Chapter VIII (1)

From Boston Mr. Grady came home to die. It was known that he was critically ill, but his own life had been so hopeful and so bright, that when the announcement of his death was made the people of Atlanta were paralyzed, and the whole country shocked. It was a catastrophe so sudden and so far-reaching that even sorrow stood dumb for a while. The effects of such a calamity were greater than sorrow could conceive or affection contemplate. Men who had only a passing acquaintance with him wept when they heard of his death. Laboring men spoke of him with trembling lips and tearful eyes, and working-women went to their tasks in the morning crying bitterly. Never again will there come to Atlanta a calamity that shall so profoundly touch the hearts of the people—that shall so encompass the town with the spirit of mourning.

I feel that I have been unable, in this hastily written sketch, to do justice to the memory of this remarkable man. I have found it impossible to describe his marvelous gifts, his wonderful versatility, or the genius that set him apart from other men. The new generations that arise will bring with them men who will be fitted to meet the emergencies that may arise, men fitted to rule and capable of touching the popular heart; but no generation will ever produce a genius so versatile, a nature so rare and so sweet, a character so perfect and beautiful, a heart so unselfish, and a mind of such power and vigor, as those that combined to form the unique personality of Henry W. Grady. Never again, it is to be feared, will the South have such a wise and devoted leader, or sectional unity so brilliant a champion, or the country so ardent a lover, or humanity so unselfish a friend, or the cause of the people so eloquent an advocate.

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MEMORIAL OF HENRY W. GRADY.

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PREPARED BY MARION J. VERDERY, AT THE REQUEST OF THE NEW YORK SOUTHERN
SOCIETY.

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HENRY WOODFIN GRADY was born in Athens, Georgia, May 17, 1851, and died in Atlanta, Georgia, December 23, 1889.

His father, William S. Grady, was a native of North Carolina, and lived in that State until about the year 1846, when he moved to Athens, Georgia. He was a man of vigorous energy, sterling integrity, and great independence of character. He was not literary by profession, but devoted himself to mercantile pursuits, and accumulated what was in those days considered a handsome fortune. Soon after moving to Georgia to live, he married Miss Gartrell, a woman of rare strength of character and deep religious nature. Their married life was sanctified by love of God, and made happy by a consistent devotion to each other.

They had three children, Henry Woodfin, William S., Jr., and Martha. Henry Grady’s father was an early volunteer in the Confederate Army. He organized and equipped a company, of which he was unanimously elected captain, and went at once to Virginia, where he continued in active service until he lost his life in one of the battles before Petersburg. During his career as a soldier he bore himself with such conspicuous valor, that he was accorded the rare distinction of promotion on the field for gallantry.

He fought in defense of his convictions, and fell “a martyr for conscience’ sake.”

His widow, bereft of her helpmate, faced alone the grave responsibility of rearing her three young children.

She led them in the ways of righteousness and truth, and always sweetened their lives with the tenderness of indulgence, and the beauty of devotion. Two of them still live to call her blessed.

If memorials were meant only for the day and generation in which they are written, who would venture upon the task of preparing one to Henry W. Grady? His death occasioned such wide grief, and induced such unprecedented demonstrations of sorrow, that nothing can be commensurate with those impressive evidences of the unrivaled place he held in the homage of his countrymen.

No written memorial can indicate the strong hold he had upon the Southern people, nor portray that peerless personality which gave him his marvelous power among men. He had a matchless grace of soul that made him an unfailing winner of hearts. His translucent mind pulsated with the light of truth and beautified all thought. He grew flowers in the garden of his heart and sweetened the world with the perfume of his spirit. His endowments were so superior, and his purposes so unselfish, that he seemed to combine all the best elements of genius, and live under the influence of Divine inspiration.

As both a writer and a speaker, he was phenomenally gifted. There was no limit, either to the power or witchery of his pen. In his masterful hand, it was as he chose, either the mighty instrument which Richelieu described, or the light wand of a poet striking off the melody of song, though not to the music of rhyme. In writing a political editorial, or an article on the industrial development of the South, or anything else to which he was moved by an inspiring sense of patriotism or conviction of duty, he was logical, aggressive, and unanswerable. When building an air-castle over the framework of his fancy, or when pouring out his soul in some romantic dream, or when sounding the depth of human feeling by an appeal for Charity’s sake, his command of language was as boundless as the realm of thought, his ideas as beautiful as pictures in the sky, and his pathos as deep as the well of tears. As an orator, he had no equal in the South. He literally mastered his audience regardless of their character, chaining them to the train of his thought and carrying them captive to conviction. He moved upon their souls like the Divine Spirit upon the waters, either lashing them into storms of enthusiasm, or stilling them into the restful quiet of sympathy. He was like no other man—he was a veritable magician. He could invest the most trifling thing with proportions of importance not at all its own. He could transform a homely thought into an expression of beauty beneath his wondrous touch. From earliest childhood he possessed that indefinable quality which compels hero-worship.

