Chapter II (9)

THE flash that announced over the wires the death of Henry W. Grady shocked the country, for it was a national calamity.

It is seldom that a people are called upon in so short a space of time to mourn the loss of two such men as Jefferson Davis and Henry W. Grady. The first was a blow for which we were prepared, for like ripened grain, Mr. Davis fell, full of years and honor, before the scythe of the reaper; but the death of Mr. Grady comes to us as a sorrow with all the force of a painful surprise. He was cut down in the bloom of a robust physical manhood, in the full enjoyment of his magnificent mental powers by which he had just ascended to the very pinnacle of fame. The eyes of the country were fixed upon him, the son of the South, whose transcendent genius inspired the hope of the blessed realization of promises with which his brief but brilliant career was so full. But in the death of this illustrious journalist and matchless orator the lesson is enforced that “The path of glory leads but to the grave.”

Mr. Grady grew up in the refined atmosphere of cultured Athens, and his mental nature treasured the classic light of that seat of learning, and it glowed with attractive radiance in all of his editorial work. In his death the press of the country loses its brightest ornament, and the South loses a champion without compare, whose pen was a trenchant blade in fighting her battles, and a shield when used to defend her from the hurtling arrows of envy and malice. His luminous pen made the path of the South’s progress glow, as with unflagging zeal he devoted his best endeavors to the amelioration of her war-ruined condition.

Mr. Grady, as the representative of what people are pleased to call the “New South,” but which is the “Old South” rehabilitated, was, in the providence of God, calculated to do for his country what Hill, Gordon and other brilliant lights of the old _régime_ could never have compassed. As David, “the man of war,” was not permitted to build the temple, but that glory was reserved for Solomon, so Grady, the exponent of present principles, was permitted to gather the fragments and broken columns of the South’s ruined fortunes and begin the erection of a temple of prosperity so grand in proportion, so symmetrical in outline, as to attract, in its incomplete state, the admiration of the world.

In the extremity of our grief we are apt to magnify our loss, but this, indeed, seems irreparable, and we can take no comfort in the assurance of the philosopher who codified the experience of the past into the assurance that great ability is always found equal to the demand. On whom will Grady’s mantle fall? There really seems to be none worthy to wear what he so easily graced. And every Southern heart weighed down with a sense of its woe cannot but ask,

O death, why arm with cruelty thy power
To spare the idle weed yet lop the flower?

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STILLED IS THE ELOQUENT TONGUE.

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_From the “Brunswick Times.”_

HENRY W. GRADY is dead!

Hushed forever is the voice of the South’s most wonderful orator!

With the laurel upon his brow, with the plaudits of a nation ringing in his ears, with the love of his people freshly spoken, with a crown of glory about him, the matchless defender of the South has passed from earth, and beyond the silence of the stars his soul dwells in the companionship of the great who have gone before.

With his sorrow fresh upon the South, this death and loss following so closely upon that other in New Orleans but a few days ago, the heart is not in keeping with the brain, and not now can the pen dipped only in tears write.

Henry Grady had not reached the zenith of his fame, for the circle was widening for him and there were still brighter flowers for him to pluck, and in her hand Honor held out still richer prizes. But the mystery of death is upon him, and from his hand has dropped the forceful, graceful pen, and in silence and peace he sleeps for the grave.

With a superb intellect, with an eloquence rivalling the golden-tonged Chrysostom, with a love almost unapproached by any other for the South and her people, he stood peerless and matchless as his land’s defender and leader in all that made for her peace, prosperity and happiness.

But his sun has set. It matters not that in all brightness it went down; it matters not that he died full of honors; about that grave a people will gather with tears fast flowing and hearts crushed and bleeding. It is hard to give up one so grand of mind, so wonderful of tongue, so magnetic of personality, so richly endowed in all that equips the great leader.

And such was Henry W. Grady.

Atlanta will mourn him, Georgia will weep for him, and the South will sorrow indeed.

Upon his bier the _Times_ lays this tribute and stands reverent and uncovered by the grave of Georgia’s most brilliant son.

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A SHINING CAREER.

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_From the “Macon Telegraph.”_

