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<div>*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK 68178 ***</div>

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<img src='images/cover.jpg' alt='' class='ig001' />
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    <div><span class='c002'>HENRY W. GRADY</span></div>
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<div id='xxx'  class='figcenter id001'>
<img src='images/frontis.jpg' alt='' class='ig001' />
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<p>ENGRAVED FROM PHOTOGRAPH BY C. W. MOTES.<br />H. W. Grady.</p>
</div>
</div>
<div class='pbb'>
 <hr class='pb c000' />
</div>
<div>
  <h1 class='c003'>JOEL CHANDLER HARRIS’<br /> <br /><span class='xsmall'>LIFE OF</span><br /> <br /><span class='c004'>HENRY W. GRADY</span><br /> <br /><span class='xsmall'>INCLUDING HIS</span><br /> <br /><span class='c005'>WRITINGS AND SPEECHES</span>.</h1>
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<hr class='c006' />

<div class='nf-center-c0'>
<div class='nf-center c007'>
    <div><span class='c004'><span class="blackletter">A Memorial Volume</span></span></div>
    <div class='c000'>COMPILED BY MR. HENRY W. GRADY’S CO-WORKERS ON</div>
    <div class='c000'><span class='c008'>“<i>THE CONSTITUTION</i>,”</span></div>
    <div class='c000'><span class='xsmall'>AND EDITED BY</span></div>
    <div class='c000'><span class='c008'>JOEL CHANDLER HARRIS</span></div>
    <div class='c000'>(<i>UNCLE REMUS</i>).</div>
    <div class='c000'><span class='xsmall'>THIS MEMORIAL VOLUME IS SOLD ONLY BY SUBSCRIPTION, AND IN THE INTERESTS OF THE FAMILY AND MOTHER OF MR. GRADY.</span></div>
  </div>
</div>

<hr class='c006' />

<div class='nf-center-c0'>
<div class='nf-center c007'>
    <div>NEW YORK:</div>
    <div class='c000'><span class='c008'>CASSELL PUBLISHING COMPANY,</span></div>
    <div class='c000'>104 &amp; 106 <span class='sc'>Fourth Avenue</span>.</div>
  </div>
</div>

<div class='pbb'>
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</div>

<div class='nf-center-c0'>
<div class='nf-center c001'>
    <div><span class='sc'>Copyright</span>,</div>
    <div>1890,</div>
    <div>By MRS. HENRY W. GRADY.</div>
    <div class='c009'><i>All rights reserved</i>.</div>
  </div>
</div>

<div class='c010'><span class='xsmall'>Press W. L. Mershon &amp; Co.,</span></div>
<div class='c011'><span class='xsmall'>Rahway, N. J.</span></div>
<div class='pbb'>
 <hr class='pb c001' />
</div>

<div class='nf-center-c0'>
<div class='nf-center c001'>
    <div><span class='xsmall'>LOOKING FORWARD TO THE REALIZATION OF THE LOFTY PURPOSE THAT GUIDED OUR</span></div>
    <div class='c000'><i>MESSENGER OF PEACE</i>,</div>
    <div class='c000'><span class='xsmall'>AND TO THE SPLENDID CLIMAX OF HIS HOPES AND ASPIRATIONS,</span></div>
    <div class='c000'>THIS MEMORIAL VOLUME</div>
    <div class='c000'><span class='xsmall'>OF THE LIFE AND SERVICES OF</span></div>
    <div class='c000'><span class='c008'><b><span class="blackletter">Henry Woodfin Grady,</span></b></span></div>
    <div class='c000'><span class='xsmall'>IS DEDICATED TO THE</span></div>
    <div class='c000'>PEACE, UNITY AND FRATERNITY</div>
    <div class='c000'><span class='xsmall'>OF THE</span></div>
    <div class='c000'><span class='xsmall'>NORTH AND SOUTH, AND TO THE PROGRESS AND PROSPERITY OF</span></div>
    <div class='c000'><i>A RE-UNITED COUNTRY WITH ONE FLAG AND ONE DESTINY</i>.</div>
  </div>
</div>

<div class='pbb'>
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</div>
<div class='chapter'>
  <span class='pageno' id='Page_vii'>vii</span>
  <h2 class='c012'>CONTENTS.</h2>
</div>
<hr class='c013' />
<div class='lh'>

<table class='table0' summary=''>
<colgroup>
<col width='86%' />
<col width='13%' />
</colgroup>
  <tr>
    <td class='c014'>&nbsp;</td>
    <td class='c015'><span class='xsmall'>PAGE</span></td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td class='c014'><span class='sc'>In Memoriam</span>—<i>Henry Watterson</i>,</td>
    <td class='c015'><a href='#Page_5'>5</a></td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td class='c014'><span class='sc'>Biographical Sketch</span>—<i>Joel Chandler Harris</i>,</td>
    <td class='c015'><a href='#Page_9'>9</a></td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td class='c014'><span class='sc'>Memorial Sketch</span>—<i>Marion Verdery</i>,</td>
    <td class='c015'><a href='#Page_69'>69</a></td>
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</table>
<h3 class='c016'>SPEECHES.</h3>

<table class='table1' summary=''>
<colgroup>
<col width='86%' />
<col width='13%' />
</colgroup>
  <tr>
    <td class='c014'><span class='sc'>The New South</span>—Delivered at the Banquet of the New England Club, New York, December 21, 1886,</td>
    <td class='c015'><a href='#Page_83'>83</a></td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td class='c014'><span class='sc'>The South and Her Problem</span>—At the Dallas, Texas, State Fair, October 26, 1887,</td>
    <td class='c015'><a href='#Page_94'>94</a></td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td class='c014'><span class='sc'>At the Augusta Exposition</span>—In November, 1887,</td>
    <td class='c015'><a href='#Page_121'>121</a></td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td class='c014'><span class='sc'>Against Centralization</span>—Before the Society of the University of Virginia, June 25, 1889,</td>
    <td class='c015'><a href='#Page_142'>142</a></td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td class='c014'><span class='sc'>The Farmer and the Cities</span>—At Elberton, Georgia, in June, 1889,</td>
    <td class='c015'><a href='#Page_158'>158</a></td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td class='c014'><span class='sc'>At the Boston Banquet</span>—Before the Merchants’ Association, in December, 1889,</td>
    <td class='c015'><a href='#Page_180'>180</a></td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td class='c014'><span class='sc'>Before the Bay State Club</span>—1889,</td>
    <td class='c015'><a href='#Page_199'>199</a></td>
  </tr>
</table>
<h3 class='c016'>WRITINGS.</h3>

