Chapter II (1)

Unto the North he, as a brother, came,
And in his heart the great warm South he brought,
And as he stood and oped his mouth he wrought
The miracle of setting hearts aflame,
That leaped to crown him orator of fame,
Since in his own emboldened hand he’d caught
The golden chain of love, by many sought,
To bind our Union something more than name.

But hark! The while his eloquence did charm
The Nation’s ear, the lightnings flashed along
The wires the weeping news, “_He is no more!_”
Brave seer! Thou didst both North and South disarm!
Leap, lightnings, from your wires, the clouds among,
And flash his eulogy the heavens o’er!

LEE FAIRCHILD.

SEATTLE, _January 14, 1890_.

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_A SOUTHERN CHRISTMAS DAY_.

_Paraphrased from Henry W. Grady’s Editorial._

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NO man or woman living now
Shall e’er again behold
A Christmas day so royal clad,
In robes of purpled gold,
As yesterday sank down to rest,
In perfect, rounded triumph in the West.

A winter day it was—yet shot
With sunshine to the core—
Enchantment’s spell filled all the scene
With power unknown before—
And he who walked abroad could feel
Its subtle mast’ry o’er him softly steal.

Its beauty prodigal he saw—
He breathed elixir pure—
Twas bliss to strive with reaching hand
Its rapture to secure,
And bathe with open fingers where
The waves of warmth and freshness pulsed the air.

The hum of bees but underrode
The whistling wings outspread
Of wild geese, flying through the sky,
As Southwardly they sped—
While embered pale, in drowsy grates,
The fires slept lightly, as when life abates.

And people, marveling, out of doors,
Watched in sweet amaze
The soft winds’ wooing of delight,
Upon this day of days—
Their wooing of the roses fair—
Their kissing lilies, with a lover’s air.

God’s benediction, with the day,
Slow dropping from the skies,
Came down the waiting earth to bless,
And give it glad surprise—
His smile, its light—a radiant flood,
That upward bore the prayer of gratitude.

And through and through its stillness all—
And through its beauty too—
To every heart came mute appeal,
To live a life more true—
And every soul invoking then,
With promise—“Peace on earth—good will to men.”

N.C. THOMPSON.

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IN MEMORY OF HENRY W. GRADY.

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SHALL we not mourn for those who pass
Like meteors from the midnight sky,
From out the gleaming heights of fame,
As those who for their country die?

Who die, and sleep in dreamless slumber,
Where sunbeams like a blessing shed
Their glories, and the rain-drops, falling,
Weep ever o’er our Southern dead.

Of silvery tongue, and heart of fire,
And grace of manhood, what is left?
A voiceless grief—a tear—a sigh,
A nation of her son bereft.

Great soul with eloquence o’erflowing,
In rhythmic measures sweet and grand,
Great heart whose mission was a message
Of peace and good will, thro’ the land.

O tongue of flame by truth inspired!
Tho’ thou art silent, and we never
May hear again thy stirring strains,
They’ll echo in our halls forever.

Thy life was like a rushing river,
That proudly bore upon its breast
Our highest hopes unto a haven,
Where heroes dwell, and patriots rest.

Sleep well! tho’ thou art gone, the grave
Holds but the outward earthly shrine,
That held within its clay-cold breast
The sacred spark of life divine.

Sleep well! immortal, unforgotten,
Where buds and blossoms round thee blow,
And the soft fires of Southern sunsets
In glory gild thy couch below.

ELIZABETH J. HEREFORD.

DALLAS, TEXAS.

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HENRY W. GRADY.

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IF Death had waited till the grateful Land
He championed with his life had bent and crowned,
With a proud, civic garland of command
That knightly brow, with laurels freshly bound!
Yet he cared not for crowds—this wrestler strong;
If down the arena swept some warm, wild breath
Of his People’s praise—this bore his soul along,
This came with sweetness in the midst of death,
For love was more to him than crown or wreath.

Ah! half her Sun is stricken from the South,
Since he is dead—her tropic-hearted one,—
Will the pomegranate flower’s vivid mouth
Open to drink the dews when Frost is done?
Will the gay red-bird flash like winged flame,
The mocking-bird awake its thrilling lyre?
Will Spring and Song—will Love ev’n seem the same,
Now he is gone—the spirit whose light and fire
And pulsing sweetness were like Spring to make,
The gray earth young?—will Light and Love awake,
And he still sleep?—and we weep for his sake!

MARY E. BRYAN.

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THE OLD AND THE NEW.

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NOT to the beauteous maid who weeps
And wails in broken numbers,
Where ’neath the solemn cypress sleeps
The brave in dreamless slumbers.

Oh, not to her whose pallid cheeks
With form all bent and broken
An utter loss of promise speaks
And perished hopes betoken.

Ah, not to her!—the sorrowing maid
Who sighs so sad and lowly,
Where our “Lost Cause and Cross” were laid,
Keeping their memories holy.

Ah, not to her whose sons have passed
To rest in peace sedately,
To glory and the grave at last,
In soldier phalanx stately;

That sleep beneath the mountain sod
Or by the murmuring rivers,
Beneath the blooming prairie clod
Or where the sea breeze quivers.

The past is God’s, the future ours,
And o’er our plains and mountains
The young spring comes with thousand flowers
And music in bright fountains.

Oh, let the bugle and the drum
Pass to the halls of glory,
Where time has made our passions dumb
And fame has told its story.

But let no High Priest of despair
Wed us to shades of sorrow,
Or bind our younger limbs and fair
In all our bright to-morrow.