HENRY GRADY is dead. This announcement carried sorrow all over Georgia yesterday, for there were few men in whom the people of this State felt so much interest or for whom they cherished such a warm affection as they did for this gifted and lovable man. He had not attained his thirty-ninth year when “God’s finger touched him” and closed his remarkable career, but his name was familiar from one limit of this Union to the other. Georgia had no more famous citizen, and perhaps there never was a man in this State in private station who was so widely known or so much admired. Mr. Grady never held a public office, and yet he was a recognized force in Georgia politics almost before he had reached the years of statutory manhood. He devoted his life to journalism, and in his chosen field achieved a national fame. He began his career as a boy editor in Rome, and at an age when most men are merely selecting their standards and shaping themselves for the real work of life, he became a prominent and influential figure, a leader of thought, and a promoter of public enterprises. Eighteen years ago he moved to Atlanta to pursue his profession in a broader field, and immediately made himself felt as a positive force in the community. The debt which Atlanta owes him is great indeed. No man did more to inspire the pride of community, to set on foot and carry to success great enterprises for the welfare and progress of the city, to rally its people to an enthusiastic unanimity on all questions affecting local prosperity than did Henry W. Grady. These public services would have endeared him to the people of his adopted city, but they were not so admirable as his private benefactions. He was first and foremost in many good works, the fame of which never went beyond the homes of the poor and unfortunate who were relieved by his ministrations. His hand was open always to the stricken and needy. He gave to the afflicted with a generosity which was oblivious to his own circumstances. Of his influence in promoting public enterprises there are enduring monuments. By his eloquence of tongue and pen he raised in less than two weeks $85,000 for the erection of the beautiful Young Men’s Christian Association building which now adorns one of the principal streets of Atlanta. He was the moving spirit in the building of the Chamber of Commerce and the enlargement of its membership until it reached proportions that made it a power not only in matters of business but in all the public concerns of the city. The Confederate Soldiers’ Home of Georgia is a monument to him, for he seized mere suggestions and made them the text of an appeal which stirred the hearts of the people of Georgia and evoked a long delayed tribute of gratitude to the broken veterans of the lost cause. The Cotton Exposition of 1880 and the Piedmont Expositions of 1887 and 1889, from which Atlanta reaped immense benefits, were largely due to his persistent labors.

While Mr. Grady became prominent in Atlanta, and justly esteemed by his fellow-citizens on account of works and triumphs like these, he rose into national prominence by reason of other evidences of his genius. His address to the New England Society in New York in December, 1886, was one of the most famous occasional speeches ever delivered in this country. The morning after its delivery he literally awoke to find himself famous throughout the country. Since that time he made various public addresses which commanded the attention of the United States and became subjects of common conversation among the people. His speech at the Dallas Exposition last year and his address to the legislatures of Georgia and South Carolina at the Augusta Exposition a few weeks later, were themes of the public press of the entire country. But the best and ablest public speech of his life was his last. It was that which he delivered two weeks ago at Boston in the performance of a mission which proved fatal to him. In this, as in all his famous public addresses, he seemed to strive with a passionate ardor and a most persuasive eloquence to bring the North and the South to a better understanding of each other, to foster the spirit of mutual respect and mutual forbearance, to inculcate the great idea that this is a re-united country and that the duty of every good citizen in its every section is to strive for its domestic peace, for its moral, social and material progress, and for its glory among the nations of the earth. He handled these great themes with a master hand and invested his exposition of them with a most fascinating eloquence. Few men in Georgia ever accomplished so much in so few years. Few men in Georgia were even the object of such affection at home and such admiration beyond the bounds of the State. The career which has been so suddenly cut off was shining with golden promise. The future seemed to be full of honors and there was everything surrounding the present that could make life sweet. But the end has come. The most eloquent tongue in Georgia has been smitten into everlasting silence in this world. A great, generous heart has been stilled.

A useful citizen, after a brief but busy and momentous life, which was productive of many enterprises of public importance and beneficent tendency, has folded his hands in the eternal rest. God’s peace be with him!

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THE GREATEST CALAMITY.

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_From the “Augusta News.”_

CAN it be possible? Can it be that the brightest star in the galaxy of our great luminaries is blotted out and stricken from its orbit just as it was rising in full career to the zenith of usefulness, influence and splendor? Can it be that the most brilliant meteor which has flashed across our sky for a generation has fallen to earth literally burned to ashes by its own fiery contact with the grosser air and elements of the natural world? Can it be that the light has gone out of the most magnetic mind and the spirit gone from the most resistless personality in this sovereign State? Can it be that the South has lost the man who has been first and foremost in representing its real and progressive needs and issues, and who has done more for this section than all the young men of his day combined? Can it be that the kindly heart has ceased to beat which throbbed in love first for a devoted family, and next and always for his native State?

Even so, for while still the shadows of the night hung in mournful pall about his home and dawn lingered as if loth to look upon the lifeless form of one whom all his people loved, his spirit soared away to greet the dawning of an eternal day and the mortal part of Henry Woodfin Grady lay cold in death.

Dead, did we say? Was ever the coming of Death’s angel more untimely? So it seems to us, with our poor mortal vision, but there is an eye above, all-seeing; a Providence, all-timely; a Power, almighty; and to His will we bow this day. In His sight the stricken star is not blotted out but borne aloft to a brighter realm. In His providence the brilliant meteor of a day is not fallen, but simply shorn of all its dross and burnished in beauty and splendor for its flight through all the ages. In His power the spark which no longer animates the mortal man glows again in glory and sends a ray of loving light from Heaven to cheer and console the broken hearts on earth, and remind us that his influence and work are not lost, but will live and bear blessed fruit for generations yet to come.