In the untimely ending of his brilliant and useful career—an ending too sudden to be called less than tragic—there came an affliction as broad as the land he loved, and a grief well-nigh universal. Atlanta lamented her foremost citizen; Georgia mourned her peerless son; the New South agonized over the fall of her intrepid leader; and the heart of the nation was athrob with sorrow when the announcement went forth—“Henry W. Grady is dead.”

The power of his personality, the vital force of his energy, and the scope of his genius, had always precluded the thought that death could touch him, and hence, when he fell a victim to the dread destroyer, there was a terrible shock felt, and sorrow rolled like a tempest over the souls of the Southern people.

The swift race he ran, and the lofty heights he attained, harmonized well with God’s munificent endowment of him. In every field that he labored, his achievements were so wonderful, that a faithful account of his career sounds more like the extravagance of eulogy, than like a record of truth. Of his very early boyhood no account is essential to the purposes of this sketch. It is unnecessary to give any details of him prior to the time when he was a student in the University of Georgia, at Athens. From that institution he was graduated in 1868.

During his college days, he was a boy of bounding spirit, who, by an inexplicable power over his associates, made for himself an unchallenged leadership in all things with which he concerned himself. He was not a close student. He never studied his text-books more than was necessary to guarantee his rising from class to class, and to finally secure his diploma. He had no fondness for any department of learning except belles-lettres. In that branch of study he stood well, simply because it was to his liking. The sciences, especially mathematics, were really distasteful to him. He was an omnivorous reader. Every character of Dickens was as familiar to him as a personal friend. That great novelist was his favorite author. He read widely of history, and had a great memory for dates and events. He reveled in poetry as a pastime, but never found anything that delighted him more than “Lucile.” He learned that love-song literally by heart.

While at college his best intellectual efforts were made in his literary and debating society. He aspired to be anniversarian of his society, and his election seemed a foregone conclusion. He was, however, over-confident of success in the last days of the canvass, and when the election came off was beaten by one vote. This was his first disappointment, and went hard with him. He could not bring himself to understand how anything toward the accomplishment of which he had bent his energy could fail. His defeat proved a blessing in disguise, for the following year a place of higher honor, namely that of “commencement orator” was instituted at the University, and to that he was elected by acclamation. This was the year of his graduation, and the speech he made was the sensation of commencement. His subject was “Castles in Air,” and in the treatment of his poetic theme he reveled in that wonderful power of word painting for which he afterwards became so famous. Even in those early days, he wrote and spoke with a fluency of expression, and brilliancy of fancy, that were incomparable.

In all the relations of college life he was universally popular. He had a real genius for putting himself _en rapport_ with all sorts and conditions of men. His sympathy was quick-flowing and kind. Any sight or story of suffering would touch his heart and make the tears come. His generosity, like a great river, ran in ceaseless flow and broadening course toward the wide ocean of humanity. He lived in the realization of its being “more blessed to give than to receive.” He never stopped to consider the worthiness of an object, but insisted that a man was entitled to some form of selfishness, and said his was the self-indulgence which he experienced in giving.

There was an old woman in Athens, who was a typical professional beggar. She wore out everybody’s charity except Grady’s. He never tired helping her. One day he said, just after giving her some money, “I do hope old Jane will not die as long as I live in Athens. If she does, my most unfailing privilege of charity will be cut off.” A princely liberality marked everything he did. His name never reduced the average of a subscription list, but eight times out of ten it was down for the largest amount.

By his marked individuality of character, and evidences of genius, even as a boy he impressed himself upon all those with whom he came in contact.

Immediately after his graduation at Athens, he went to the University of Virginia, not so much with a determination to broaden his scholastic attainments, as with the idea that in that famous institution he would be inspired to a higher cultivation of his inborn eloquence. From the day he entered the University of Virginia, he had only one ambition, and that was to be “society orator.” He made such a profound impression in the Washington Society that his right to the honor he craved was scarcely disputed. In the public debates, he swept all competitors before him. About two weeks before the Society’s election of its orator, he had routed every other aspirant from the field, and it seemed he would be unanimously chosen. However, when election day came, that same over-confidence which cost him defeat at Athens lost him victory at Charlottesville. This disappointment nearly broke his heart. He came back home crestfallen and dispirited, and but for the wonderful buoyancy of his nature, he might have succumbed permanently to the severe blow which had been struck at his youthful aspirations and hopes.

It was not long after his return to Georgia before he determined to make journalism his life-work. At once he began writing newspaper letters on all sorts of subjects, trusting to his genius to give interest to purely fanciful topics, which had not the slightest flavor of news. Having thus felt his way out into the field of his adoption, he soon went regularly into newspaper business.

Just about this time, and before he had attained his majority, he married Miss Julia King, of Athens. She was the first sweetheart of his boyhood, and kept that hallowed place always. Her beauty and grace of person, united to her charms of character, made her the queen of his life and the idol of his love. She, with two children (a boy and girl), survive him.

In his domestic life he was tender and indulgent to his family, and generously hospitable to his friends. The very best side of him was always turned toward his hearthstone, and there he dispensed the richest treasures of his soul. His home was his castle, and in it his friends were always made happy by the benediction of his welcome.