Oh, not for her our younger years
Whose beauty bloomed to perish—
Enough a whole decade of tears,
Sad memories that we cherish.

But thou, sweet maid, whose gentle wand
Doth bring the May-time blossom—
We kiss thy lips and clasp thy hand
And press thy beauteous bosom.

Thou who dost teach us to forgive
The red hand of our brother,
And binds us closer while we live
To Country, as a mother.

Ah, wedded to this Newer South
We’ll find peace, love and glory,
And in some future singer’s mouth
Freedom will boast the story.

J. M. GIBSON.

VICKSBURG, _January 14, 1890_.

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HENRY W. GRADY.

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_From the “Boston Globe.”_

FAIR brow grief-clouded, blue eyes dark with tears,
The young South sighed above her hero’s bier,
“Wear these my favors in the lists of Death,”
And o’er his calm breast scattered immortelles.
What Launcelot of old in jousts and field
Did bravely for the right with pen and voice,
With mind broad-reaching and with soul intense,
Did this young champion wisely for the truth.
From the loud echoes of rude, hideous war
He caught the murmur of a far-off peace;
Through the fierce hatred of embittered foes
He saw the faint day-star of amity;
O’er the ruin of the things that were
Beheld the shadowy Angel of new life,
And, chosen from the whirl of troublous days,
With soul knit up in valor, mind aflame,
Stood forth the knight and prophet of good will,
Of peace with dignity, of manhood’s strength
Sustaining brother’s love, of industry
That keeps an equal pace with building thought,
Of old things gracious yielding place to new.
And from the mists, responsive to his call,
Came forth in radiance, virgin-robed,
The starry maiden of sweet hope, and smiled—
Put forth her willing palm to meet his own,
And walked with him the valleys of Re-birth,
And where they passed the earth grew musical,
And long-hushed voices from the caves of Doubt
Swelled into melody of joyous faith;
While from the forests of the North swept down
The pæan of the Pines, and from the South
The murmur of the Everglades up stole
The diapason perfecting. Stark fields
That fever had burned out revived; and marts
Where brooded weird decay, and mills at rest,
The forge in blackness rusting, and the shop,
The school, the church, the forum, and the stage
Thrust off their desolation and despair
To feel again the energy of life
And know once more the happiness of man.

Such was his doing who was brave for truth;
Such is the legacy he leaves to pride;
And, though the New South mourn her fallen knight,
His soul and word move ever hand in hand
Adown the smiling valleys of Re-birth,
That still shall bud and flower because of him
And grow fair garlands for man’s Brotherhood.

E. A. B.

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AT GRADY’S GRAVE.

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“WE live in deeds, not years; in thoughts, not breadths;
In feelings, not in figures on a dial;
We should count time by heart-throbs; he most lives
Who thinks most, feels the noblest, acts the best”—
The Poet, dreaming in divinest mood,
Scanning the future with a Prophet’s eyes,
Beheld the outlines of the Perfect Man
Take shape before the vision of his soul;
And though the beauteous phantom could not stay,
He caught its grace and glory in the song
Wherein he praises the Ideal Man
Of whom he dreamed, and whom the world should know,
When in the teeming womb of Time the years
Had ripened him, mature in every part.

While yet the world, expectant of this man,
Watched, mutely wondering when and whence would come
This radiant one, this full-bloom, fairest flower
Of manhood’s excellence, which Heaven itself
Were fain to keep, to crown the angels with—
God granting unto Earth but one or two
Within the cycle of a century—
Lo! suddenly, from out the realm of Dreams,
The splendid Vision of the musing bard,
His perfect and ideal Man, came forth,
And walked within the common light of day,
A living, breathing Presence—Henry Grady!

Did not this marvelously gifted man,
Who trod with us the old, familiar paths,
And glorified them daily with strange light,
As if a god were dwelling in our midst,
Measure, full-length, the stature of the man
The Poet quarried from the mines of Thought?
What though his years were brief, did he not fill
Their precious brevity with glorious deeds,
Till he outlived the utmost lives of men
Of lesser mold, of feebler fibred souls?
Garnering betwixt his cradle and his grave
The ripened harvests of a century!
Did he not live in thoughts as flowers live
In sunshine, filling the whole world with light,
And the celestial fragrance of his soul!
Did he not live in feelings so refined,
That every heart-string into music woke,
Though touched more lightly than a mother’s mouth
Would touch the sleep-sealed eyelids of her babe!
Ah, were the throbs of his great, loving heart,
Meet as a measure for _his_ span of life?
Would not such measure circle all the world,
And find no end, save in infinity?
If he lives most—(and who shall dare deny
A truth which is as true as God is true?)
If he doth live the most who thinks the most,
Who feels the noblest, and who acts the best,
Thou, O my friend! didst to the utmost mete
Of transitory mortal life live out
Thine earthly span, though to our eyes thy life
Seems like the flashing of a falling star,
Which for a moment fills the heavens with light,
And vanishes forever.

Nay, not so—
The Poet’s words are thy best epitaph!
And though the stone which marks thy grave but tells
The number of the years thy mortal frame
Retained that eagle-wingèd soul of thine,
How long thy all-compassionating heart
Inhabited its clayey tenement,
As one of God’s blest almoners, sent down
To fill the world with light and melody;
Tells when that prophet-tongue of thine was stilled,
Which, touched with inspiration’s sacred fire,
Preached Man’s eternal brotherhood, and led
The battle waged for Justice, Truth, and Right,
Still, and despite the tears that Sorrow woos
From the spontaneous fountains of our hearts,
We know that thou didst come unto thy grave
Brimful of years, if noble deeds and thoughts,
If love to God and Man, be made alone
The measure of thy length of human years;
And that, even as thy soul beyond the stars
Shall live—as God lives—everlastingly,
So shall the memory of thy shining deeds,
Remain forever in the hearts of men;
Nor shall the record of thy fame be touched
By Time’s defacing hand—thou art immortal!