Henry Grady has gone from earth ere yet the dew of youth has been drunk up by the midday sun of maturity, but in the brief span of life allotted to him what a world of work he has done, and what a name he made for himself! Not two-score years had passed over his head, and yet he had attained all the substantial success and honor which mortal man might wish. He was not only loved all over Georgia, but he was famous all over the country, and no public occasion of national import was deemed complete without his presence and his eloquent voice. He was a magician in his mastery of men, and the witchery of his voice was enchantment to any audience in any section. He was coming to be regarded as the representative of the whole South in the editor’s chair and on the rostrum, and it is truly said of him that he has done more for the material advancement of this section than any other man for the past fifteen years. His death is the greatest calamity which has befallen the South since the late war, and Israel may indeed mourn this day as for her first-born.

The name of Henry W. Grady will not be forgotten, for it will live in the affectionate regard of Georgians and grow greater in the good results which will follow his life-work. The fact that he literally died in the service of the South, as a result of cold contracted just after the impassioned delivery of his recent grand oration in Boston, will bind his name and memory nearer and dearer to Southern hearts; for to warrior or hero was never given a better time or a nobler way to die than to the man who gave his voice, his heart, his reputation and his life to healing the wounds of a fratricidal war, and to the harmonious building up of his own beloved South as the fairest and richest domain of our common country.

God bless his name and his memory, and be a strong and abiding support to his broken-hearted widow and household this day!

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NO ORDINARY GRIEF.

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_From the “Columbus Ledger.”_

A GREAT loss has befallen the South in the death of Henry W. Grady, and deep sorrow rests upon the hearts of her people.

He was no ordinary man, and his death calls forth no ordinary grief. Brilliant in intellect, strong in his convictions, untiring in his efforts to promote the welfare of his country, genial, courteous, kind-hearted, ever ready to help the unfortunate, the loss of such a man cannot be estimated. When results were to be achieved, when encouragement was needed, his eloquent tongue, his ready pen, his helping hand were used with telling effect. His creed was to build up and not to tear down; to encourage and not to discourage; to help and not to hurt. His efforts were ever directed to the promotion of his State and the South, and no other man has accomplished so much for them as he. His last effort was for his country and his people, and the good which will result from his eloquent speech at Boston, will be a lasting monument. It would have been impossible for any man to have attained to Mr. Grady’s position without coming into contact with those who disagreed with him on many points, but even these acknowledged his greatness. To read of him was to admire him; to know him was to love him. In the midst of our sorrow let us thank God that He lends to earth such men.

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A PLACE HARD TO FILL.

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_From the “Griffin News.”_

HENRY W. GRADY died at his home in Atlanta late Sunday night of pneumonia, contracted during his recent trip North. His illness was very short and his untimely death is a shock not only to his many friends and admirers, but to the whole State in which he was so well known, and will be received with regret outside its borders. He was a beautiful writer and a brilliant orator, as well as a prominent factor in the development of Atlanta. He will be greatly missed in that city, and his place in the _Constitution_, of which he was easily the head, will be hard to fill. Peace to his ashes.

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“JUST HUMAN.”

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_From the “Thomasville Enterprise.”_

THACKERAY, the greatest of English novelists, in the concluding words of Pendennis, says: “I have not painted a hero, only a man and a brother.” When Henry W. Grady made his first appearance before the public as a lecturer, his subject was the words that begin this article—“Just Human.” This was years ago, when he was only known to the world as a brilliant young journalist, and even then his fame for quick perception, incisive utterance and felicitous manner, was only begun. Later years added to that fame, and with each year, there seemed to come to him a wider range of ideas, and a bolder conception of the most effectual way to put those ideas into burning, glowing language.

After he had made his memorable speech before the New England Society in New York, each succeeding one only raised him higher in public esteem as a matchless, a magnetic orator, who could wield human hearts as he would. Through all these speeches, and in all that he ever wrote, there lingers, like a sweet incense, this thought, that he recognized that men were “Just Human,” and entitled to all that charity could offer in extenuation of their faults.

There is not a heart in all the world that has received one pang from aught that Henry Grady ever wrote or said; his utterances, whether from the rostrum or through the columns of his paper, always tended to make the world better, and his ambition seemed to be to smooth away the differences that annoy, and the bitternesses that gall. There is no man in all the country that can take up his work where he left it.

Where can we find the same impassioned eloquence that swayed, despite its force, as gently as the summer breezes that come across fields of ripe grain?

Where can we find the same acute feeling for the sorrows and sufferings of men and women, “Just Human,” the same sweet pleading for their extenuation or their amelioration?

When the epitaph over his grave comes to be written, no better rendering of the true greatness of the departed could be made than is contained in the suggestive name of his first lecture, “Just Human,” for the noble instinct that taught him to plead so eloquently for the failings of his fellow men, taught him to enter the Divine presence, asking for himself that mercy he had asked for others.

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GEORGIA WEEPS.

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_From the “Union News.”_

HON. HENRY W. GRADY, of the _Constitution_, died at his home in Atlanta this morning at 3:40.

This cruel blow shivers every heart with agony, even as the thunderbolt of heaven rends the mighty monarch of the forest.