Soon after marriage he moved to Rome, Georgia, and established himself in the joint ownership, and editorial management of the Rome _Commercial_, which paper, instead of prospering, was soon enveloped in bankruptcy, costing Mr. Grady many thousands of dollars. Shortly after this he moved to Atlanta, and formed a partnership with Col. Robert Alliston in founding the Atlanta _Herald_. The conduct of that paper was a revelation in Georgia journalism. Grady and Alliston combined probably more genius than any two men who have ever owned a paper together in that State. They made the columns of the _Herald_ luminous. They also put into it more push and enterprise than had ever been known in that section. They sacrificed everything to daily triumph, regardless of cost or consequences. They went so far as to charter an engine in order that they might put their morning edition in Macon, Georgia, by breakfast time. This was a feat never before dreamed of in Georgia. They accomplished the unprecedented undertaking, but in doing that, and other things of unwarranted extravagance, it was not long before the Atlanta _Herald_ went “lock, stock and barrel,” into the wide-open arms of the Sheriff. In this venture Mr. Grady not only sunk all of his personal fortune which remained after the Rome wreck, but involved himself considerably in debt. Thus at twenty-three years of age, he was a victim to disappointment in the only two pronounced ambitions he had ever had, and was depressed by the utter failure of the only two business enterprises in which he had ever engaged.

He made another effort, and started a weekly paper called the _Atlanta Capital_. This, however, soon went the sorrowing way of his other hopes.

While those failures and disappointments seemed cruel set-backs in that day, looked at now they may be counted to have been no more than healthful discipline to him. They served to stir his spirit the deeper, and fill him with nobler resolve. Bravely he trampled misfortune under his feet, and climbed to the high place of honor and usefulness for which he was destined.

In the day of his extreme poverty, instead of despairing he took on new strength and courage that equipped him well for future triumphs. When it is remembered that his vast accomplishments and national reputation were compassed within the next fourteen years, the record is simply amazing.

Fourteen years ago, Henry W. Grady stood in Atlanta, Georgia, bankrupt and almost broken-hearted. Everything behind him was blotted by failure, and nothing ahead of him was lighted with promise. In that trying day he borrowed fifty dollars, and giving twenty of it to his faithful wife, took the balance and determined to invest it in traveling as far as it would carry him from the scene of his discouragements. He had one offer then open to him, namely, the editorial management of the Wilmington (North Carolina) _Star_, at a salary of twelve hundred dollars a year. It was the only thing that seemed a guarantee against actual want, and he had about determined to accept it, when yielding to the influence of pure presentiment, instead of buying a ticket to Wilmington with his thirty dollars, he bought one to New York City.

He landed here with three dollars and seventy-five cents, and registered at the Astor House in order to be in easy reach of Newspaper Row.

He used to tell the story of his experience on that occasion in this way: “After forcing down my unrelished breakfast on the morning of my arrival in New York, I went out on the sidewalk in front of the Astor House, and gave a bootblack twenty-five cents, one-fifth of which was to pay for shining my shoes, and the balance was a fee for the privilege of talking to him. I felt that I would die if I did not talk to somebody. Having stimulated myself at that doubtful fountain of sympathy, I went across to the _Herald_ office, and the managing editor was good enough to admit me to his sanctum. It happened that just at that time several of the Southern States were holding constitutional conventions. The _Herald_ manager asked me if I knew anything about politics, I replied that I knew very little about anything else. ‘Well,’ said he, ‘sit at this desk and write me an article on State conventions in the South.’ With these words he tossed me a pad and left me alone in the room. When my task-master returned, I had finished the article and was leaning back in the chair with my feet up on the desk. ‘Why, Mr. Grady, what is the matter?’ asked the managing editor. ‘Nothing,’ I replied, ‘except that I am through.’ ‘Very well, leave your copy on the desk, and if it amounts to anything I will let you hear from me. Where are you stopping?’ ‘I am at the Astor House.’ Early the next morning before getting out of bed, I rang for a hall-boy and ordered the _Herald_. I actually had not strength to get up and dress myself, until I could see whether or not my article had been used. I opened the _Herald_ with a trembling hand, and when I saw that ‘State Conventions in the South’ was on the editorial page, I fell back on the bed, buried my face in the pillow, and cried like a child. When I went back to the _Herald_ office that day the managing editor received me cordially and said, ‘You can go back to Georgia, Mr. Grady, and consider yourself in the employ of the _Herald_.’”

Almost immediately after his return to Atlanta, he was tendered, and gladly accepted, a position on the editorial staff of the Atlanta _Constitution_. He worked vigorously for the New York _Herald_ for five years as its Southern correspondent, and in that time did some of the most brilliant work that has ever been done for that excellent journal.

Notable among his achievements were the graphic reports he made of the South Carolina riots in 1876. But the special work which gave him greatest fame was his exposure of the election frauds in Florida that same year. He secured the memorable confession of Dennis and his associates, and _his_ report of it to the _Herald_ was exclusive. For that piece of work alone, Mr. Bennett paid him a thousand dollars. His attachment to the editorial staff of the Atlanta _Constitution_ gave him an opportunity to impress himself upon the people of Georgia, which he did with great rapidity and power.