<table class='table1' summary=''>
<colgroup>
<col width='86%' />
<col width='13%' />
</colgroup>
  <tr>
    <td class='c014'>“<span class='sc'>Small Jane</span>”—The Story of a Little Heroine,</td>
    <td class='c015'><a href='#Page_211'>211</a></td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td class='c014'><span class='sc'>Dobbs</span>—A Thumb-nail Sketch of a Martyr—A Blaze of Honesty—The Father of Incongruity—Five Dollars a Week—A Conscientious Debtor,</td>
    <td class='c015'><a href='#Page_220'>220</a></td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td class='c014'><span class='sc'>A Corner Lot</span>,</td>
    <td class='c015'><a href='#Page_227'>227</a></td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td class='c014'><span class='pageno' id='Page_viii'>viii</span><span class='sc'>The Atheistic Tide Sweeping over the Continent</span>—The threatened Destruction of the Simple Faith of the Fathers by the Vain Deceits of Modern Philosophers,</td>
    <td class='c015'><a href='#Page_230'>230</a></td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td class='c014'><span class='sc'>On the Ocean Wave</span>—An Amateur’s Experience on a Steamship—How Sea-Sickness Works—The Sights of the Sea—The Lovers and the Pilot—Some Conclusions not Jumped at</td>
    <td class='c015'><a href='#Page_238'>238</a></td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td class='c014'><span class='sc'>Two Men who have Thrilled the State</span>—An Accidental Meeting on the Street, in which Two Great Men are Recognized as the Types of Two Clashing Theories—Toombs’s Successes—Brown’s Judgment,</td>
    <td class='c015'><a href='#Page_245'>245</a></td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td class='c014'><span class='sc'>“Bob.” How an Old Man “Come Home”</span>—A Story Without a Moral, Picked out of a Busy Life,</td>
    <td class='c015'><a href='#Page_252'>252</a></td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td class='c014'><span class='sc'>Cotton and its Kingdom</span>,</td>
    <td class='c015'><a href='#Page_272'>272</a></td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td class='c014'><span class='sc'>In Plain Black and White</span>—A Reply to Mr. Cable,</td>
    <td class='c015'><a href='#Page_285'>285</a></td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td class='c014'><span class='sc'>The Little Boy in the Balcony</span>,</td>
    <td class='c015'><a href='#Page_308'>308</a></td>
  </tr>
</table>
<h3 class='c016'>POEMS BY VARIOUS HANDS.</h3>

<table class='table1' summary=''>
<colgroup>
<col width='86%' />
<col width='13%' />
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  <tr>
    <td class='c014'><span class='sc'>Grady</span>—<i>F. L. Stanton</i>,</td>
    <td class='c015'><a href='#Page_313'>313</a></td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td class='c014'><span class='sc'>Atlanta</span>—<i>Josephine Pollard</i>,</td>
    <td class='c015'><a href='#Page_316'>316</a></td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td class='c014'><span class='sc'>Henry W. Grady</span>—<i>James Whitcombe Riley</i>,</td>
    <td class='c015'><a href='#Page_317'>317</a></td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td class='c014'><span class='sc'>A Requiem in Memory of “Him That’s Awa’”</span>—<i>Montgomery M. Folsom</i>,</td>
    <td class='c015'><a href='#Page_318'>318</a></td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td class='c014'><span class='sc'>Henry Woodfin Grady</span>—<i>Henry O’Meara</i>,</td>
    <td class='c015'><a href='#Page_320'>320</a></td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td class='c014'><span class='sc'>Henry W. Grady</span>—<i>Henry Jerome Stockard</i>,</td>
    <td class='c015'><a href='#Page_322'>322</a></td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td class='c014'><span class='sc'>Who Would Call Him Back</span>?—<i>Belle Eyre</i>,</td>
    <td class='c015'><a href='#Page_323'>323</a></td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td class='c014'><span class='sc'>Henry W. Grady</span>—<i>G. W. Lyon</i>,</td>
    <td class='c015'><a href='#Page_324'>324</a></td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td class='c014'><span class='sc'>What the Master Made</span>—<i>Mel. R. Colquitt</i>,</td>
    <td class='c015'><a href='#Page_326'>326</a></td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td class='c014'><span class='sc'>In Atlanta, Christmas, 1889</span>—<i>Henry Clay Lukens</i>,</td>
    <td class='c015'><a href='#Page_327'>327</a></td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td class='c014'><span class='sc'>In Memory of Henry Woodfin Grady</span>—<i>Lee Fairchild</i>,</td>
    <td class='c015'><a href='#Page_328'>328</a></td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td class='c014'><span class='sc'>A Southern Christmas Day</span>—<i>N.C. Thompson</i>,</td>
    <td class='c015'><a href='#Page_329'>329</a></td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td class='c014'><span class='sc'>In Memory of Henry W. Grady</span>—<i>Elizabeth J. Hereford</i>,</td>
    <td class='c015'><a href='#Page_331'>331</a></td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td class='c014'><span class='sc'>Henry W. Grady</span>—<i>Mary E. Bryan</i>,</td>
    <td class='c015'><a href='#Page_333'>333</a></td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td class='c014'><span class='sc'>The Old and the New</span>—<i>J. M. Gibson</i>,</td>
    <td class='c015'><a href='#Page_334'>334</a></td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td class='c014'><span class='pageno' id='Page_ix'>ix</span><span class='sc'>Henry W. Grady</span>—<i>E. A. B., from the Boston Globe</i>,</td>
    <td class='c015'><a href='#Page_336'>336</a></td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td class='c014'><span class='sc'>At Grady’s Grave</span>—<i>Charles W. Hubner</i>,</td>
    <td class='c015'><a href='#Page_338'>338</a></td>
  </tr>
</table>
<h3 class='c016'>MEMORIAL MEETINGS.</h3>