And now, dear friend, farewell to thee! Thine eyes
Have death’s inviolate seal upon their lids;
They cannot see the Season’s glorious shows,
Although, methinks, in memory of thee
The grass grows greener here, and tenderer
The daily benediction of the sun
Falls on thy grave, as if thy very dust
Had sentience still, and, kindling into life
Under the fiery touchings of the sun,
Broke through the turfy barriers of the tomb
To mingle with the light, and mellow it;
There’s not a flower that timidly uplifts
Its smiling face, to look upon the Dawn,
Or bows its head to worship silently
The awful glory of the midnight stars,
But what takes on a gentler grace for thee,
And for thy sake a sweeter incense flings
From out its golden censer.

Nor, my friend,
Will thy dull ears awaken to the songs,
Of jubilant birds, the Summer’s full-voiced choir,
Singing thy praises—for they sing of Love,
And Love was the high choral of thy life,
The swan-song of thy soul; thou canst not hear
The sweetest sounds—made sweeter for thy sake
By the presiding Genius of this place—
The silvery minor-music of the rain,
Those murmurous drops, with iterations soft,
Of every flower, and trembling blade of grass,
A fairy’s cymbal make; the whispering wind,
The sea-like moaning of the distant pines,
The sound of wandering streams, or, sweeter still,
The voice of happy children at their play—
Ah, none of these interminable tones
Of Nature’s many-chorded instrument,
Which make the music of the outward world,
As thou didst make its inner harmony,
Out of the finer love-chords of thy heart,
Shall ever move thee; but a mightier charm
Shall often woo thee from thy heavenly home,
To shed upon thy place of sculpture
The splendor of a Presence from the skies;
For thou shalt see a fairer sight than all
The panoramas of the Seasons bring,
And hear far sweeter music than the sound
Of murmuring waters, or the melody
Of birds that warble in their happy nests:
Yea, thou shalt see how little children come
To deck thy grave with daisies, wet with tears;
See homeless Want slow hither wend his way,
To bless the ashes of “the poor man’s friend,”
And from the scant dole of his wretchedness,
Despite his hunger, lay a liberal gift
Upon thy grave, in token of his love;
And in the pride and glory of her state,
Sceptred and crowned, the Spirit of the South,
Whose Heart, and Soul, and living Voice thou wert,
Will come with Youth and Manhood by her side,
To draw fresh inspirations from thy dust,
And consecrate her children with thy fame,
Till they have learned the lessons of thy life,
And glorify her, too, with noble deeds;
Thou shalt behold here, coming from all lands,
The men who honor Love and Loyalty,
Who glory in the strength of those who scale
The mountain-summits of Humanity,
And from their star-encircled peaks proclaim
The Fatherhood of the Eternal God,
The Brotherhood of Man—both being one
In holy bonds of justice, truth, and love—
Christ’s “Peace on Earth and good-will unto Men”—
That old evangel, preached anew by thee,
Till the persuasion of thy golden tongue
Quickened and moved the world with mighty love,
As if a god had come to earth again!

CHARLES W. HUBNER.

ATLANTA, GA.

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MEMORIAL MEETINGS.

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THE ATLANTA MEMORIAL MEETING.

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_From the “Constitution,” December 21._

THE overflowing hearts of a sorrowing people found expression in words yesterday.

Memorial services to the memory of the dead Grady were held in DeGive’s Opera House, and for three hours eulogies were pronounced on his name.

Loving lips and dewy eyes told the sorrow of a bereaved people gathered to pay the last public tribute to their departed friend.

The service began at 11 o’clock, and continued until 2.

At half-past ten the various escorts assembled at the Chamber of Commerce. There they formed and marched to the Opera House in a body. General Clement A. Evans, D.D., and Rev. Dr. J. W. Lee, D.D., headed the procession. Following them were the speakers of the occasion, pallbearers, honorary escort and members of the Chi Phi Fraternity, headed by Mayor John T. Glenn.

At the Opera House the delegations were ranged on the stage. They were Dr. J. B. Hawthorne, Dr. H. C. Morrison, Dr. N.C. Barnett, General Clement A. Evans, Judge W. R. Hammond, Judge W. T. Newman, Mayor John T. Glenn, Hon. John Temple Graves, Prof. H. C. White, of Athens; Hon. Patrick Walsh, of Augusta; Julius L. Brown, W. A. Hemphill, Dr. J. W. Lee, Charles S. Northen, Louis Gholstin, T. L. Meador, B. B. Crew, Donald Bain, Hon. N. J. Hammond, Captain J. W. English, Governor Gordon, John C. Calhoun, of New York; Judge Howard Van Epps, Patrick Calhoun, Albert H. Cox, W. R. Joyner, C. A. Collier, John Colvin, Porter King, Captain Everett, S. M. Inman, Professor Bass, Major Jno. A. Fitten, Captain R. I. Lowry, L. J. Hill, W. H. Thompson, J. A. Wright, H. C. White, W. P. Hill, Arnold Broyles, and other members of the Chi Phi; W. J. Garrett, W. W. Boyd, W. L. Calhoun, Hon. T. H. Mustin, of Madison; R. D. Spalding, M. C. Kiser, J. J. Griffin, J. R. Wyly, H. B. Tompkins, L. B. Nelson, Charles Keith, Judge George Hillyer, Gus Long, Dr. Crawford, J. G. Oglesby, J. J. Spalding, John J. Falvey, Clark Howell, Jr., F. M. O’Bryan, C. A. Fouche, of Rome, and others.