In 1879, he came to New York, partly for recreation and partly for the purpose of writing a series of topical letters from Gotham. While here he was introduced by Governor John B. Gordon to Cyrus W. Field. Mr. Field was instantly impressed by him, and liked him so much that he loaned him twenty thousand dollars with which to buy one-fourth interest in the Atlanta _Constitution_. He made the purchase promptly, and that for which he paid twenty thousand dollars in 1880, was at the time of his death in 1889 worth at least one hundred and fifty thousand dollars. The enormous increase in the value of the _Constitution_ during his identification with it shows nothing more plainly than the value of his marvelous work in its service.

Securing an interest in the Atlanta _Constitution_ may be said to have fixed his noble destiny. It emancipated his genius from the bondage of poverty, quickened his sensitive spirit with a new consciousness of power for good, and inspired him to untiring service in the widest fields of usefulness. He saw the hand of God in the favor that had blessed him, and in acknowledgment of the Divine providence dedicated his life to the cause of truth, and the uplifting of humanity. Atlanta was his home altar, and there he poured out the best libations of his heart. That thriving city to-day has no municipal advantage, no public improvement, no educational institution, no industrial enterprise which does not either owe its beginning to his readiness of suggestion, or its mature development to his sustaining influence. Its streets are paved with his energy and devotion, its houses are built in the comeliness and fashion that he inspired, and its vast business interests are established in the prosperity and strength that he foretold.

Georgia was the pride of his life, and for the increase of her peace and prosperity, the deepening brotherhood of her people, the development of her vast mineral resources, and the enrichment of her varied harvests, he wrote, and talked, and prayed.

The whole South was to him sacred ground, made so both by the heroic death of his father and the precious birth of his children. By the former, he felt all the memories and traditions of the Old South to have been sanctified, and by the latter he felt all the hopes and aspirations of the New South to have been beautified. And thus with a personality altogether unique, and a genius thoroughly rare, he stood like a magical link between the past and the future. Turning toward the days that were gone, he sealed them with a holy kiss; and then looking toward the time that had not yet come, he conjured it with a voice of prophecy.

In politics he was an undeniable leader, and yet never held office. High places were pressed for his acceptance times without number, but he always resolutely put them away from him, insisting that office had no charm for him. He could have gone to Congress, as representative from the State at large, if he would only have consented to serve. His name was repeatedly suggested for the governorship of Georgia, but he invariably suppressed the idea promptly, urging his friends to leave him at peace in his private station.

In spite of his indifference to all political preferment, it is universally believed in Georgia, that had he lived, he would have soon been sent to the United States Senate. Although he had no love of office for himself, he was the incomparable Warwick of his day. He was almost an absolute dictator in Georgia politics. No man cared to stand for election to any place, high or low, unless he felt Grady was with him. He certainly was the most powerful factor in the election of two Governors, and practically gave more than one United States Senator his seat. His power extended all over the State.

Such a man could not be held within the narrow limits of local reputation. It mattered not how far he traveled from home, he made himself quickly known by the power of his impressive individuality, or by some splendid exhibition of his genius.

By two speeches, one made at a banquet of the New England Society in New York City, and the other at a State fair at Dallas, Texas, he achieved for himself a reputation which spanned the continent. The most magnificent effort of eloquence which he ever made was the soul-stirring speech delivered in Boston on “The Race Problem,” just ten days before he died. These three speeches were enough to confirm and perpetuate his fame as a surpassing orator.

It is impossible to give any adequate idea of Henry Grady’s largeness of heart, nobility of soul, and brilliancy of mind. Those three elements combined in royal abundance to make his princely nature.

When Georgia’s great triumvirate died, their spirits seemed to linger on earth in the being of Henry W. Grady. While he lived he perpetuated the political sagacity of Alexander H. Stephens, the consummate genius of Robert Toombs, and the impassioned eloquence of Benjamin H. Hill.

True greatness is immortal. Real patriotic purposes are never swallowed up in death. Good works well begun live long after their praiseworthy originators have ascended in glory. If there is any truth in these reflections, they are precious and priceless to all who mourn the untimely taking off of Henry Woodfin Grady.

His sudden death struck grief to all true-hearted American citizens. In him was combined such breadth of usefulness and brilliancy of genius, that he illumined the critical period of American history in which he lived, and set the firmament of our national glory with many a new and shining star of promise. This century, though old in its last quarter, has given birth to but one Henry Woodfin Grady, and it will close its eyes long before his second self is seen.

A hundred years hence, when sweet charity is stemming the tides of suffering in the world, if truth is not dumb, she will say: This blessed work is an echo from Henry Grady’s life on earth. A hundred years hence, when friendship is building high her altars of self-sacrifice in the name of love and loyalty, if truth is not dumb, she will say: This beautiful service is going on as a perpetual memorial to Henry Grady’s life on earth. A hundred years hence, when all the South shall have been enriched by the development of her vast natural resources, if truth is not dumb, she will say: This is the legitimate fruit of Henry Grady’s labor of love while he lived on earth. A hundred years hence, when patriotism shall have beaten down all sectional and partisan prejudice, and the burning problems that press upon our national heart to-day shall have been “solved in patience and fairness,” if truth is not dumb, she will say: This is the glorious verification of Henry Grady’s prophetic utterances while on earth. And when in God’s own appointed time this nation shall lead all other nations of the earth in the triumphal march of prosperous peoples under perfect governments, if truth is not dumb, she will say: This is the free, full and complete answer to Henry Grady’s impassioned prayer while on earth.