<table class='table1' summary=''>
<colgroup>
<col width='86%' />
<col width='13%' />
</colgroup>
  <tr>
    <td class='c014'><span class='sc'>The Atlanta Memorial Meeting</span>,</td>
    <td class='c015'><a href='#Page_345'>345</a></td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td class='c014'>The Chi Phi Memorial,</td>
    <td class='c015'><a href='#Page_347'>347</a></td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td class='c014'>Address of Hon. Patrick Walsh,</td>
    <td class='c015'><a href='#Page_350'>350</a></td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td class='c014'>Address of Hon. B. H. Hill,</td>
    <td class='c015'><a href='#Page_353'>353</a></td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td class='c014'>Address of Julius L. Brown,</td>
    <td class='c015'><a href='#Page_356'>356</a></td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td class='c014'>Address of Hon. Albert Cox,</td>
    <td class='c015'><a href='#Page_362'>362</a></td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td class='c014'>Address of Walter B. Hill,</td>
    <td class='c015'><a href='#Page_365'>365</a></td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td class='c014'>Address of Judge Howard Van Epps,</td>
    <td class='c015'><a href='#Page_369'>369</a></td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td class='c014'>Address of Prof. H. C. White,</td>
    <td class='c015'><a href='#Page_373'>373</a></td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td class='c014'>Address of Hon. John Temple Graves,</td>
    <td class='c015'><a href='#Page_378'>378</a></td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td class='c014'>Address of Governor Gordon,</td>
    <td class='c015'><a href='#Page_382'>382</a></td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td class='c014'><span class='sc'>Memorial Meeting at Macon, Ga.</span>,</td>
    <td class='c015'><a href='#Page_385'>385</a></td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td class='c014'>Resolutions,</td>
    <td class='c015'><a href='#Page_387'>387</a></td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td class='c014'>Alumni Resolutions,</td>
    <td class='c015'><a href='#Page_389'>389</a></td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td class='c014'>Address of Mr. Richardson,</td>
    <td class='c015'><a href='#Page_385'>385</a></td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td class='c014'>Address of Mr. Boifeuillet,</td>
    <td class='c015'><a href='#Page_391'>391</a></td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td class='c014'>Address of Major Hanson,</td>
    <td class='c015'><a href='#Page_396'>396</a></td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td class='c014'>Address of Judge Speer,</td>
    <td class='c015'><a href='#Page_398'>398</a></td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td class='c014'>Address of Mr. Washington,</td>
    <td class='c015'><a href='#Page_406'>406</a></td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td class='c014'>Address of Mr. Patterson,</td>
    <td class='c015'><a href='#Page_409'>409</a></td>
  </tr>
</table>
<h3 class='c016'>PERSONAL TRIBUTES.</h3>
<table class='table1' summary=''>
<colgroup>
<col width='86%' />
<col width='13%' />
</colgroup>
  <tr>
    <td class='c014'><span class='sc'>Thoughts on H. W. Grady</span>—By <i>B. H. Samett</i>,</td>
    <td class='c015'><a href='#Page_417'>417</a></td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td class='c014'><span class='sc'>Sargent S. Prentiss and Henry W. Grady.</span> Similarity of Genius and Patriotism—By <i>Joseph F. Pon</i>,</td>
    <td class='c015'><a href='#Page_421'>421</a></td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td class='c014'><span class='sc'>Sermon</span>—By <i>Dr. T. DeWitt Talmage</i>,</td>
    <td class='c015'><a href='#Page_428'>428</a></td>
  </tr>
</table>
<h3 class='c016'>TRIBUTES OF THE NORTHERN PRESS.</h3>
<table class='table1' summary=''>
<colgroup>
<col width='86%' />
<col width='13%' />
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  <tr>
    <td class='c014'>He was the Embodiment of the Spirit of the New South—<i>From the “New York World,”</i></td>
    <td class='c015'><a href='#Page_443'>443</a></td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td class='c014'><span class='pageno' id='Page_x'>x</span>A Thoroughly American Journalist—<i>From the “New York Herald,”</i></td>
    <td class='c015'><a href='#Page_444'>444</a></td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td class='c014'>A Loss to the Whole Country—<i>From the “New York Tribune,”</i></td>
    <td class='c015'><a href='#Page_445'>445</a></td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td class='c014'>What Henry W. Grady Represented—<i>From the “New York Commercial Advertiser,”</i></td>
    <td class='c015'><a href='#Page_446'>446</a></td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td class='c014'>A Far-sighted Statesman—<i>From the “New York Star,”</i></td>
    <td class='c015'><a href='#Page_448'>448</a></td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td class='c014'>An Apostle of the New Faith—<i>From the “New York Times,”</i></td>
    <td class='c015'><a href='#Page_448'>448</a></td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td class='c014'>The Foremost Leader—<i>From the “New York Christian Union,”</i></td>
    <td class='c015'><a href='#Page_449'>449</a></td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td class='c014'>A Glorious Mission—<i>From the “Albany, N.Y., Argus,”</i></td>
    <td class='c015'><a href='#Page_450'>450</a></td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td class='c014'>His Lofty Ideal—<i>From the “Philadelphia Press,”</i></td>
    <td class='c015'><a href='#Page_452'>452</a></td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td class='c014'>His Patriotism—<i>From the “Philadelphia Ledger,”</i></td>
    <td class='c015'><a href='#Page_454'>454</a></td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td class='c014'>Oratory and the Press—<i>From the “Boston Advertiser,”</i></td>
    <td class='c015'><a href='#Page_457'>457</a></td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td class='c014'>The Lesson of Mr. Grady’s Life—<i>From the “Philadelphia Times,”</i></td>
    <td class='c015'><a href='#Page_458'>458</a></td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td class='c014'>His Loss a General Calamity—<i>From the “St. Louis Globe-Democrat,”</i></td>
    <td class='c015'><a href='#Page_459'>459</a></td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td class='c014'>Saddest of Sequels—<i>From the “Manchester, N.H., Union,”</i></td>
    <td class='c015'><a href='#Page_461'>461</a></td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td class='c014'>A Life of Promise—<i>From the “Chicago Inter-Ocean,”</i></td>
    <td class='c015'><a href='#Page_462'>462</a></td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td class='c014'>Electrified the Whole Country—<i>From the “Pittsburg Dispatch,”</i></td>
    <td class='c015'><a href='#Page_464'>464</a></td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td class='c014'>A Large Brain and a Large Heart—<i>From the “Elmira, N.Y., Advertiser,”</i></td>
    <td class='c015'><a href='#Page_465'>465</a></td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td class='c014'>The Model Citizen—<i>From the “Boston Globe,”</i></td>
    <td class='c015'><a href='#Page_467'>467</a></td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td class='c014'>A Loyal Unionist—<i>From the “Chicago Times,”</i></td>
    <td class='c015'><a href='#Page_468'>468</a></td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td class='c014'>His Work was Not in Vain—<i>From the “Cleveland, O., Plaindealer,”</i></td>
    <td class='c015'><a href='#Page_468'>468</a></td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td class='c014'>The Best Representative of the New South—<i>From the “Albany, N.Y., Journal,”</i></td>
    <td class='c015'><a href='#Page_469'>469</a></td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td class='c014'>A Lamentable Loss to the Country—<i>From the “Cincinnati Commercial Gazette,”</i></td>
    <td class='c015'><a href='#Page_470'>470</a></td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td class='c014'>A Sad Loss—<i>From the “Buffalo, N.Y., Express,”</i></td>
    <td class='c015'><a href='#Page_471'>471</a></td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td class='c014'>Words of Virgin Gold—<i>From the “Oswego, N.Y., Palladium,”</i></td>
    <td class='c015'><a href='#Page_473'>473</a></td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td class='c014'>Sad News—<i>From the “Boston Advertiser,”</i></td>
    <td class='c015'><a href='#Page_475'>475</a></td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td class='c014'>A Leader of Leaders—<i>From the “Philadelphia Times,”</i></td>
    <td class='c015'><a href='#Page_477'>477</a></td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td class='c014'><span class='pageno' id='Page_xi'>xi</span>A Forceful Advocate—<i>From the “Springfield, Mass., Republican,”</i></td>
    <td class='c015'><a href='#Page_479'>479</a></td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td class='c014'>His Great Work—<i>From the “Boston Post,”</i></td>
    <td class='c015'><a href='#Page_480'>480</a></td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td class='c014'>New England’s Sorrow—<i>From the “Boston Herald,”</i></td>
    <td class='c015'><a href='#Page_482'>482</a></td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td class='c014'>A Noble Life Ended—<i>From the “Philadelphia Telegraph,”</i></td>
    <td class='c015'><a href='#Page_484'>484</a></td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td class='c014'>A Typical Southerner—<i>From the “Chicago Tribune,”</i></td>
    <td class='c015'><a href='#Page_486'>486</a></td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td class='c014'>His Name a Household Possession—<i>From the “Independence, Mo., Sentinel,”</i></td>
    <td class='c015'><a href='#Page_487'>487</a></td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td class='c014'>Editor, Orator, Statesman, Patriot—<i>From the “Kansas City Globe,”</i></td>
    <td class='c015'><a href='#Page_488'>488</a></td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td class='c014'>A Southern Bereavement—<i>From the “Cincinnati Times-Star,”</i></td>
    <td class='c015'><a href='#Page_490'>490</a></td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td class='c014'>A Man Who will be Missed,</td>
    <td class='c015'><a href='#Page_491'>491</a></td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td class='c014'>At the Beginning of a Great Career—<i>From the “Pittsburg Post,”</i></td>
    <td class='c015'><a href='#Page_493'>493</a></td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td class='c014'>The Peace-Makers—<i>From the “New York Churchman,”</i></td>
    <td class='c015'><a href='#Page_494'>494</a></td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td class='c014'>One of the Brightest—<i>From the “Seattle Press,”</i></td>
    <td class='c015'><a href='#Page_495'>495</a></td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td class='c014'>The South’s Noble Son—<i>From the “Rockland, Me., Opinion,”</i></td>
    <td class='c015'><a href='#Page_496'>496</a></td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td class='c014'>Brilliant and Gifted—<i>Dr. H. M. Field in “New York Evangelist,”</i></td>