His death is a loss to Georgia. Every man feels it as a personal bereavement. He has done more for the material development of the State than any other one man in it. He was an enthusiast in the cause of education, an upholder of the church, an advocate of industrial training, a promoter of every enterprise calculated to benefit Georgia and her people. He was a friend to humanity, true to himself, to his country and to his God.

The most brilliant light in Southern journalism is veiled in darkness—a manly heart has ceased to beat; the tongue that has electrified thousands with magic eloquence is silent forever; the fingers that wielded the pen of genius and never traced a line in bitterness or malice, but was always uplifted in behalf of charity, love and good will, in behalf of progress, industry and enterprise, in behalf of the South and her institutions, his State and her people, are cold in death; the once warm hand of benevolence and fraternal greeting is chilled forever; a golden life is ended, but his works live after him, as a priceless heritage to his State, a boon to his people. The influence of his example pervades the State as a delightful aroma.

The dispensations of Providence are mysterious. It is strange fate, past all human understanding, why so excellent a spirit, a man of so much influence, should be cut down in the glory of his life, in the richest prime of his royal manhood.

Only a few days ago he stood in a blaze of glory in a Northern city and electrified thousands by his matchless oratory, in the presentation of a question that did the South great good and justice, and did much to soften the animosities of the North toward the South, and establish more fraternal relations between the two sections. But even while the plaudits of the admiring multitude were ringing in his ears, and the press of the country was singing his praises, the fatal hand of disease was laid upon him, and he was brought back to his own sunny and beloved Southland to die.

Mr. Grady was a popular idol. He was destined to reap the highest political honors in the State. His name was being prominently mentioned in connection with the Governorship and Senatorship of Georgia. Democratic leaders sought his favor. His influence was felt throughout the entire State. His support was an omen of success.

Ben Hill died, and his place has never been supplied in Georgia. Mr. Grady approached nearer to it than any other man. Now Mr. Grady is gone, and his duplicate cannot be found in the State. No man in recent years could so attract the eye and fasten the attention of the North. The death of no other Georgian at this time would have been so calamitous.

The star was rapidly hastening to the zenith of its brilliancy and greatest magnitude when suddenly it went out in darkness, but across the industrial and political firmament of the country it has left an effulgent track whose reflection illumines the world.

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A GRAND MISSION.

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_From the “West Point Press.”_

SO much has been said about the lamented Grady that we may not be able to offer anything new. But as we feel that his untimely death is an irreparable loss we must offer our heartfelt tribute.

He was the most unselfish slave to friends, and to duty. As an editor he was brilliant and at all times as fearless as a Spartan; as an orator, age considered, he stood without a peer within the broad realm of his native land, and although but in the full vigor of manhood he has left upon record speeches that compare favorably with the master efforts of Calhoun and Webster. As a companion he was genial, jovial and untiring in his efforts to entertain; as a friend there was no bound to his fidelity.

If you would know the beauty and grandeur of Henry Grady’s character, go and learn it at the homes of poverty where he delighted to turn in the light, by his many offices of love and charity. If you would know the kindness of his generous heart go to those whom he has lifted from the vale of poverty and given encouragement to look up. Ask the army of newsboys for a chapter upon the life of Henry Grady and you will hear words to convince you that a philanthropist has been called hence. It seemed to us the other day while in Atlanta, as they said “Paper, sir,” that there was a sadness in the tone, and that a great sorrow was upon their hearts. Yes, those newsboys miss Henry Grady, for he was their friend and protector. Words of eulogy cannot restore those who cross the dark river; if they could there has been enough said to recall Henry Grady to the high position he honored by a life of unselfishness. His mission, only begun, was a grand one, and we trust his mantle may fall upon some one who will carry on his work.

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THE SOUTH LOVED HIM.

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_From the “Darien Timber Gazette.”_

SELDOM has the nation’s heart been so saddened as by the news of Henry W. Grady’s death. Henry W. Grady, although comparatively young, has conquered this vast continent—east and west, north and south—and his many victories have been bloodless. He has truly demonstrated that the pen is mightier than the sword. An intellect exceptionally brilliant, an indomitable courage, a judgment keen, clear and cool, a character unspotted and unassailable—these are the weapons with which Henry W. Grady captured the nation.

The South loves him for his unflinching devotion to its interests; the North admires him for the conservatism which always characterized his political actions. The brilliancy of his intellect all admit. We venture to say that there lives not a man in the United States to-day whose death would be more sincerely or more universally mourned.

That a career so unusually promising should have been so suddenly cut off is sad indeed—sad especially for the South, whose claims he so ably advocated and so successfully furthured. The severing of the still more tender ties between wife and husband, mother and son, while in the youth of his glory, adds another gloomy chapter to the death of Southland’s most patriotic and brilliant son. Millions will bow their heads in grief with the loving wife and devoted mother.