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SPEECHES.

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THE NEW SOUTH.

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ON THE 21ST OF DECEMBER, 1886, MR. GRADY, IN RESPONSE TO AN URGENT
INVITATION, DELIVERED THE FOLLOWING ADDRESS AT THE BANQUET OF THE
NEW ENGLAND CLUB, NEW YORK:

“There was a South of slavery and secession—that South is dead. There is a South of union and freedom—that South, thank God, is living, breathing, growing every hour.” These words, delivered from the immortal lips of Benjamin H. Hill, at Tammany Hall, in 1866, true then and truer now, I shall make my text to-night.

Mr. President and Gentlemen: Let me express to you my appreciation of the kindness by which I am permitted to address you. I make this abrupt acknowledgment advisedly, for I feel that if, when I raise my provincial voice in this ancient and august presence, I could find courage for no more than the opening sentence, it would be well if in that sentence I had met in a rough sense my obligation as a guest, and had perished, so to speak, with courtesy on my lips and grace in my heart. Permitted, through your kindness, to catch my second wind, let me say that I appreciate the significance of being the first Southerner to speak at this board, which bears the substance, if it surpasses the semblance, of original New England hospitality—and honors the sentiment that in turn honors you, but in which my personality is lost, and the compliment to my people made plain.

I bespeak the utmost stretch of your courtesy to-night. I am not troubled about those from whom I come. You remember the man whose wife sent him to a neighbor with a pitcher of milk, and who, tripping on the top step, fell with such casual interruptions as the landings afforded into the basement, and, while picking himself up, had the pleasure of hearing his wife call out: “John, did you break the pitcher?”

“No, I didn’t,” said John, “but I’ll be dinged if I don’t.”

So, while those who call me from behind may inspire me with energy, if not with courage, I ask an indulgent hearing from you. I beg that you will bring your full faith in American fairness and frankness to judgment upon what I shall say. There was an old preacher once who told some boys of the Bible lesson he was going to read in the morning. The boys, finding the place, glued together the connecting pages. The next morning he read on the bottom of one page, “When Noah was one hundred and twenty years old he took unto himself a wife, who was”—then turning the page—“140 cubits long—40 cubits wide, built of gopher wood—and covered with pitch inside and out.” He was naturally puzzled at this. He read it again, verified it, and then said: “My friends, this is the first time I ever met this in the Bible, but I accept this as an evidence of the assertion that we are fearfully and wonderfully made.” If I could get you to hold such faith to-night I could proceed cheerfully to the task I otherwise approach with a sense of consecration.

Pardon me one word, Mr. President, spoken for the sole purpose of getting into the volumes that go out annually freighted with the rich eloquence of your speakers—the fact that the Cavalier as well as the Puritan was on the continent in its early days, and that he was “up and able to be about.” I have read your books carefully and I find no mention of that fact, which seems to me an important one for preserving a sort of historical equilibrium if for nothing else.

Let me remind you that the Virginia Cavalier first challenged France on the continent—that Cavalier, John Smith, gave New England its very name, and was so pleased with the job that he has been handing his own name around ever since—and that while Myles Standish was cutting off men’s ears for courting a girl without her parents’ consent, and forbade men to kiss their wives on Sunday, the Cavalier was courting everything in sight, and that the Almighty had vouchsafed great increase to the Cavalier colonies, the huts in the wilderness being as full as the nests in the woods.

But having incorporated the Cavalier as a fact in your charming little books, I shall let him work out his own salvation, as he has always done, with engaging gallantry, and we will hold no controversy as to his merits. Why should we? Neither Puritan nor Cavalier long survived as such. The virtues and good traditions of both happily still live for the inspiration of their sons and the saving of the old fashion. But both Puritan and Cavalier were lost in the storm of the first Revolution, and the American citizen, supplanting both and stronger than either, took possession of the republic bought by their common blood and fashioned to wisdom, and charged himself with teaching men government and establishing the voice of the people as the voice of God.

My friends, Dr. Talmage has told you that the typical American has yet to come. Let me tell you that he has already come. Great types, like valuable plants, are slow to flower and fruit. But from the union of these colonists, Puritans and Cavaliers, from the straightening of their purposes and the crossing of their blood, slow perfecting through a century, came he who stands as the first typical American, the first who comprehended within himself all the strength and gentleness, all the majesty and grace of this republic—Abraham Lincoln. He was the sum of Puritan and Cavalier, for in his ardent nature were fused the virtues of both, and in the depths of his great soul the faults of both were lost. He was greater than Puritan, greater than Cavalier, in that he was American, and that in his honest form were first gathered the vast and thrilling forces of his ideal government—charging it with such tremendous meaning and elevating it above human suffering that martyrdom, though infamously aimed, came as a fitting crown to a life consecrated from the cradle to human liberty. Let us, each cherishing the traditions and honoring his fathers, build with reverent hands to the type of this simple but sublime life, in which all types are honored, and in our common glory as Americans there will be plenty and to spare for your forefathers and for mine.