    <td class='c015'><a href='#Page_497'>497</a></td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td class='c014'>The Death of Henry W. Grady—<i>John Boyle O’Reilly in the “Boston Pilot,”</i></td>
    <td class='c015'><a href='#Page_499'>499</a></td>
  </tr>
</table>
<h3 class='c016'>TRIBUTES OF THE SOUTHERN PRESS.</h3>
<table class='table1' summary=''>
<colgroup>
<col width='86%' />
<col width='13%' />
</colgroup>
  <tr>
    <td class='c014'>A Noble Death—<i>From the “Jacksonville, Fla., Times-Union,”</i></td>
    <td class='c015'><a href='#Page_505'>505</a></td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td class='c014'>There Was None Greater—<i>From the “Birmingham, Mo., Chronicle,”</i></td>
    <td class='c015'><a href='#Page_507'>507</a></td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td class='c014'>A Great Leader Has Fallen—<i>From the “Raleigh, N.C., State Chronicle,”</i></td>
    <td class='c015'><a href='#Page_509'>509</a></td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td class='c014'>N.H.<i>From the “New Orleans Times-Democrat,”</i></td>
    <td class='c015'><a href='#Page_514'>514</a></td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td class='c014'>Second to None—<i>From the “Louisville Courier-Journal,”</i></td>
    <td class='c015'><a href='#Page_517'>517</a></td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td class='c014'>A Loss to the South—<i>From the “Louisville Post,”</i></td>
    <td class='c015'><a href='#Page_519'>519</a></td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td class='c014'>The Death of Henry W. Grady,</td>
    <td class='c015'><a href='#Page_520'>520</a></td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td class='c014'>Universal Sorrow—<i>From the “Nashville American,”</i></td>
    <td class='c015'><a href='#Page_522'>522</a></td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td class='c014'><span class='pageno' id='Page_xii'>xii</span>The Highest Place—<i>From the “Charleston News and Courier,”</i></td>
    <td class='c015'><a href='#Page_524'>524</a></td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td class='c014'>A Brilliant Career—<i>From the “Baltimore Sun,”</i></td>
    <td class='c015'><a href='#Page_526'>526</a></td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td class='c014'>A Public Calamity—<i>From the “Selma Times and Mail,”</i></td>
    <td class='c015'><a href='#Page_528'>528</a></td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td class='c014'>Grief Tempers To-day’s Joy—<i>From the “Austin, Tex., Statesman,”</i></td>
    <td class='c015'><a href='#Page_530'>530</a></td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td class='c014'>Henry Grady’s Death—<i>From the “Charleston Evening Sun,”</i></td>
    <td class='c015'><a href='#Page_532'>532</a></td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td class='c014'>Two Dead Men—<i>From the “Greenville, N.C., News,”</i></td>
    <td class='c015'><a href='#Page_533'>533</a></td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td class='c014'>Grady’s Renown—<i>From the “Birmingham News,”</i></td>
    <td class='c015'><a href='#Page_535'>535</a></td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td class='c014'>Henry W. Grady—<i>From the “Augusta Chronicle,”</i></td>
    <td class='c015'><a href='#Page_537'>537</a></td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td class='c014'>True and Loyal—<i>From the “Athens Banner,”</i></td>
    <td class='c015'><a href='#Page_543'>543</a></td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td class='c014'>Mr. Grady’s Death—<i>From the  “Savannah Times,”</i></td>
    <td class='c015'><a href='#Page_544'>544</a></td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td class='c014'>A Great Loss to Georgia—<i>From the “Columbia Enquirer-Sun,”</i></td>
    <td class='c015'><a href='#Page_545'>545</a></td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td class='c014'>The Man Eloquent—<i>From the “Rome Tribune,”</i></td>
    <td class='c015'><a href='#Page_547'>547</a></td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td class='c014'>Death of Henry W. Grady—<i>From the “Savannah News,”</i></td>
    <td class='c015'><a href='#Page_549'>549</a></td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td class='c014'>Henry W. Grady Dead—<i>From the “Albany News and Advertiser,”</i></td>
    <td class='c015'><a href='#Page_551'>551</a></td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td class='c014'>Stilled is the Eloquent Tongue—<i>From the “Brunswick Times,”</i></td>
    <td class='c015'><a href='#Page_553'>553</a></td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td class='c014'>A Shining Career—<i>From the “Macon Telegraph,”</i></td>
    <td class='c015'><a href='#Page_554'>554</a></td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td class='c014'>The Greatest Calamity—<i>From the “Augusta News,”</i></td>
    <td class='c015'><a href='#Page_557'>557</a></td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td class='c014'>No Ordinary Grief—<i>From the “Columbus Ledger,”</i></td>
    <td class='c015'><a href='#Page_559'>559</a></td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td class='c014'>A Place Hard to Fill—<i>From the “Griffin News,”</i></td>
    <td class='c015'><a href='#Page_559'>559</a></td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td class='c014'>“Just Human”—<i>From the “Thomasville Enterprise,”</i></td>
    <td class='c015'><a href='#Page_560'>560</a></td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td class='c014'>Georgia Weeps—<i>From the “Union News,”</i></td>
    <td class='c015'><a href='#Page_561'>561</a></td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td class='c014'>A Grand Mission—<i>From the “West Point Press,”</i></td>
    <td class='c015'><a href='#Page_563'>563</a></td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td class='c014'>The South Loved Him—<i>From the “Darien Timber Gazette,”</i></td>
    <td class='c015'><a href='#Page_564'>564</a></td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td class='c014'>No Sadder News—<i>From the “Marietta Journal,”</i></td>
    <td class='c015'><a href='#Page_565'>565</a></td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td class='c014'>Georgia’s Noble Son—<i>From the “Madison Advertiser,”</i></td>
    <td class='c015'><a href='#Page_566'>566</a></td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td class='c014'>The Death of Henry Grady—<i>From the “Hawkinsville Dispatch,”</i></td>
    <td class='c015'><a href='#Page_569'>569</a></td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td class='c014'>A Measureless Sorrow—<i>From the “Lagrange Reporter,”</i></td>
    <td class='c015'><a href='#Page_572'>572</a></td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td class='c014'>Grady’s Death—<i>From the “Oglethorpe Echo,”</i></td>
    <td class='c015'><a href='#Page_573'>573</a></td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td class='c014'>He Loved his Country—<i>From the “Cuthbert Liberal,”</i></td>
    <td class='c015'><a href='#Page_574'>574</a></td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td class='c014'>A Resplendent Record—<i>From the “Madison Madisonian,”</i></td>
    <td class='c015'><a href='#Page_575'>575</a></td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td class='c014'><span class='pageno' id='Page_xiii'>xiii</span>Dedicated to Humanity—<i>From the “Sandersville Herald and Georgian,”</i></td>
    <td class='c015'><a href='#Page_576'>576</a></td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td class='c014'>The South Laments—<i>From the “Middle Georgia Progress,”</i></td>
    <td class='c015'><a href='#Page_578'>578</a></td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td class='c014'>His Career—<i>From the “Dalton Citizen,”</i></td>
    <td class='c015'><a href='#Page_579'>579</a></td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td class='c014'>Our Fallen Hero—<i>From the “Hartwell Sun,”</i></td>
    <td class='c015'><a href='#Page_581'>581</a></td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td class='c014'>A Deathless Name—<i>From the “Gainesville Eagle,”</i></td>
    <td class='c015'><a href='#Page_582'>582</a></td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td class='c014'>A Great Soul—<i>From the “Baxley Banner,”</i></td>
    <td class='c015'><a href='#Page_583'>583</a></td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td class='c014'>In Memoriam—<i>From the “Henry Co. Times,”</i></td>
    <td class='c015'><a href='#Page_585'>585</a></td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td class='c014'>A People Mourn—<i>From the “Warrenton Clipper,”</i></td>
    <td class='c015'><a href='#Page_587'>587</a></td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td class='c014'>Henry W. Grady is No More—<i>From the “Valdosta Times,”</i></td>
    <td class='c015'><a href='#Page_589'>589</a></td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td class='c014'>“Maybe his Work is Finished”—<i>From the “Dalton Argus,”</i></td>
    <td class='c015'><a href='#Page_590'>590</a></td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td class='c014'>He Never Offended—<i>From the “Washington Chronicle,”</i></td>
    <td class='c015'><a href='#Page_592'>592</a></td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td class='c014'>The South in Mourning—<i>From the “Elberton Star,”</i></td>
    <td class='c015'><a href='#Page_593'>593</a></td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td class='c014'>Stricken at its Zenith—<i>From the “Greenesboro Herald and Journal,”</i></td>
    <td class='c015'><a href='#Page_594'>594</a></td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td class='c014'>The Southland Mourns—<i>From the “Griffin Morning Call,”</i></td>
    <td class='c015'><a href='#Page_596'>596</a></td>
  </tr>
  <tr><td>&nbsp;</td></tr>
  <tr>
    <td class='c014'>THE “CONSTITUTION” AND ITS WORK,</td>
    <td class='c015'><a href='#Page_601'>601</a></td>
  </tr>
</table>
<h3 class='c016'>LETTERS AND TELEGRAMS FROM DISTINGUISHED PERSONS.</h3>
<table class='table1' summary=''>
<colgroup>
<col width='86%' />
<col width='13%' />
</colgroup>
  <tr>
    <td class='c014'>Hon. Chauncey M. Depew,</td>
    <td class='c015'><a href='#Page_623'>623</a></td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td class='c014'>Ex-President Cleveland,</td>
    <td class='c015'><a href='#Page_624'>624</a></td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td class='c014'>Hon. A. S. Colyar,</td>
    <td class='c015'><a href='#Page_625'>625</a></td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td class='c014'>Hon. Murat Halstead,</td>
    <td class='c015'><a href='#Page_626'>626</a></td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td class='c014'>Hon. Samuel J. Randall,</td>
    <td class='c015'><a href='#Page_627'>627</a></td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td class='c014'>Mr. Andrew Carnegie,</td>
    <td class='c015'><a href='#Page_627'>627</a></td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td class='c014'>Hon. Edward S. Bradford,</td>
    <td class='c015'><a href='#Page_628'>628</a></td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td class='c014'>Mr. J. H. Parker,</td>
    <td class='c015'><a href='#Page_628'>628</a></td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td class='c014'>Hon. Alonzo B. Cornell,</td>
    <td class='c015'><a href='#Page_628'>628</a></td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td class='c014'>Mr. Ballard Smith,</td>
    <td class='c015'><a href='#Page_628'>628</a></td>
  </tr>
</table>