The Opera House, inside and out, was draped in sable and white, and on the stage, forming a fragrant background, was a mass of beautiful flowers and floral pieces. In the center of the group was the lovely offering of the dead man’s associates and employés, standing out from a setting of palms and roses. To the right of this central piece was the crown from the people of Boston, and to the left the tribute from the Virginia Society.

To the front and at each side of the stage was a life-size crayon portrait of Mr. Grady, heavily draped, and resting on a gilded easel. Round the base of the easel were flowers and plants of delicate foliage, perfuming the air with their fragrant breath, and seeming to send sweet messages to the loved face above.

The galleries and boxes were all hung in mourning.

General CLEMENT A. EVANS opened the service with prayer, full of words of sweetness and comfort, and of grateful thanks for the good already accomplished by the one that is gone, even in so short a sojourn on the earth. General Evans prayed calmly and simply, concluding with the invocation of God’s blessing to those left behind, and an inspiration to those who were to speak of the departed soul.

Mayor GLENN, who presided over the service, then arose and announced the order of exercises. He said he was too sick of heart to attempt to offer a tribute to the memory of his dead friend, and contented himself with a few simple words of preface.

* * * * *

Judge W. R. HAMMOND was introduced, and read the following tribute of the Chi Phi Fraternity, of which Mr. Grady was one of the charter members at the State University:

THE CHI PHI MEMORIAL.

The following memorial and resolutions were prepared by a committee appointed by a number of members of the Chi Phi Fraternity, who assembled in Atlanta upon the announcement of the death of Henry W. Grady, who was a member of that Fraternity, and were read by Judge W. R. Hammond:

It is sad beyond the power of expression to be compelled to-day,
and from this time henceforth, to speak of Henry W. Grady as
dead. But it is with the profoundest pleasure that we take
occasion to give utterance to our appreciation of his virtues,
and bear testimony to those high qualities in him that marked
him in many respects, not only as one of the leading men of his
State and section, but as one of the foremost men of his times.

It is peculiarly appropriate that his club-mates of the Chi Phi
Fraternity should perpetuate his memory, because he was one of
its charter members at the State University, and always gave to
it a place of unusual warmth in his affections, ever
manifesting, in his attachment to its principles and to its
members, that freshness of enthusiastic ardor which so
strikingly characterized him in his college days. How well do we
remember him—those of us who were accustomed to be with him in
those days—as, with buoyant tread and sparkling eye and merry
smile, he went out and came in amongst us, ever bearing in his
frank, generous, hearty manner, the cheeriest good will to all,
and the unmistakable evidence of malice and ill-will toward
none. Easily and quickly did he win the hearts of all his club
and college-mates, and it was their delight to do him honor
whenever occasion permitted.

As it was then among the boys, so it was afterwards among men.
He wore his heart upon his sleeve, and gave it to all without
reserve. In some this characteristic would have been weakness,
but in him it was a chief element of strength because of the
very fact that he possessed it in such a marked and striking
degree. Even those who were his enemies were won to him when
they came into his presence, and had their dislikes charmed away
by the magnetism of his manner and his open and unreserved
frankness.

Henry Grady had eminent characteristics which made him great,
and it is proper and right that we should place upon record our
estimate of them, and cannot but be highly beneficial to us to
thoughtfully consider some of them.

His mind was exceedingly subtle, and his perceptible powers
unusually and remarkably keen. He comprehended at a glance, and
discriminated as if by intuition. It was this, doubtless, that
gave him that wonderful expressiveness of speech which so
completely captivated all who ever heard him. He saw
clearly—therefore he had power to make others see.

We all have within us at times vague and inexpressible thoughts,
and we feel a desire for some one who can interpret them for us,
and give utterance and expression to that which we cannot even
put into the form of a suggestion. We feel the need of a Daniel
who can tell us the dream, and then give us the interpretation
of it. Who that has listened to the magic of Grady’s speech, or
gathered the subtle thought from his well-chosen words, has not
found in them the expression of that which seemed to lie
slumbering in his own bosom, only to be awakened by the touch of
his master hand! Such is the service which genius renders to
humanity, and such did he render for us with a power that was
almost matchless and unapproachable.

But, superb as were his mental gifts, it was not this alone, or
even chiefly, that made him great and gave him power such as few
ever possessed to attract men to him. There have been those who
equaled if they did not surpass him here, but who yet have
failed to impress themselves upon humanity with a tithe of the
force exerted by him. It was his great heart that endeared him
to us all and made us love him and rejoice in his success, with
a feeling that knew no jealousy, and ever prompted us to bid him
God-speed in his onward and upward career to the high destiny
which seemed to await him.

True love is unmistakable in its manifestations. He who really
and truly loves his fellows need not fear that they will fail to
find it out. It will manifest itself, not in the arts and wiles
of the demagogue, but in a thousand ways which need not be
premeditated, and cannot be misjudged or misunderstood.