Dr. Talmage has drawn for you, with a master’s hand, the picture of your returning armies. He has told you how, in the pomp and circumstance of war, they came back to you, marching with proud and victorious tread, reading their glory in a nation’s eyes! Will you bear with me while I tell you of another army that sought its home at the close of the late war—an army that marched home in defeat and not in victory—in pathos and not in splendor, but in glory that equaled yours, and to hearts as loving as ever welcomed heroes home! Let me picture to you the footsore Confederate soldier, as buttoning up in his faded gray jacket the parole which was to bear testimony to his children of his fidelity and faith, he turned his face southward from Appomattox in April, 1865. Think of him as ragged, half-starved, heavy-hearted, enfeebled by want and wounds, having fought to exhaustion, he surrenders his gun, wrings the hands of his comrades in silence, and lifting his tear-stained and pallid face for the last time to the graves that dot old Virginia hills, pulls his gray cap over his brow and begins the slow and painful journey. What does he find—let me ask you who went to your homes eager to find, in the welcome you had justly earned, full payment for four years’ sacrifice—what does he find when, having followed the battle-stained cross against overwhelming odds, dreading death not half so much as surrender, he reaches the home he left so prosperous and beautiful? He finds his house in ruins, his farm devastated, his slaves free, his stock killed, his barns empty, his trade destroyed, his money worthless, his social system, feudal in its magnificence, swept away; his people without law or legal status; his comrades slain, and the burdens of others heavy on his shoulders. Crushed by defeat, his very traditions are gone. Without money, credit, employment, material, or training; and beside all this, confronted with the gravest problem that ever met human intelligence—the establishing of a status for the vast body of his liberated slaves.

What does he do—this hero in gray with a heart of gold? Does he sit down in sullenness and despair? Not for a day. Surely God, who had stripped him of his prosperity, inspired him in his adversity. As ruin was never before so overwhelming, never was restoration swifter. The soldier stepped from the trenches into the furrow; horses that had charged Federal guns marched before the plow, and fields that ran red with human blood in April were green with the harvest in June; women reared in luxury cut up their dresses and made breeches for their husbands, and, with a patience and heroism that fit women always as a garment, gave their hands to work. There was little bitterness in all this. Cheerfulness and frankness prevailed. “Bill Arp” struck the key-note when he said: “Well, I killed as many of them as they did of me, and now I’m going to work.” Of the soldier returning home after defeat and roasting some corn on the roadside, who made the remark to his comrades: “You may leave the South if you want to, but I am going to Sandersville, kiss my wife and raise a crop, and if the Yankees fool with me any more, I’ll whip ’em again.” I want to say to General Sherman, who is considered an able man in our parts, though some people think he is a kind of careless man about fire, that from the ashes he left us in 1864 we have raised a brave and beautiful city; that somehow or other we have caught the sunshine in the bricks and mortar of our homes, and have builded therein not one ignoble prejudice or memory.

But what is the sum of our work? We have found out that in the summing up the free negro counts more than he did as a slave. We have planted the schoolhouse on the hilltop and made it free to white and black. We have sowed towns and cities in the place of theories, and put business above politics. We have challenged your spinners in Massachusetts and your iron-makers in Pennsylvania. We have learned that the $400,000,000 annually received from our cotton crop will make us rich when the supplies that make it are home-raised. We have reduced the commercial rate of interest from 24 to 6 per cent., and are floating 4 per cent. bonds. We have learned that one northern immigrant is worth fifty foreigners; and have smoothed the path to southward, wiped out the place where Mason and Dixon’s line used to be, and hung out latchstring to you and yours. We have reached the point that marks perfect harmony in every household, when the husband confesses that the pies which his wife cooks are as good as those his mother used to bake; and we admit that the sun shines as brightly and the moon as softly as it did before the war. We have established thrift in city and country. We have fallen in love with work. We have restored comfort to homes from which culture and elegance never departed. We have let economy take root and spread among us as rank as the crabgrass which sprung from Sherman’s cavalry camps, until we are ready to lay odds on the Georgia Yankee as he manufactures relics of the battle-field in a one-story shanty and squeezes pure olive oil out of his cotton seed, against any down-easter that ever swapped wooden nutmegs for flannel sausage in the valleys of Vermont. Above all, we know that we have achieved in these “piping times of peace” a fuller independence for the South than that which our fathers sought to win in the forum by their eloquence or compel in the field by their swords.

It is a rare privilege, sir, to have had part, however humble, in this work. Never was nobler duty confided to human hands than the uplifting and upbuilding of the prostrate and bleeding South—misguided, perhaps, but beautiful in her suffering, and honest, brave and generous always. In the record of her social, industrial and political illustration we await with confidence the verdict of the world.