</div>
<div class='pbb'>
 <hr class='pb c007' />
</div>
<div class='chapter'>
  <span class='pageno' id='Page_5'>5</span>
  <h2 class='c012'>IN MEMORIAM.</h2>
</div>
<hr class='c013' />
<p class='drop-capa0_25_0_7 c017'>IT is within the bounds of entire accuracy to say that
the death of no man ever created a deeper and more
universal sorrow than that which responded to the announcement
that <span class='sc'>Henry Woodfin Grady</span> had paid his
final debt of nature, and was gone to his last account. The
sense of grief and regret attained the dignity of a national
bereavement, and was at one and the same time both public
and personal. The young and gifted Georgian had
made a great impression upon his country and his time;
blending an individuality, picturesque, strong and attractive,
and an eloquence as rarely solid as it was rhetorically
fine, into a character of the first order of eminence and
brilliancy. In every section of the Union, the people felt
that a noble nature and a splendid intellect had been subtracted
from the nation’s stock of wisdom and virtue. This
feeling was intensified the nearer it approached the region
where he was best known and honored: but it reached the
farthest limits of the land, and was expressed by all classes
and parties with an homage equally ungrudging and sincere.</p>

<p class='c018'>In Georgia, and throughout the Southern States, it rose
to a lamentation. He was, indeed, the hope and expectancy
of the young South, the one publicist of the New South,
who, inheriting the spirit of the old, yet had realized the
present, and looked into the future, with the eyes of a
statesman and the heart of a patriot. His own future was
fully assured. He had made his place; had won his
spurs; and he possessed the qualities, not merely to hold
them, but greatly to magnify their importance. That he
<span class='pageno' id='Page_6'>6</span>should be cut down upon the threshold of a career, for
whose magnificent development and broad usefulness all
was prepared, seemed a cruel dispensation of Providence
and aroused a heart-breaking sentiment far beyond the
bounds compassed by Mr. Grady’s personality.</p>

