ticket, and only consented to speak once or twice, when the Republican chiefs had worked over him, adjuring him to do something for his own reputation. After the defeat of Gen. Grant, at Chicago, Mr. Conkling hid himself in a pet; and when, after much premonitory trumpeting, he emerged from his ill-advised seclusion, he made a few speeches, of which he subsequently boasted-as he did of his addresses in 1876-that the name. of the Republican candidate for the Presidency could not be found in them, although one might search for it with a microscope. When the Senate was agitated over the Louisiana election matters, after the Presidential election of 1876, Mr. Conkling forsook his seat and took no part in the business before the Senate. When Congress was engaged in a wrestle with the heresy of Greenbackism, Mr. Conkling made no sign that he regarded the contest with even a passing interest. Except in matters personal to himself, he has studiously avoided every responsibility of the high office into which he has fought his way. It was indeed fit, that such a man should, at the last, fly out of his Senatorial chair, screaming with anger.

The voting at Albany, as June wore on, rapidly degenerated into a dead-lock, and the country looked on at first amazed, interested, then apathetic, and finally, as the atmosphere became charged with the most vicious political corruption, disgusted. Bribery showed its hideous head. A

professional lobbyist, Senator Sessions, gave $2,000 for a vote to Assemblyman Bradley, a Conkling supporter, who was undoubtedly sufficient of a rascal to accept it. At Mr. Conkling's direction, Vice-President Arthur personally carried on such a campaign of dirty lobbying as had never been seen before in the career of any public man of so high rank. The days passed rapidly. There was nothing creditable, nothing even honest that came with them. The influence of the disgraceful struggle was felt as most corrupting all over the country. The spectacle of loose political morality, of looser political faith, of the basest passions used as factors in a fight to elect United States Senators, was an unparalleled one in the history of the Republican party and the United States. For it Mr. Conkling was largely responsible. For when he found that he was beaten irrevocably, it was in his power to have saved the nation a lasting disgrace, and ended the dispute that caused it, by withdrawing his name. By his direction the fight went on. The lower classes of political beats and fanatics were infected with the degeneracy of the fight. For many of that class gathered at Albany to do Mr. Conkling's bidding. June wore away, and still Mr. Conkling forced the fighting. July came, still the fight went on. Mr. Conkling said no word, made no sign that would have ended what had become a disgrace to New

York, and an infamous stain on Mr. Conkling's career. His ringing words to J. H. Griswold, in 1871: "Every one knows that the fittest step toward remedy and reform is to nominate the best men in the Republican party, and elect them to the Legislature and to the executive offices of the State; and yet men stand talking about Federal patronage, and differences among leaders, and personal feelings between individuals and the like. What have such things to do with the duty of this hour? What do the people care about them? What should they care? Of what public consequence are the personal aims and objects and mishaps of individuals?" had been utterly forgotten. It was war to the knife and knife to the hilt. On July 1st the relations of the factions had become strained to the last degree. And they so continued until the month was three weeks gone, Mr. Conkling was permanently retired from political life-at least for some time by the election of Eldridge G. Lapham to succeed him. Mr. Warner Miller was elected to succeed Mr. Platt; and the long, brutal, disgraceful struggle came to an end, leaving a stain of infamy on those who precipitated it.

CHAPTER XXXVIII.

A TIME OF TRIAL.

ATURDAY, July 2d, was as fair a day as usually comes with an American summer. Though the heat was somewhat noticeable in Washington, as in most cities, and the sun that gilded the head of Columbia on the dome of the Capitol, and stole softly into the awakening streets, was not unkindly in its fervor. At the White House that morning the President was early astir. He had many matters that needed attention before he left the city, which he intended to do on an early train. His son Harry, who is quite a young athlete, came into his father's room and deftly turned a hand-spring across the bed. "Don't you wish you could do that?" asked the boy.

"Well, I think I can," replied the President, and with a moment's consideration he was on his hands and over the bed, in a fashion almost as neat as that of his son.

At breakfast, the chat turned on the approaching trip to New England, that the President had planned with such pleasure. He was going to attend the commencement exercises of his Alma

Mater, Williams College, Williamstown, Massachusetts. There had been arranged, in connection with this visit, a somewhat extended trip through Vermont, New Hampshire and Massachusetts, in which he was to be accompanied by Mrs. Garfield and two or three of his children, several members of the Cabinet, with their wives, and other particular friends. All the arrangements had been carefully completed, and every one of the party was anticipating a delightful ten days' jaunt. Those who were to start from Washington were to take a special car attached to the limited. express train for New York at 9.30 o'clock that Saturday morning. They were to be joined at New York by Mrs. Garfield and two or three others of the President's family, who had been sojourning at Long Branch, where Mrs. Garfield had gone to recover from a severe attack of malarial fever. The President had looked forward to the trip with eagerness and delight, and in view of it had been in the best of spirits since his return from Long Branch.

Breakfast was over. Secretary Blaine had come to accompany the President to the station. A few last words to Private Secretary Brown, a kiss to Harry, and the carriage, driven by coachman George, started rapidly along the magnificent avenue leading to the station of the Baltimore and Potomac Railroad, at Sixth and B Streets. The President was in the best of humor, and chatted