But what of the negro? Have we solved the problem he presents or progressed in honor and equity toward solution? Let the record speak to the point. No section shows a more prosperous laboring population than the negroes of the South, none in fuller sympathy with the employing and land-owning class. He shares our school fund, has the fullest protection of our laws and the friendship of our people. Self-interest, as well as honor, demand that he should have this. Our future, our very existence depend upon our working out this problem in full and exact justice. We understand that when Lincoln signed the emancipation proclamation, your victory was assured, for he then committed you to the cause of human liberty, against which the arms of man cannot prevail—while those of our statesmen who trusted to make slavery the corner-stone of the Confederacy doomed us to defeat as far as they could, committing us to a cause that reason could not defend or the sword maintain in sight of advancing civilization.

Had Mr. Toombs said, which he did not say, “that he would call the roll of his slaves at the foot of Bunker Hill,” he would have been foolish, for he might have known that whenever slavery became entangled in war it must perish, and that the chattel in human flesh ended forever in New England when your fathers—not to be blamed for parting with what didn’t pay—sold their slaves to our fathers—not to be praised for knowing a paying thing when they saw it. The relations of the southern people with the negro are close and cordial. We remember with what fidelity for four years he guarded our defenseless women and children, whose husbands and fathers were fighting against his freedom. To his eternal credit be it said that whenever he struck a blow for his own liberty he fought in open battle, and when at last he raised his black and humble hands that the shackles might be struck off, those hands were innocent of wrong against his helpless charges, and worthy to be taken in loving grasp by every man who honors loyalty and devotion. Ruffians have maltreated him, rascals have misled him, philanthropists established a bank for him, but the South, with the North, protests against injustice to this simple and sincere people. To liberty and enfranchisement is as far as law can carry the negro. The rest must be left to conscience and common sense. It must be left to those among whom his lot is cast, with whom he is indissolubly connected, and whose prosperity depends upon their possessing his intelligent sympathy and confidence. Faith has been kept with him, in spite of calumnious assertions to the contrary by those who assume to speak for us or by frank opponents. Faith will be kept with him in the future, if the South holds her reason and integrity.

But have we kept faith with you? In the fullest sense, yes. When Lee surrendered—I don’t say when Johnson surrendered, because I understand he still alludes to the time when he met General Sherman last as the time when he determined to abandon any further prosecution of the struggle—when Lee surrendered, I say, and Johnson quit, the South became, and has since been, loyal to this Union. We fought hard enough to know that we were whipped, and in perfect frankness accept as final the arbitrament of the sword to which we had appealed. The South found her jewel in the toad’s head of defeat. The shackles that had held her in narrow limitations fell forever when the shackles of the negro slave were broken. Under the old régime the negroes were slaves to the South; the South was a slave to the system. The old plantation, with its simple police regulations and feudal habit, was the only type possible under slavery. Thus was gathered in the hands of a splendid and chivalric oligarchy the substance that should have been diffused among the people, as the rich blood, under certain artificial conditions, is gathered at the heart, filling that with affluent rapture but leaving the body chill and colorless.

The old South rested everything on slavery and agriculture, unconscious that these could neither give nor maintain healthy growth. The new South presents a perfect democracy, the oligarchs leading in the popular movement—a social system compact and closely knitted, less splendid on the surface, but stronger at the core—a hundred farms for every plantation, fifty homes for every palace—and a diversified industry that meets the complex need of this complex age.

The new South is enamored of her new work. Her soul is stirred with the breath of a new life. The light of a grander day is falling fair on her face. She is thrilling with the consciousness of growing power and prosperity. As she stands upright, full-statured and equal among the people of the earth, breathing the keen air and looking out upon the expanded horizon, she understands that her emancipation came because through the inscrutable wisdom of God her honest purpose was crossed, and her brave armies were beaten.

This is said in no spirit of time-serving or apology. The South has nothing for which to apologize. She believes that the late struggle between the States was war and not rebellion; revolution and not conspiracy, and that her convictions were as honest as yours. I should be unjust to the dauntless spirit of the South and to my own convictions if I did not make this plain in this presence. The South has nothing to take back. In my native town of Athens is a monument that crowns its central hill—a plain, white shaft. Deep cut into its shining side is a name dear to me above the names of men—that of a brave and simple man who died in brave and simple faith. Not for all the glories of New England, from Plymouth Rock all the way, would I exchange the heritage he left me in his soldier’s death. To the foot of that I shall send my children’s children to reverence him who ennobled their name with his heroic blood. But, sir, speaking from the shadow of that memory which I honor as I do nothing else on earth, I say that the cause in which he suffered and for which he gave his life was adjudged by higher and fuller wisdom than his or mine, and I am glad that the omniscient God held the balance of battle in His Almighty hand and that human slavery was swept forever from American soil, the American Union was saved from the wreck of war.