<p class='c018'>Of the details of his life, and of his life-work, others
have spoken in the amplest terms. I shall, in this place,
content myself with placing on the record my own remembrance
and estimate of the man as he was known to me.
Mr. Grady became a writer for the press when but little
more than a boy, and during the darkest days of the Reconstruction
period. There was in those days but a single
political issue for the South. Our hand was in the lion’s
mouth, and we could do nothing, hope for nothing, until
we got it out. The young Georgian was ardent, impetuous,
the son of a father slain in battle, the offspring of a
section, the child of a province; yet he rose to the situation
with uncommon faculties of courage and perception;
caught the spirit of the struggle against reaction with perfect
reach; and threw himself into the liberal and progressive
movements of the time with the genius of a man born
for both oratory and affairs. At first, his sphere of work
was confined to the newspapers of the South. But, not
unreasonably or unnaturally, he wished a wider field of
duty, and went East, carrying letters in which he was commended
in terms which might have seemed extravagant
then, but which he more than vindicated. His final settlement
in the capital of his native State, and in a position
where he could speak directly and responsibly, gave him
the opportunity he had sought to make a name and fame
for himself, and an audience of his own. Here he carried
the policy with which he had early identified himself to
its finest conclusions; coming at once to the front as a
champion of a free South and a united country, second to
none in efficiency, equaled by none in eloquence.</p>