Grady loved humanity, and love with him was not weak
sentimentality, but strong, over-mastering passion. He loved
humanity, not in the abstract, but in the person of those
members of it who came within reach of him. And this love to
them was not a mere sentiment, but a real passion, to which he
gave expression in his never-tiring acts of devotion and his
ceaseless efforts to aid them in every way and by every means
that lay in his power. It was thus that he grappled his friends
to him with hoops of steel and held them in a grasp which
nothing could loosen.

It was Grady’s strong emotional nature that gave wings to his
words and carried them so deep into the hearts of his fellow
men. Thought must have feeling back of it before it can have
power to stir men’s blood and move them to action. The twain
must be married together as one, and from their union springs a
light and power which are potent factors in the redemption of
humanity. In Grady they were united, and hence his words burnt
their way into the souls of men. The magnificence of his
thoughts, and the untold wealth of feeling which sprang from his
great heart, were not to be resisted, and easily won and held
the admiration and homage of his fellow men.

But the deep pathos of Grady’s heart, so often stirred into
those grand utterances which made him famous, seems now to
have been but the prophecy of the far deeper pathos of his
untimely death. Oh how sad it was to see him lying there upon
his bier mute and motionless, when but yesterday the nation
hung upon his words, and men of all sections and political
parties delighted to do him honor. Oh how strong in our
breasts is the wish that he might have lived, not only for
himself, his family and friends, but also for the sake of his
country, and especially his beloved Southland, just beginning
to feel the disenthrallment from her bonds, and to realize
that one had arisen who seemed to have the power to place her
before the Nation and the world in her rightful position, and
claim for her that sympathy and forbearance which she so much
needs in the solution of the great problem which has been
thrust upon her.

But he is gone, and we can only mourn his loss, and indulge the
hope that the good he has done may live after him, and that even
the sad bereavement of his death may do much to help seal the
truth of his last public utterance upon the hearts of the people
of this great country, and ultimately bring them together as one
in a union of fraternal fellowship and love.

_Resolved_, That in the death of our brother, Henry W. Grady,
our Fraternity has lost one of its most honored and devoted
members.

_Resolved_, That we tender to his bereaved family our sincere
and heartfelt sympathy.

_Resolved_, That a copy of this memorial and resolutions be sent
to his family.

_Resolved_, That the city papers be requested to publish these
proceedings, and that a copy be sent to the national organ of
the Chi Phi Fraternity.

J. W. LEE, }
J. T. WHITE, }
B. H. HILL, }
ANDREW CALHOUN, } _Committee_.
W. H. HILL, }
JACK M. SLATON, }
W. R. HAMMOND, }

Hon. Patrick Walsh was introduced by Mayor Glenn, and said:

ADDRESS OF HON. PATRICK WALSH.

Mr. Chairman, Ladies and Fellow-Citizens: We are here to pay a
tribute to the worth and greatness of the departed—to him who
did so much for the prosperity of the great and goodly city of
Atlanta; to him who did so much for Georgia and the South, and
to him who did so much for the restoration of peace and good
will among the people of all sections of our common country.

The most gifted and useful public man of his day has passed away
in the person of Henry W. Grady. I will refer briefly to him as
an editor before he electrified the country, and won plaudits
from his countrymen by the magic of his winsome eloquence.

I met him for the first time about twenty years ago at a meeting
of the Georgia Press Association in the city of Augusta.
Although he had not reached his majority, he was the proprietor
and editor of the Rome _Commercial_, which was his first
newspaper venture. He was then a striking and manly youth, and
gave promise of a career of prominence and usefulness in the
field of journalism. He moved from Rome to Atlanta and was
engaged for a few years in editing the _Herald_, one of the
brightest and most enterprising newspapers in the State. He
acquired reputation as a correspondent during the period of
reconstruction, and subsequently represented one of the leading
journals of the North as its special representative in Florida
during the memorable campaign of 1876, when the returning board
of that State negatived the will of the people. Mr. Grady gave
the country graphic and truthful pictures of the evils which the
South endured. He strikingly depicted the wrongs imposed upon
our people and exposed the usurpation of those placed in
authority by the aid of the general Government. During that sad
period of the South’s eventful history, he rendered signal
service to the people, and the principles which he advocated,
with a steadfast devotion and an exalted patriotism.

His reputation as a journalist is identified with the growth and
prosperity of that great newspaper, in the upbuilding of which
he took such a conspicuous part. The _Constitution_ stands as a
monument to his ability as an editor. His versatility as a
writer was something phenomenal. There was no subject within the
range of the press that he did not discuss with a grace and
facility that were captivating and with a clearness and vigor
that were convincing. His imagination glowed with luminous
thoughts which were clothed in the diction of polished rhetoric.
Without disparagement to the living or the dead, he won the
first place in the ranks of Southern journalists.

I speak of Mr. Grady as an editor. Others will speak of him as
an orator. Oratory was a natural gift with him. It was born in
him. Where others struggle to win success, he, by reason of his
genius, reached the mountain top, and from this great eminence
spoke to the ear of the Nation and captured the hearts of the
people. He achieved greatness by reason of his vigorous
mentality, and his fame as an editor and as an orator is voiced
by the sentiments of admiring but sorrowing friends in all
sections of the Union. He has been stricken before his time.
Already the first of his generation, if his life had been spared
his opportunity for greatness would have broadened and given him
in “the applause of listening senates” a field for the exercise
of those great gifts with which he was so richly endowed. He
died too soon for his people and for his country. But his name
and his fame will be an example and an inspiration to practice
and perpetuate the principles of government in the advocacy of
which he yielded up his life.