This message, Mr. President, comes to you from consecrated ground. Every foot of soil about the city in which I live is as sacred as a battle-ground of the republic. Every hill that invests it is hallowed to you by the blood of your brothers who died for your victory, and doubly hallowed to us by the blow of those who died hopeless, but undaunted, in defeat—sacred soil to all of us—rich with memories that make us purer and stronger and better—silent but staunch witnesses in its red desolation of the matchless valor of American hearts and the deathless glory of American arms—speaking an eloquent witness in its white peace and prosperity to the indissoluble union of American States and the imperishable brotherhood of the American people.

Now, what answer has New England to this message? Will she permit the prejudice of war to remain in the hearts of the conquerors, when it has died in the hearts of the conquered? Will she transmit this prejudice to the next generation, that in their hearts which never felt the generous ardor of conflict it may perpetuate itself? Will she withhold, save in strained courtesy, the hand which straight from his soldier’s heart Grant offered to Lee at Appomattox? Will she make the vision of a restored and happy people, which gathered above the couch of your dying captain, filling his heart with grace; touching his lips with praise, and glorifying his path to the grave—will she make this vision on which the last sigh of his expiring soul breathed a benediction, a cheat and delusion? If she does, the South, never abject in asking for comradeship, must accept with dignity its refusal; but if she does not refuse to accept in frankness and sincerity this message of good will and friendship, then will the prophecy of Webster, delivered in this very society forty years ago amid tremendous applause, become true, be verified in its fullest sense, when he said: “Standing hand to hand and clasping hands, we should remain united as we have been for sixty years, citizens of the same country, members of the same government, united, all united now and united forever.” There have been difficulties, contentions, and controversies, but I tell you that in my judgment,

“Those opened eyes,
Which like the meteors of a troubled heaven,
All of one nature, of one substance bred,
Did lately meet in th’ intestine shock,
Shall now, in mutual well beseeming ranks,
March all one way.”

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THE SOUTH AND HER PROBLEMS.

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AT THE DALLAS, TEXAS, STATE FAIR, ON THE 26TH OF OCTOBER, 1887, MR. GRADY WAS THE ORATOR OF THE DAY. HE SAID:

“Who saves his country, saves all things, and all things saved
will bless him. Who lets his country die, lets all things die,
and all things dying curse him.”

These words are graven on the statue of Benjamin H. Hill in the city of Atlanta, and in their spirit I shall speak to you to-day.

Mr. President and Fellow-Citizens: I salute the first city of the grandest State of the greatest government on this earth. In paying earnest compliment to this thriving city, and this generous multitude, I need not cumber speech with argument or statistics. It is enough to say that my friends and myself make obeisance this morning to the chief metropolis of the State of Texas. If it but holds this pre-eminence—and who can doubt in this auspicious presence that it will—the uprising tides of Texas’s prosperity will carry it to glories unspeakable. For I say in soberness, the future of this marvelous and amazing empire, that gives broader and deeper significance to statehood by accepting its modest naming, the mind of man can neither measure nor comprehend.

I shall be pardoned for resisting the inspiration of this presence and adhering to-day to blunt and rigorous speech—for there are times when fine words are paltry, and this seems to me to be such a time. So I shall turn away from the thunders of the political battle upon which every American hangs intent, and repress the ardor that at this time rises in every American heart—for there are issues that strike deeper than any political theory has reached, and conditions of which partisanry has taken, and can take, but little account. Let me, therefore, with studied plainness, and with such precision as is possible—in a spirit of fraternity that is broader than party limitations, and deeper than political motive—discuss with you certain problems upon the wise and prompt solution of which depends the glory and prosperity of the South.

But why—for let us make our way slowly—why “the South.” In an indivisible union—in a republic against the integrity of which sword shall never be drawn or mortal hand uplifted, and in which the rich blood gathering at the common heart is sent throbbing into every part of the body politic—why is one section held separated from the rest in alien consideration? We can understand why this should be so in a city that has a community of local interests; or in a State still clothed in that sovereignty of which the debates of peace and the storm of war has not stripped her. But why should a number of States, stretching from Richmond to Galveston, bound together by no local interests, held in no autonomy, be thus combined and drawn to a common center? That man would be absurd who declaimed in Buffalo against the wrongs of the Middle States, or who demanded in Chicago a convention for the West to consider the needs of that section. If then it be provincialism that holds the South together, let us outgrow it; if it be sectionalism, let us root it out of our hearts; but if it be something deeper than these and essential to our system, let us declare it with frankness, consider it with respect, defend it with firmness, and in dignity abide its consequence. What is it that holds the southern States—though true in thought and deed to the Union—so closely bound in sympathy to-day? For a century these States championed a governmental theory—but that, having triumphed in every forum, fell at last by the sword. They maintained an institution—but that, having been administered in the fullest wisdom of man, fell at last in the higher wisdom of God. They fought a war—but the prejudices of that war have died, its sympathies have broadened, and its memories are already the priceless treasure of the republic that is cemented forever with its blood. They looked out together upon the ashes of their homes and the desolation of their fields—but out of pitiful resource they have fashioned their homes anew, and plenty rides on the springing harvests. In all the past there is nothing to draw them into essential or lasting alliance—nothing in all that heroic record that cannot be rendered unfearing from provincial hands into the keeping of American history.