<p class='c018'>He was eager and aspiring, and, in the heedlessness of
youth, with its aggressive ambitions, may not have been at
all times discriminating and considerate in the objects of
<span class='pageno' id='Page_7'>7</span>his attacks; but he was generous to a fault, and, as he
advanced upon the highway, he broadened with it and to
it, and, if he had lived, would have realized the fullest
measure of his own promise and the hopes of his friends.
The scales of error, when error he felt he had committed,
were fast falling from his eyes, and he was frank to own
his changed, or changing, view. The vista of the way
ahead was opening before him with its far perspective clear
to his mental sight. He had just delivered an utterance of
exceeding weight and value, winning universal applause,
and was coming home to be welcomed by his people with
open arms, when the Messenger of Death summoned him
to his God. The tidings of the fatal termination of his
disorder, so startling in their suddenness and unexpectedness,
added to the last scene of all a feature of dramatic
interest.</p>

<p class='c018'>For my own part, I can truly say that I was from the
first and always proud of him, hailed him as a young disciple
who had surpassed his elders in learning and power,
recognized in him a master voice and soul, followed his
career with admiring interest, and recorded his triumphs
with ever-increasing sympathy and appreciation. We had
broken a lance or two between us; but there had been no
lick below the belt, and no hurt which was other than skin-deep,
and during considerably more than a year before his
death a most cordial and unreserved correspondence had
passed between us. The telegram which brought the fatal
news was a grievous shock to me, for it told me that I had
lost a good friend, and the cause of truth a great advocate.
It is with a melancholy satisfaction that I indite these
lines, thankful for the opportunity afforded me to do so by
the kindness of his associates and family. Such spirits
are not of a generation, but of an epoch; and it will be
long before the South will find one to take the place made
conspicuously vacant by his absence.</p>
<div class='c011'><span class='sc'>Henry Watterson</span>.</div>

<p class='c018'><span class='sc'>Louisville</span>, <i>February 9, 1890</i>.</p>
<div class='pbb'>
 <hr class='pb c007' />
</div>
<div id='p008'  class='figcenter id003'>
<span class='pageno' id='Page_8'>8</span>
<img src='images/p008.jpg' alt='' class='ig001' />
<div class='ic002'>
<p>THE HOME OF GRADY’S BOYHOOD, ATHENS.</p>
</div>
</div>
<div class='pbb'>
 <hr class='pb c007' />
</div>
<div class='chapter'>
  <span class='pageno' id='Page_9'>9</span>
  <h2 class='c012'>BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCH<br /><span class='xsmall'>OF</span><br />HENRY W. GRADY.</h2>
</div>
<hr class='c013' />

<div class='nf-center-c0'>
<div class='nf-center c000'>
    <div><span class='sc'>By Joel Chandler Harris.</span></div>
  </div>
</div>

<hr class='c019' />
<p class='drop-capa0_25_0_7 c020'>ORDINARILY, it is not a difficult matter to write a
biographical sketch. Here are the dates, one in
faded ink in an old Bible, the other glistening under the
morning sun, or the evening stars, on the cold gravestone.
Here is the business, the occupation, the profession, success
or failure—a little scrap of paper here and there, and
beyond and above everything, the fact of death; of death
that, in a pitiful way, becomes as perfunctory as any other
fact or event. Ordinarily, there is no difficulty in grouping
these things, throwing in a word of eulogy here and there,
and sympathizing in a formal way with the friends and
relatives and the community in general.</p>

<p class='c018'>But to give adequate shape to even the slightest sketch
of the unique personality and the phenomenal career of
Henry Woodfin Grady, who died, as it were, but yesterday,
is well-nigh impossible; for here was a life that has no
parallel in our history, productive as our institutions have
been of individuality. A great many Americans have
achieved fame in their chosen professions,—have won
distinction and commanded the popular approval, but here
is a career which is so unusual as to have no precedent.
In recalling to mind the names of those who have been
most conspicuously successful in touching the popular
heart, one fact invariably presents itself—the fact of office.
It is not, perhaps, an American fact peculiarly, but it seems
to be so, since the proud and the humble, the great and the
<span class='pageno' id='Page_10'>10</span>small, all seem willing to surrender to its influence. It is
the natural order of things that an American who is ambitious—who
is willing, as the phrase goes, to serve the
people (and it is a pretty as well as a popular phrase)—should
have an eye on some official position, more or less
important, which he would be willing to accept even at a
sacrifice if necessary. This is the American plan, and it
has been so sanctified by history and custom that the
modern reformers, who propose to apply a test of fitness to
the office-seekers, are hooted at as Pharisees. After our
long and promiscuous career of office-seeking and office-holding,
a test of fitness seems to be a monarchical invention
which has for its purpose the destruction of our republican
institutions.</p>

<p class='c018'>It is true that some of the purest and best men in our
history have held office, and have sought it, and this fact
gives additional emphasis to one feature of Henry Grady’s
career. He never sought office, and he was prompt
to refuse it whenever it was brought within his reach. On
one occasion a tremendous effort was made to induce him
to become a candidate for Congress in the Atlanta district.
The most prominent people in the district urged him, his
friends implored him, and a petition largely signed was
presented to him. Never before in Georgia has a citizen
been formally petitioned by so large a number of his fellow-citizens
to accept so important an office. Mr. Grady
regarded the petition with great curiosity. He turned it
over in his mind and played with it in a certain boyish and
impulsive way that belonged to everything he did and that
was one of the most charming elements of his character.
His response to the petition is worth giving here. He was,
as he said, strongly tempted to improve a most flattering
opportunity. He then goes on to read a lesson to the
young men of the South that is still timely, though it was
written in 1882. He says:</p>