“With charity for all and malice toward none,” he went about
among his countrymen doing good. It was his mission to help the
poor and to aid the deserving. Every good work received the
support of his impulsive heart and noble soul. His last speech
was an impassioned and eloquent plea for a peaceful solution of
that great problem which the South and the South alone can
solve. It was not to oppress, but to elevate the colored man—to
enable both races to live in peace, and work out their mission
in the regeneration of the South. What he so eloquently said in
Boston represents the firm conviction of his Southern
countrymen, and his death but emphasizes the truth and force of
his position. The South is free and the intelligence and courage
of her people will preserve her and her institutions for all
time from hostile and inferior domination.

The South mourns the untimely death of Georgia’s brilliant son.
The North deeply sympathizes with us in the death of him whose
last public utterance so feelingly touched the patriotic heart
of the people, and the response comes back from all sections of
a re-united people and a restored Union. Few men have
accomplished so much for the unification of public sentiment on
questions of grave import, and there is no one who has
accomplished more for the material development of his beloved
South. He is dead, but his works will live after him. His name
is enshrined in the hearts of his grateful countrymen, who are
saddened and bowed down with unspeakable sorrow.

Henry W. Grady had the zeal of a martyr and valor of a patriot.
If it be permitted to mortals who have put on immortality to
look upon this world from their celestial home, the incense of
praise which ascends from our stricken hearts will be grateful
to the soul of Henry Grady. God has set his seal upon his silver
tongue, and no more forever will his eloquent voice, stimulating
his fellow-countrymen to deeds of noble enterprise, be heard on
earth. Matchless the fertility of his mind, matchless the magic
and power of his presentation, matchless his power of
organization, matchless his power of accomplishment. Truly,
indeed, can it be said of him, there is no man left to fill his
place.

May his golden soul rest in the bosom of the God that gave it,
is the humble but heartfelt prayer of one who admired and
respected him living, and who mourns and reveres him dead.

ADDRESS OF HON. B. H. HILL.

I cannot speak in studied phrase of my dead friend. The few
simple words I can trust my faltering lips to utter will come
from a heart burdened with grief too deep for language to
express. A grief whose crushing weight, outside of my own home
circle, has taken away from life its brightest hopes and its
highest inspiration.

In the summer of 1866 I first met Henry Grady, even then giving
promise of marvelous gifts of mind and heart. From that summer
evening, remembered now as though it were but yesterday, I have
loved him with all a brother’s devotion and tenderness. During
all these years there has been no shadow on our friendship and
no secrets in our hearts. In prosperity he has rejoiced with me,
and when sorrow and trouble came no voice was as cheering, no
sympathy was as sweet as his. Only a year ago, when death came
into my home and took the one little blossom that had bloomed in
my heart as my own, he wrote to my mother words of tenderest
comfort for her and of love for me—words that are inexpressibly
precious to me now. Out of my life into the beautiful beyond
have passed the two friends I loved best on earth—the chivalrous
Gordon, the peerless Grady. God keep my friends and lead them
gently through the meadow-lands where the river flows in song
eternal. I know that near its crystal banks, where the birds
sing sweetest and flowers bloom brightest, they have clasped
hands in blessed and happy reunion. The love with which Henry
Grady inspired his friends has never been surpassed by mortal
man. Beautiful and touching have been the expressions of
devotion that have come to his family. I believe that there are
hundreds all over this State who would gladly take his place in
yonder silent tomb, if by so doing they could restore him to the
people who loved him and who need him so greatly. It is not his
great genius, unrivaled as it was; not his fervent patriotism,
unselfish as it was; not his wonderful eloquence, matchless as
it was; not his public spirit, willing as it was—these are not
the recollections that have moved the people as they have never
been moved before.

But it was the great heart of the man beating in loving sympathy
with suffering, touching with sweetest encouragement the lowly
and struggling, carrying the sunshine of his own radiant life
into so many unhappy lives, that now bow down the hearts of the
people under the weight of a personal loss.

Henry Grady lived in an atmosphere of love. In him there was
greatness—greatness unselfish—unconscious—gentle as the heart of
a child. In him there was charity—charity white and still as the
moonlight that shines into the shadows of night. In him there
was heroism—the heroism of the knight that drew no sword, but
waved in his hand, high above his white plumed brow, the sacred
wand of peace, of love, of fraternity. In him there was
patriotism, but a patriotism as pure and steadfast as a flame
burning as a passion for the people he loved. As I contemplate
this life through the years that I have known him so well, I
feel as one who has seen the sun rise in the cloudless spring
time, warming into beauty all the flowers of the earth, and
winning into praise all the songsters of the air, at noonday,
when all earth was rejoicing in its light and growing in its
strength, suddenly fade away, leaving the land in darkness.
Henry Grady was the great sun of the Southland, under whose
fervid eloquence the cold heart of the North was melting into
patience, confidence, justice, sympathy and love. It is no
exaggeration to say that he was the great hope of the country.

The eyes of the South were looking toward him with hope. The
ears of the North were listening to him with faith. Inscrutable,
indeed, are the ways of a Providence that demanded a life so
richly endowed, so potential for good. And yet it is the finite
mind that would question either the mercy or wisdom of the
Infinite. Our hero could not have died at a time when he was
dearer to his people. His last brave, eloquent message will find
its way, has found its way, to the hearts and consciences of his
countrymen. His death is a sacrificial offering from whose altar
rises even now the incense of perpetual peace and a perfect
union of brotherly love. The lessons of his life will ripen with
the passing years. Ages yet to come will compass the fullness of
his fame and time will consecrate the patriotic martyrdom of his
death. He sang like one inspired with the sacred memories of the
past and the glorious hopes of the future. His works and his
noble qualities will expand and multiply from his tomb as the
sweet spice rushes from the broken alabaster vase. His name will
become the synonym for friendship, charity, wisdom, eloquence,
patriotism and love, wherever these virtues are known and
treasured among men.

