. What happened?”

“I don’t know if something around here is making Princess sick,” the neighbor said, “but she’s such a big part of our family now, and we can’t just get rid of her for pooping. Who gets rid of a family member who can’t control her bowels?”

“She’s pooping?” his wife asked, confused.

“It’s diarrhea,” the neighbor said, “and it’s bad. Every time she barks, it comes out. She doesn’t just poop either. It’s projectile pooping.” The neighbor paused here. “You can laugh. We did, at first. We thought it was kind of cute and funny, her pooping every time she barked. We could tell she was a developing a bit of a complex about it, and that kind of made it more cute and funny, but it’s been going on for so long now, for weeks. It’s not funny to us anymore, but you can laugh if you want to. I know it’s funny to everyone else, but there’s poop stains on our carpet, in our carpet, that we’ll never be able to get out, and it’s all over our walls too. She’s so tired now that she never wants to do play anymore or do much of anything, and she’s still, technically, a puppy. And when you pick her up, you have to be careful not to touch her tummy, because she screams and tries to bite you. Whatever is wrong with her has caused stains, and a smell in that house that is so bad that the owner is probably going to have to hire professional cleaners to get it all out. It’s bad.

“I am so sorry,” Abram’s wife told her.

“It might seem silly to move over a dog,” she said, “but we’ve tried everything. We took her to the vet, we tried to change her diet, but she’s not eating much anymore, and well, we can’t just get rid of her. We had a big blowout about it, Stan and I, but we can’t get rid of Princess. She’s part of our family now, and you can’t just put your family dog in the pound, or give her up for adoption. Who does that? Right? What kind of people would get rid of a dog because she’s sick? I’m thinking a move will do her some good. I don’t know. Plus, we’re only renters, so we’ll just rent somewhere else. The owner was kind enough to let us out of our lease, minus our deposit, so it was nice chatting with you over these last couple of months.”

When the wife told Abram about that conversation, she was broken-hearted. “Can you believe that?” she said. “It’s so bad that it’s just so sad, and it’s almost painful to me. It’s such a mystery too.”

“The only mystery to me is why anyone would go to the expense and the pain in the butt of moving over a dumb dog with diarrhea.”

“They said it’s been going on for weeks Abram,” she said, and when she went into more detail about how the dog was pooping every time she barked, and how it was projectile poop that stained their walls, and was probably deep in their floorboards now, Abram couldn’t help but giggle. When she relayed the fact that the dilemma was such that it was actually causing the couple marital strife, Abram lost it. When she looked at him with confusion and some disgust, he almost fell to the floor in laughter. 

“Why is this so funny?” she said. “I don’t find this one bit funny. I think it’s kind of sad actually, really sad.”

“I’m sorry,” he said, wiping away the tears. “It’s just that, well, I may have played a bit of a role in all of this.” 

“You played a ..?” she asked. “What?”

“I might have cooked up some of my delicious burgers for Princess over the last few weeks, and it could be alleged that I might have crushed some Ex-Lax in it,” he said, and he expected her to smile a little at that. If nothing else, he thought his presentation of that information might make her laugh. She didn’t. She just looked more confused.

“You might have what?” she asked. “I don’t know what you’re saying?” She mouthed the words he said when he repeated them. It was an unusual tic of hers to ask someone to repeat what she obviously heard, and she mouthed the words when person repeated them. This was her way of trying to grasp what the other party was saying. 

“That dog was driving me absolutely crazy,” he said, “and you knew that. I told about my anger. I told you all about it, and you did nothing. I told you about it numerous times, for months. Hell, I even told them about it, and when they wouldn’t do anything about it, I took control of the situation. Why didn’t you do anything about it?”

“You didn’t do anything of the sort,” she said. “You’re messing with me. Tell me that you’re kidding.”

“We finally bonded Princess and I,” he said pumping his eyebrows. “Did I tell you that? Yeah, she loved these burgers so much that she actually looked forward to seeing me. You remember how she hated me, and she wouldn’t come near me, no matter what I did. Well, when I had a burger in hand, she was all hopping and yipping her excited, little yip when I approached, and her tails wagging about a hundred miles an hour. We were the best of buddies there for a while.”

He thought she might laugh at that too, but she didn’t. Her face went through so many contortions, as she tried to grapple with this information, that he began to feel bad. He thought of backtracking and saying, I’m just kidding, but it was too late now.

You poisoned a dog, because it wouldn’t stop barking?” she asked him. “Who does that? That’s like David Berkowitz, Ted Kaczynski stuff.”

“I didn’t poison the dog,” Abram said. “I gave it Ex-Lax, and Ex-Lax is not poison.”

“Not to us,” she said, “but it could be to a dog? Plus, you caused her a severe case of diarrhea, which could cause severe dehydration. What if you permanently ruined the lining of her stomach or intestines? Dogs can’t handle our medications Abram. What if you killed that dog, Abram? Did you ever think of that?” 

“I didn’t kill her.”

“You have never done anything that disgusted me before,” she said after a pause. “I’ve been disappointed with you before, and I said nothing. I’ve experienced some unhappiness with some of the decisions you’ve made, and the things you’ve done, the normal things a husband and wife go through, but I’ve never been disgusted before. This disgusts me. Those were some good people and they were good neighbors.”

“No, they weren’t,” he said. “They had a dog who barked for hours on end at nothing, at nothing, and they did nothing about it, nothing. She just barked to hear herself bark, and no one did a damn thing about it. You did nothing. If you think about it, you’re partly to blame for this.”

“They were nice people Abram,” she said, all but spitting at him. “They were nice, young, and polite people. I liked them. You liked them. Everyone liked them, and you ruined their lives so much that you caused them to move. Don’t give me this, I’m partly to blame. You did this Abram.”

“Who moves over a dog with a case of diarrhea?” he asked, trying to change the subject.