We read and re-read the words of Henry W. Grady’s last speech with a strange fascination. They are like the last notes of the dying swan and will doubtless have much more weight under the sad circumstances. He has literally laid down his life that the colored man might enjoy his in peace and prosperity.

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NO SADDER NEWS.

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_From the “Marietta Journal.”_

NO sadder news ever fell upon the ears of this people than the announcement that “Henry Grady is dead!” It staggered our people like a bolt of lightning from a clear sky.

His death took place at the family residence in Atlanta at 3:40 o’clock Monday morning, December 22. While on a visit to Boston, where he delivered the grandest speech of his life, he took cold, and being ill before he left home, he was prostrated on his return home, his sickness culminating in pneumonia and death. He was thirty-eight years old at the time of his death, and no private citizen at that age ever attained the renown that Grady had. As an orator and journalist he was without a peer; gifted above his fellows to sway men by his pen or his voice, he won the applause and admiration and love of his countrymen wherever he came in contact with them. His young life and genius had been devoted to deeds of kindness, peace, unity and charity. Selfishness did not enter his heart, that always beat in response to the woes and sufferings of his fellow men.

There was a charm and sparkle about his writings that never failed to captivate the senses, please and entertain. The South lost one of her brightest minds and stanchest champions in the death of Henry Grady. There is no man that can take his place in the rare gifts that so befittingly endowed him in the grand work in which he was engaged. His loss is an irreparable one. Sorrow and gloom pervade the hearts of our people over this sad event. We may not understand how one so superbly gifted, with capacities for the accomplishment of so much good in the world, is taken, and many who cumber the earth and are stumbling blocks, are left, but we know the hand of Providence is behind it all, and He is too wise to err, too good to be unkind.

Grand and noble Grady, we mourn your death; but we know a soul so radiant with love for humanity, is now at rest with the redeemed.

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GEORGIA’S NOBLE SON.

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_From the “Madison Advertiser.”_

IN view of the innumerable, heartfelt and touching memorials to this gifted child of genius, anything that we might add would be as Hyperion to a Satyr. But moved by a feeling of profound grief at our’s and the Nation’s loss, we claim the privilege of giving, as humble members of the craft, expression to our high regard for the character of Georgia’s noble son, and mingle a tear with those of the entire country upon the grave of a great and good man.

In early life he manifested a ripeness and decision of purpose in selecting a calling for which he conceived he had an aptitude. Nor was his judgment erroneous, for, with rare genius, coupled with energy and untiring application, he soon found a place amongst the first journalists of the country. How, with his gifted pen, he convinced the judgment, moved the emotions and sympathies, inspired to lofty resolve and the cultivation of gentle kindness, none knew better than his constant readers.

Perhaps no character in Georgia, we may say in the South, was possessed of such varied, versatile talent. Profuse in rhetorical attainments, gifted in oratory, profound in thought, facile and versatile as a writer, an encyclopædia of statistics, he presented a combination amounting to an anomaly. Coming upon the stage of action at a period when the crown was torn from our Southland and she bent beneath the cross, when the gore of his patriot father, poured out on the fields of Virginia, was still red before his vision and calling as it were for vengeance, he remembered the vow of the greatest Captain of the age, taken at Appomattox, the injunction of our recently departed Chieftain, and set his noble brain, gifted pen and silver tongue to the herculean task of extinguishing the embers of sectional hate; to a recognition of the rights, and adjustment of the wrongs of his beloved South, and the rehabilitating of the great American nation, under the ægis of constitutional equality.

His strong and graceful effusions in the Atlanta _Constitution_ had attracted universal attention, and put men everywhere to thinking. Blended with so much of genial kindness and courtesy, while abating nothing of truth or right, they won commendation, even from unwilling ears. Nor were they confined to one theme. Every work of industry, labor, love or charity found in him a potent advocate, convincing by his logic, and persuading by his gentle, finished rhetoric. As a journalist, among the craft and the world of readers, he was recognized as without a superior, scarcely with a peer.

But burning with a grand, great purpose, he felt with the inspiration of true greatness, that there was work for his tongue, as well as pen. With a penetrating judgment, he felt that the territory of those misguided and uninformed as to the condition and burdens of his beloved South must be invaded, and the ear of those who read but little or nothing of her grievances must be reached. Unexpectedly an opportunity was opened up for him, and he appeared before a cultivated audience in the great metropolis, New York.

To say that wonder, admiration and conviction was the result of his grand effort on that occasion, would be to put it mildly. Never, since the surrender, have any utterances, from any source, commanded, up to that time, so much attention and attracted so much careful and unprejudiced consideration of the situation of the South. From the position of an accomplished journalist, he bloomed out into a grand orator. His name and his grand effort was on every tongue, and every true Georgian thanked God that a David had arisen to battle her cause.

So profound was the impression made upon the Northern mind of the justice, truth and temperance of Mr. Grady’s position, that he was called to Boston, the cradle of Phillips, Garrison and all isms, to discuss the race question. Had his people been admonished of the consequences to him physically, they would have felt as did others in reference to the sweet singer of Israel—better ten thousand perish than he be endangered. Intent upon what he believed his great mission, he responded. What that grand effort was is fresh in the minds of all. Its influence upon this Nation, time alone will disclose.