To use his own beautiful words, written of another: “Those who
loved him best will find him always present. They will see him
enthroned in every heart that kindles with sympathy to others.
They will feel his kindly presence in the throb of every hand
that clasps their hands in the universal kinship of grief. They
will see his loving memory beaming from every eye as it falls on
theirs.” So he shall live in Georgians and with Georgians
forever and forever. On the monument which loving hands will
erect to his memory let the inscription be written: “At all
times and everywhere he gave his strength to the weak—his
sympathy to the suffering—his life to his country and his heart
to God.” Our hearts go out to-day in tenderest sympathy to the
loved ones at home. Those alone who have had the privilege of
entering the charmed circle can know the void left there.

To the mother who idolized this noble son—and he never forgot
her, for did he not turn aside from questions of state to tell
the Nation that her knees were the truest altar he had ever
found, and her hands the fairest and strongest that had ever led
him; to the sweet and loving sister, the companion of his
boyhood; to the heart-broken wife always worthy of his love,
devoted to him, ever dear to him; to the sweet and gentle
daughter, the idol of his heart and household; to the noble and
manly son—these were his jewels. And as we loved him so shall we
love them. I have seen a picture with a shaft of light reaching
from earth to heaven. Up the long, white rays, dazzling in glory
and transcendent in beauty, an immortal soul is ascending to the
illumined heights—ascending to meet its God. I think that if
there ever was a soul borne upward upon rays of glory it was the
beautiful soul of this friend we loved. The golden beams of this
earthly glory shining into the pure light of heaven wove his
radiant pathway to the stars. What an ascension for an immortal
soul! Earth’s glory under his feet; Heaven’s glory upon his
brow. So he, our immortal, becomes God’s immortal. Oh, thou
bright, immortal spirit! Thou standeth this day in the presence
of the angels. The King, in his beauty, hath greeted thee with
the welcome: Well done, well done good and faithful servant; the
great and good that have passed from earth are thy companions,
and thy ears have heard music sweeter far than all earthly
plaudits. Yet we miss thee; we mourn thee; through the rifted
heavens we greet thee with grateful tears and undying love.

MR. JULIUS L. BROWN’S SPEECH.

Again we are assembled in the house of mourning. Our homes and
public buildings are yet black with the symbols of our grief for
him who went before.

“One woe doth tread upon another’s heel, so fast they follow.”

Two short weeks ago, while we were assembled in our capital
covered with the insignia of grief, to do honor to the memory of
one who had been our chief when the storm of war raged, we
received a telegram, mingling his grief with ours, from him,
then on his journey of duty to Boston, whose sad death we have
met this day to mourn.

Jefferson Davis and Henry Grady are dead. To-day their souls
commune, and we are left to weep. In their deaths the South has
lost two of her noblest sons. One was gathered to his fathers
full of years and rich in honor. He had served his country well.
He had been the chosen leader of our people, when the storms of
war were raging. He, as our representative, had been subjected
to insults and to indignities by the Government he had honored,
and in whose service he had spent the best years of his life. He
passed away, and the sunset of his life was glorious and
beautiful.

We have not yet put aside the sables of grief we wear for
Jefferson Davis, and yet in two short weeks we have met to mourn
the death of him whom we hold dearer; our townsman, our daily
associate and friend.

Henry W. Grady has gone to his last home.

One was an old man, ready and waiting to be called. His day was
over, his work was done, and he was waiting for his rest. His
sun had risen, past its meridian in glory and was sinking in
honor. For him the night in due time had come. The other, was a
young man, full of hope and rich in promise. His sun had just
arisen and it gave promise that before him was yet a glorious
day.

One was the chosen representative of our people before the
storms of war had swept over us. He was the representative of
the South under its old system. The other was the acknowledged
exponent of the South under its altered condition of affairs.

We weep for him to-day.

Of all the young men in America none had such power for good.
None had the ear of the public so completely as he to be heard.
None had so eloquent a tongue to produce conviction. None had so
magnetic a bearing to induce followers. He was ambitious, yes,
but for what? Not for the spoils of office, not for command of
his fellow-man, not for himself, but for his people. Years ago
when his friends all over Georgia urged him to allow his name to
be presented for a post of honor in the counsels of the Nation
he refused. His letter of declination was so strong, so
patriotic, and so unselfish that it commanded the admiration of
the world. I know that even far-off New Zealand published his
words and did him honor. His eloquent speech in New York
completed the structure of his national fame. From the night of
its delivery the whole country ranked him among its foremost
citizens. Even in down-trodden and oppressed Cuba his eloquent
words were translated into the Spanish tongue and read with
delight while I was there. The echoes of his last eloquent,
matchless defense of the South yet linger in Faneuil Hall, and
so long as its historic walls shall stand they will be classed
with the best efforts of Everett and of Webster. His friends all
over the country read his words, and wondered that he was so
great. Ambitious; yes, ambitious to be able to present the cause
of the South in such a manner as to produce conviction in the
minds and in the hearts of its most ultra defamers, that our
people now in good faith accept as final the construction placed
upon the Constitution of this country by the victors, and that
they are as absolutely loyal and devoted, as are the people of
the North, to that Union against which his father had fought.

