A Compilation of the Messages and Papers of the Presidents. Volume 8, part 1: James A. Garfield — A Closer Reading

Formal Diction and the Voice of Authority

The documents in this collection consistently employ a formal, almost legalistic diction that reinforces the authority of the executive. Presidential messages use phrases like I transmit herewith and I recommend to your consideration, establishing a deferential but commanding tone. Military orders, by contrast, adopt a more direct imperative: The following officers of the Army will... compose the guard of honor. This variation in grammatical mood—indicative in messages, imperative in orders—reflects the different relationships between the speaker and the audience. The president addresses Congress as a coequal branch; the Secretary of War addresses subordinates. The editor's prefatory note, written in a historian's voice, bridges these registers with phrases like able and learned discussion and interesting and effective papers, offering a third, evaluative layer.

Ritualized Language of Mourning and Succession

The assassination and succession generate a distinct subgenre of official prose: the announcement of death and the transfer of power. The Navy Department's general order of September 20, 1881, uses a tripartite structure: notification of death, declaration of succession, and a call for proper expression of respect. The language is both factual and ceremonial: the heart of the nation is heavy with grief appears alongside precise instructions for half-masted flags and gun salutes. A later special order amplifies the pathos, describing Garfield as bearing with heroic fortitude untold suffering. These passages reveal how the government scripts collective emotion through standardized phrases—duly took the oath, obeyed and respected—while still allowing for rhetorical flourish in moments of crisis.

Structural Patterns in Executive Orders

The military orders in this volume follow a consistent structural template: a heading (e.g., General Orders, No. 72), a source attribution (By command of General Sherman), and a body that alternates between narrative explanation and numbered directives. For example, one order begins by recounting the president's death and the vice-president's oath, then lists specific mourning protocols. This pattern—context followed by prescription—mirrors the logic of bureaucratic communication: first establish the situation, then dictate the response. The repetition of phrases like the following and to this end creates a rhythm of anticipation and fulfillment. The editor's prefatory note also uses a similar structure, opening with a summary of the period and then detailing key events.

The Editor's Framing and Selection Choices

James D. Richardson's prefatory note reveals his editorial priorities: he emphasizes constitutional continuity (no dangerous strain upon our institutions) and highlights specific documents he deems significant, such as Arthur's civil service rules and Cleveland's vetoes. He also notes the relative space each president occupies—Cleveland's papers fill 558 pages, Andrew Johnson's 457—suggesting a quantitative approach to historical importance. The note's language is evaluative but restrained: interesting and effective papers is the strongest praise. By including military orders alongside presidential messages, Richardson implicitly argues that the full record of an administration includes its bureaucratic machinery, not just its chief executive's words. This selection invites readers to consider how power is exercised through multiple voices within the executive branch.

Readers approaching this volume should attend to the interplay between the editor's framing and the primary documents. The prefatory note offers a historian's synthesis, but the orders and messages themselves reveal the raw mechanics of governance—how grief is standardized, authority is transferred, and policy is enacted through precise language. Comparing the rhetorical strategies of different departments (War, Navy, State) can illuminate how each branch of the executive adapted its voice to its function. This is not a narrative history but a documentary record; its value lies in the details of phrasing and structure that official prose often conceals.

Those few months of Garfield’s presidency, so earnest and so abruptly stilled, have a peculiar quietness on the page. I often think of them beside A Book of Prefaces — Context and Discussion, where the weight of what precedes a voice becomes its own gentle music. Both volumes hold a breath before the turning, a hush I’ve come to cherish.