Grand as was Mr. Grady as a writer, thinker and orator, his greatness culminated in the bigness of his heart. He might truthfully be called (as he styled the late Dawson) “the Golden-hearted man.” His pen, tongue, hand and purse were ever open to all the calls of distress or want, and every charitable movement found no more effective champion than in him. A striking recent incident is narrated of him illustrative of this his noble characteristic. Taking two tattered strangers into a store, he directed the proprietor to furnish each with a suit of clothes. The proprietor, his close personal friend, remonstrated with him for his prodigality, saying, “You are not able to so do.” He replied, “I know it, but are they not human beings?” Grand man. Surely he has won the crown bestowed upon the peacemaker and the cheerful giver. Mysterious are the ways of the Great Ruler. Little did his exulting friends think that he would be so soon summoned from the field of his glory and usefulness to the grave. Man proposes, God disposes, and Grady sleeps the long sleep, but “tho’ dead he yet speaketh.” Alone, aided by none save perhaps the gifted, battle-scarred, faithful Gordon, he gave up his life to enforcing the obligation of Lee, the injunctions of the lamented Davis. With a brave spirit and a heart of love, he would speak words of forgiveness to his wrong-doers, if any, while others less tolerant might say to them, “An eagle in his towering flight was hawked at by a mousing owl.” But with indorsement from such as Cleveland, Hill, Campbell and a host of others, he needs no apology from us. Peacefully he has crossed over the river, and under the perennial shade of the leal land he sits with Davis and Lee and receives their plaudits for his faithful, patriotic efforts.

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THE DEATH OF HENRY GRADY.

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_From the “Hawkinsville Dispatch.”_

HENRY W. GRADY died at his home in Atlanta, at 3:40 o’clock, on the morning of the 23d ult.

This announcement has already been flashed all over the United States, and has carried genuine sorrow throughout Georgia and many places beyond. The fame and the popularity of this brilliant young orator and writer were not confined to this State, but were almost co-extensive with the limits of the Union.

Mr. Grady was in Boston a week or two before his death to make an address, by invitation of the Merchants’ Club of that city. The address was on “The Negro Problem,” and it attracted attention throughout the United States. He was not well when he left Atlanta, and his departure was contrary to the advice of his physician. Immediately after the address, he went to New York, and while there he had to take his bed. He was compelled to decline all the honors tendered him, and hastened home. The citizens of Atlanta had arranged a complimentary reception for his return, but he was taken from the car into a carriage and carried to his home. He never left that home until he was carried out in his coffin.

His funeral took place on Wednesday of last week. It was probably the largest that has ever been seen in Atlanta, for Mr. Grady was nearer and dearer to the popular heart than any other man. The body was carried to the First Methodist church, where it lay in state several hours. Thousands of people passed through the church and took a last look at the face which was so familiar to all Atlanta. The church was profusely and beautifully decorated.

At two in the afternoon the funeral took place. There was no sermon, but the services consisted of prayers, reading selections from the Bible by several ministers, and songs. “Shall we gather at the river?” was sung as the favorite hymn of the deceased. At the close of the services, the remains were placed in a vault in Oakland Cemetery.

Henry Grady was a remarkable man. He was not quite thirty-nine years of age, had never held an official position, and yet his wonderful talent had won for him a national reputation. It is scarcely an exaggeration to say that, as an attractive writer and speaker, he had not an equal in the United States. Certainly he had no superior. He spoke as well as he wrote, and every utterance of his tongue or production of his pen was received with eagerness. There was an indescribable charm about what he said and wrote, that is possessed by no other person within our knowledge.

He began writing for the press when about eighteen, and at once made a reputation throughout the State. That reputation steadily grew until he could command an audience that would crowd any hall in the United States.

It is impossible to estimate the good he has done. At one time he would use his wonderful eloquence to urge the farmers of Georgia to seek prosperity by raising their own supplies. At another time, he would rally the people of Atlanta to help the poor of the city who were suffering from the severity of the winter weather. Then he would plead—and never in vain—for harmony among the distracted factions of his loved city, who were fighting each other in some municipal contest. Still again, he would incite his people to grand achievements in material prosperity; and who can measure the value which his influence has been to Atlanta in this particular alone? He often said to his people “Pin your eternal faith to these old red hills”; and he set the example.

But his work was not confined to the narrow limits of his city and State. He was in demand in other places, and wherever he went he captured the hearts of the people. His speeches and his writings were all philanthropic. All his efforts were for the betterment of his fellows. In the South he urged the moral and material advancement. In the North he plead, as no other man has plead, for justice to the South and for a proper recognition of the rights of our people. The South has had advocates as earnest, but never one as eloquent and effective.