With no apologies for the past; with no recantation of the
belief that they were patriots, without in any way casting
reproach upon our dead, with a nature grand enough to admire
Abraham Lincoln and Jefferson Davis, he had taken for his high
mission on this earth, the task of reconciling the people of the
sections. Until this great mission was accomplished, he had no
time to devote to the narrow duties of a public office. Office,
therefore, he did not seek. Office he would not have. There was
but one office in this land great enough for him. Had he lived
until his sun had reached its meridian splendor there would have
been a complete reconciliation between the sections. Partisan
malignity would not have sought to enact laws aimed at only a
part of this grand country. Soon would there have been a
complete union of hearts between those who had been engaged in
fratricidal strife, which the most ultra partisanship could not
have severed. Too young himself to be in the war, but the son of
a gallant Confederate soldier, killed upon the field of battle,
he, more than any one of older years, could by his chosen
profession bear the messages of peace to the North, and by his
mighty pen, by his eloquent tongue, by his melodious voice, and
by his commanding presence could he procure a hearing from an
audience of strangers and produce conviction. If it be true
that,

The tongues of dying men
Enforce attention like deep harmony,

then his last words, uttered in behalf of his people, will not
have been spoken in vain.

In his death the South has lost its most eloquent advocate and
its most powerful defender. America weeps for one of her noblest
sons. Who is there to finish this work? God grant that there may
rise some one to complete his mission!

He was a man full of impulse and a quick reader of the popular
mind. Well do we all remember the time when the result of a
presidential election became certainly known, how his heart,
wild with joy at what he believed to be the beginning of better
days for the South, organized a street procession and proceeded
to the legislative halls of this State, and with his followers
entered the house, and in his clear, ringing voice announced,
“Mr. Speaker: A message from the American people,” and adjourned
it. ’Tis said that history shows that there have been but two
men who have ever adjourned a parliament without a vote, Oliver
Cromwell and Henry Grady. One was an act of tyranny—the other
the expression of the desire of every member of the house.

A citizen of Atlanta, he loved Georgia; a Georgian, he adored
the South; a Southerner, he worshipped the whole Union. He was
an American in the fullest sense of that term. There was no work
of public or private charity among us which he did not aid by
his tongue, his pen, his head or his purse, whether that work
was to procure the pardon of an abandoned young girl confined in
the chain-gang with criminals, or canvassing the streets of
Atlanta through snow and ice, accompanied with a retinue of
wagons and drays, to accumulate fuel and provisions to prevent
our poor from freezing and from starving. It was in response to
his appeals, more than to all else combined, that a home is now
being erected within sight of the dome of yonder capitol for the
aged and infirm veterans of the Lost Cause. It was to him more
than to all others that our Piedmont Expositions, designed to
show to the world the wealth of our undeveloped mineral,
agricultural and other resources, were carried to a successful
end. It was through his persuasive power that the Chautauqua
Association, designed to more thoroughly educate our people, was
established.

But in the limited time allotted to me, I cannot go into further
details. If you seek his monuments, look around. They are in
every home and every calling of life. In all that which has
tended to develop the material resources of the country, to
enrich his people, to encourage education and a love of the
arts, to relieve suffering, to provide for the poor, and to make
our people better and nobler, he devoted his life, unselfishly
and without hope of other reward than the approval of his
conscience.

He was a model citizen. As a member of society, he was welcomed
to every fireside. He was the center of every group. His doors
were open always to strangers. He was given to hospitality. He
was the life, the soul of every enterprise with which he was
connected. As a patriot, his heart was bowed down with grief
that his countrymen should be estranged. As a humanitarian, his
great heart wept at the suffering of the poor, and his voice was
ever raised in behalf of the afflicted and oppressed. As a
friend, he was devoted, unselfish and loyal. Now, that he is
gone, we know how dear he was to us. We have awakened to the
full appreciation of his great worth, and of the calamity which
has befallen us.

Yesterday we stood by his tomb. No private citizen in this
country ever had such a pageant. For miles the streets were
lined with people. We saw the aged and the young, the rich and
the poor, the white and the black, with eyes dimmed by tears,
with hearts bowed down with sorrow at loss of him. They had left
their homes upon our greatest festal day to pay him the homage
of their tears. To each of them his loss was a personal sorrow.

I knew Henry W. Grady well, and I loved him. To me his death is
a personal grief. He had been my friend for more than
twenty-three years. Well do I remember the day I joined his
class in our University. Well do I picture his friendly presence
as he bade me welcome and invited me to his home. Well do I
recall our meeting in our college societies. Our plans, our
struggles, our defeats and our triumphs there. Since that time,
I have sat with him around social boards. He has been time and
again an honored and a welcomed guest in my house. I shall miss
him there. We have been together in public enterprises, we have
met in the busy marts of men. We have worked side by side, and
we have differed upon questions of policy, but in all these
differences he has been my friend. I loved him, and deplore his
death.

We shall erect in this city a monument to commemorate his many
virtues, and to hold him up as an example before the young and
those who come after us; but however exalted that monument may
be, and however near the skys it may reach, the greatest and
best monument to us who knew him will be the memory of his many
virtues which we shall always treasure in our hearts.

Sink, thou of nobler light.
The land will mourn thee in its darkening hour;
Its heavens grow gray at thy retiring power;
Thou stirring orb of mind, thou beacon power,
Be thy great memory still a guardian might,
When thou art gone from sight.