In the prohibition contest in Atlanta two years ago, Mr. Grady threw his whole soul into the canvass for the exclusion of bar-rooms. With his matchless eloquence he depicted the evils of the liquor traffic and the blessedness of exemption from it. If reason had prevailed, his efforts would not have been in vain; but unfortunately the balance of power was held by the ignorant and the vicious—by those on whom eloquence and argument could have no effect; and he lost.

But his life-work is ended, except so far as the influence of good works lives after the worker dies. He has done much good for his State and for the entire country; and there is no man whose death would be more lamented by the people of Georgia.

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A MEASURELESS SORROW.

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_From the “Lagrange Reporter.”_

ATLANTA buried yesterday her greatest citizen, and Georgia mourns the death of her most brilliant son. Not only Atlanta and Georgia bewail an irreparable loss, but the whole South joins in the lamentation, while beyond her boundaries the great North, so lately thrilled by his eloquence, stands with uncovered head at Grady’s tomb.

O measureless sorrow! A young man, with unequaled genius and great, loving heart, has been cut off in his golden promise. The South saw in him her spokesman—her representative to the world. The old and the new were happily blended in him. Revering the past, his face was turned to the rising day. As the stars went out, one by one, he greeted the dawn of a grander era, which he was largely instrumental in hastening. His work for Georgia, the South, the country, will abide. Time will only increase his fame.

A journalist without a peer, an orator unsurpassed, a statesman with grasp of thought to “know what Israel ought to do,” has fallen. Words are impotent to express the public grief.

God reigns. Let us bow to His will and trust Him for help. Our extremity is His opportunity. If leader is necessary to perfect the work, He will give us one qualified in all respects. Like Moses, the South’s young champion had sighted the promised land and pointed out its beauties and glories to his wondering people. Let us boldly pass over the Jordan that lies between.

Rest, noble knight. Dream of battle-fields no more—days of toil, nights of danger. Thy country will take care of thy fame.

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GRADY’S DEATH.

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_From the “Oglethorpe Echo.”_

TOGETHER with the sorrow of the thousands who loved Henry Grady that he should be taken from among them, comes the lament of the Nation that one so gifted and capable of so much good should be cut down just as he was fairly upon the threshold of his useful career. Viewing the surroundings from a human standpoint, it would seem that his end was indeed untimely and a calamity to the whole Nation.

Our own Colquitt and Gordon have won greatly the respect of the Northern people, but they nor any Southern man had as implicitly their confidence. Whatever Grady said or wrote, on no matter what subject, our friends across Mason and Dixon’s line accepted as utterly true and not to be questioned. They respected also his ability more than they did any other man of this section, and were more inclined to take his counsel and be governed by his advice and admonition.

This distinction Grady had honestly won, and by having it he was doing more than any ten men to obliterate sectional prejudices. His last great speech, delivered only a few days before his death, was on this line, and its good effects will be felt the country over, though he has been taken before he could see them. In that speech he disabused the minds of his hearers of many erroneous ideas of the relations of the races in the South. He did it by stating plainly and unhesitatingly facts and giving a true picture of the situation without varnish. He had the gift of doing this in such a way as to command the respect of both sides of whatever question he might be discussing. Just such speakers and just such speeches is what is now needed to bring the two sections together; to obliterate sectional prejudices; make the entire Nation one people in purpose and sentiment. But have we any more Gradys to make them? Perhaps so, but they are in the background and time must elapse before they can reach his place. We need them in the front and on the platform now. Grady was already there, and was doing perhaps, as no other man will ever do, what is urgently needed to make the Nation more harmonious, more peaceful and more prosperous; and while we must bow in humble submission to the will of the Higher Power which saw fit to end his career, we can but lament the evident loss the people of the South especially, and the whole Nation, sustains.

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HE LOVED HIS COUNTRY.

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_From the “Cuthbert Liberal.”_

IN the death of Henry W. Grady, Georgia loses one of her most gifted sons. Though but a young man he had already acquired a name that will live as long as Americans love liberty or humanity loves charity. Though in point of years but just above the horizon of fame’s vast empyrean, his sun shone with the splendor and brilliancy usually reached at the zenith. As journalist, he was without a peer in his own loved Southland. As orator, none since the death of the gifted Prentiss had, at his age, won such renown. He loved Georgia, he loved the South, but his big heart and soul encompassed his whole country. As patriot, his widespread arms took in at one embrace the denizens upon the borders of the frozen lakes and the dwellers among the orange groves that girt the Mexic sea. He gave his life away in a masterful effort to revive peace and good will between sections estranged by passion and prejudice, and races made envious of each other by selfish intermeddling of those who would perpetuate strife to gratify their own greed. As neighbor and friend, those who knew him best loved him most. Wherever suffering or poverty pinched humanity, there his heart beat in sympathy and there his hand dispensed charity’s offerings without stint. Though we have differed with him in many things, the grave now holds all our differences and our tears blot out the bitterness of words or thoughts of the past. May the God in whom he trusted dispense grace, mercy and peace to the widow and orphans, whose grief and sorrow none but they can know.

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A RESPLENDENT RECORD.

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_From the “Madison Madisonian.”_

IT is almost impossible to realize that Henry Grady is dead; that the eager, restless hands are stilled, and the great heart pulseless forevermore. The soul turned sick at the tidings, and a wave of anguish choked all utterance save lamentation alone. His people mourn his passing with one mighty voice, and like Rachel weeping in the wilderness, refuse to be comforted.

It seems a grief too heavy to be borne, and as lasting as the everlasting hills; but when time shall have laid its soothing hand upon our woe, there will succeed a sensation of exultance and exaltation, the natural consequence of a contemplation and appreciation of the briefness and brilliancy of his course, and the proportions and perfection of his handiwork.

To few men has it been given to live as Grady lived; to still less to die as Grady died, in the flush flood-tide of achievement, laying down sword and buckler, the victory won, and bowing farewell while yet the thunder-gust of plaudits shook the arena like a storm. He flamed like a meteor athwart the night and vanished in focal mid-zenith, leaving the illimitable void unstarred by an equal, whose rippling radiance, flashing in splendor from its myriad facets, might gladden our sublimated vision.

And what of good he accomplished, all his claim to renown, and the sole and simple cause of endearing him to mankind, rested upon one trait alone, one Christ-like attribute and actuating motive. He held but one creed and preached but one gospel—the gospel of love. “Little children, love one another,” said, now nearly a score of centuries since, the carpenter of Nazareth, and with this text—this first and greatest and most divine of all the commandments—for a wizard’s wand, our modern Merlin unlocked hearts and insured the hearty clasping of palms from one end to the other of this broad land.

What more resplendent record could man attain? What prouder fame be shouted down the ages?

His epitaph is written in the hearts of his people. His memory is enshrined in the love of a nation.

Let us leave him to repose.

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DEDICATED TO HUMANITY.

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_From the “Sandersville Herald and Georgian.”_

THE usual joyous season of Christmas tide has been saddened by funeral dirges over the loss of Georgia’s gifted son. Since the death of the eloquent and lamented Ben Hill, the loss of no man has aroused deeper sorrow than Henry W. Grady. Greater demonstrations of grief with all the emblems of mourning were perhaps never before exhibited in Georgia. Memorial services were held not only in Atlanta, the city of his home, but throughout the State, voicing the great love of the people and their deep sense of the magnitude of his loss. More touching, beautiful eulogies and panegyrics have perhaps never been pronounced over the bier of any man.

The intensity of the admiration for Henry Grady grew out of the fact that his grand powers were all dedicated to the interests of humanity. His magic pen, that charmed while it instructed, that delighted while it moved, was laid under contribution to the good of his fellows. Eager for the development of his State and her resources, he traversed the lowlands of the South, and depicted her vast possibilities in the cultivation of fruits, melons, etc., that have added so much to her material wealth. Turning to the rock-ribbed mountains and hills of North Georgia he pointed out the vast treasures of iron ore, marble and coal, but waiting the hand of industry. In all sections he portrayed their resources, their fields for manufacturers, the importance and value of increased railroad transportation—in fact, leaving nothing undone that seemed to promise good and prosperity to his people.

The sunny heart which he always carried into his labors was his chief charm. The playful yet ardent spirit which he always had he seemed happily to be able to impart to others. Indeed, he seemed to be a gatherer of sunbeams, his blithe spirit seemed to sing,

Let us gather up the sunbeams
Lying all around our path,
Let us keep the wheat and roses,
Casting out the thorns and chaff.

The sweet, pacific tone of his mind gave him a wonderful influence over the masses. More than once when disturbing questions were agitating the city, and party and personal feeling ran high, has he by his conciliatory spirit and harmless pleasantry quelled the boisterous multitude. This spirit was ever fruitful of methods and concessions by which all could harmonize. It was the cropping out of these broad, liberal views in the fields of national patriotism that arrested the attention of other sections of the Union, and gave rise to calls for Grady to address the people at the meeting of the Historical Society in New York over two years ago. The eloquent utterances of the young orator, as he painted the Confederate soldier returning from the war, ragged, shoeless and penniless, fired the Northern heart with a sympathy for the South it had never known before.

From this time his fame as an orator was established, and he was at once ranked among the greatest living orators of the day.

Thoughtful men of the North, recognizing the race problem as one of the coming momentous issues of the future, were eager to hear the broad views and patriotic suggestions of this great pacificator. An invitation was there extended by the Merchants’ Association of Boston to address them at Faneuil Hall. The address seemed to call forth all his capacious powers, and is styled the crowning masterpiece of his life. As he graphically sketched the happy results of the sun shining upon a land with all differences harmonized, with all aspirations purified by the limpid fount of patriotism, he sketched a panorama of loveliness and beauty and promise that enraptured his hearers. And as the notes of the dying swan thrill with new melody, so the last utterances of the dying statesman will have now a new charm for those who loved him.

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THE SOUTH LAMENTS.

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_From the “Middle Georgia Progress.”_