<p class='c021'>When I was eighteen years of age, I adopted journalism as my profession.
After thirteen years of service, in which I have had various
fortunes, I can say that I have never seen a day when I regretted my
<span class='pageno' id='Page_11'>11</span>choice. On the contrary, I have seen the field of journalism so
enlarged, its possibilities so widened, and its influence so extended, that
I have come to believe earnestly that no man, no matter what his calling,
his elevation, or his opportunity, can equal in dignity, honor and
usefulness the journalist who comprehends his position, fairly
measures his duties, and gives himself entirely and unselfishly to his
work. But journalism is a jealous profession, and demands the fullest
allegiance of those who seek its honors or emoluments. Least of all
things can it be made the aid of the demagogue, or the handmaid of
the politician. The man who uses his journal to subserve his political
ambition, or writes with a sinister or personal purpose, soon loses his
power, and had best abandon a profession he has betrayed. Within
my memory there are frequent and striking examples of men who have
sacrificed the one profession, only to be sacrificed in the other. History
has not recorded the name of a single man who has been great enough
to succeed in both. Therefore, devoted as I am to my profession,
believing as I do that there is more of honor and usefulness for me
along its way than in another path, and that my duty is clear and
unmistakable, I am constrained to reaffirm in my own mind and to
declare to you the resolution I made when I entered journalism,
namely, that as long as I remain in its ranks I will never become a candidate
for any political office, or draw a dollar from any public treasury.
This rule I have never broken, and I hope I never shall. As a matter
of course, every young man of health and spirit must have ambition,
I think it has been the curse of the South that our young men have
considered little else than political preferment worthy of an ambitious
thought. There is a fascination about the applause of the hustings
that is hard to withstand. Really, there is no career that brings so
much of unhappiness and discontent—so much of subservience, sacrifice,
and uncertainty as that of the politician. Never did the South
offer so little to her young men in the direction of politics as she does
at present. Never did she offer so much in other directions. As for
me, my ambition is a simple one. I shall be satisfied with the labors
of my life if, when those labors are over, my son, looking abroad upon
a better and grander Georgia—a Georgia that has filled the destiny God
intended her for—when her towns and cities are hives of industry, and
her country-side the exhaustless fields from which their stores are
drawn—when every stream dances on its way to the music of spindles,
and every forest echoes back the roar of the passing train—when her
valleys smile with abundant harvests, and from her hillsides come the
tinkling of bells as her herds and flocks go forth from their folds—when
more than two million people proclaim her perfect independence,
and bless her with their love—I shall be more than content, I say, if
my son, looking upon such scenes as these, can stand up and say:</p>

<p class='c022'><span class='pageno' id='Page_12'>12</span>“My father bore a part in this work, and his name lives in the
memory of this people.”</p>

<p class='c022'>While I am forced, therefore, to decline to allow the use of my
name as you request, I cannot dismiss your testimonial, unprecedented,
I believe, in its character and compass, without renewing my thanks
for the generous motives that inspired it. Life can bring me no
sweeter satisfaction than comes from this expression of confidence and
esteem from the people with whom I live, and among whom I expect
to die. You have been pleased to commend the work I may have done
for the old State we love so well. Rest assured that you have to-day
repaid me amply for the past, and have strengthened me for whatever
duty may lie ahead.</p>

<p class='c023'>Brief as it is, this is a complete summary of Mr.
Grady’s purpose so far as politics were concerned. It is
the key-note of his career. He was ambitious—he was fired
with that “noble discontent,” born of genius, that spurs
men to action, but he lacked the selfishness that leads to
office-seeking. It is not to be supposed, however, that he
scorned politics. He had unbounded faith in the end and
aim of certain principles of government, and he had unlimited
confidence in the honesty and justice of the people
and in the destiny of the American Union—in the future
of the Republic.</p>

<p class='c018'>What was the secret of his popularity? By what methods
did he win the affections of people who never saw his
face or heard his voice? His aversion to office was not
generally known—indeed, men who regarded him in the
light of rivalry, and who had access to publications neither
friendly nor appreciative, had advertised to the contrary.
By them it was hinted that he was continually seeking
office and employing for that purpose all the secret arts of
the demagogue. Yet, in the face of these sinister intimations,
he died the best beloved and the most deeply
lamented man that Georgia has ever produced, and, to crown
it all, he died a private citizen, sacrificing his life in behalf
of a purpose that was neither personal nor sectional, but
grandly national in its aims.</p>

<p class='c018'>In the last intimate conversation he had with the writer
of this, Mr. Grady regretted that there were people in
<span class='pageno' id='Page_13'>13</span>Georgia who misunderstood his motives and intentions.
We were on the train going from Macon to Eatonton, where
he was to speak.</p>

<p class='c018'>“I am going to Eatonton solely because you seem to
have your heart set on it,” he said. “There are people
who will say that I am making a campaign in my own
behalf, and you will hear it hinted that I am going about
the State drumming up popularity for the purpose of running
for some office.”</p>

<p class='c018'>The idea seemed to oppress him, and though he never
bore malice against a human being, he was keenly hurt at
any interpretation of his motives that included selfishness
or self-seeking among them. In this way, he was often
deeply wounded by men who ought to have held up his
hands.</p>

<p class='c018'>When he died, those who had wronged him, perhaps
unintentionally, by attributing to him a selfish ambition
that he never had, were among the first to do justice to his
motives. Their haste in this matter (there are two instances
in my mind) has led me to believe that their instinct at
the last was superior to their judgment. I have recently
read again nearly all the political editorials contributed to
the <i>Constitution</i> by Mr. Grady during the last half-dozen
years. Taken together, they make a remarkable showing.
They manifest an extraordinary growth, not in
style or expression—for all the graces of composition
were fully developed in Mr. Grady’s earliest
writings—but in lofty aim, in the high and patriotic purpose
that is to be found at its culmination in his Boston
speech. I mention the Boston speech because it is the last
serious effort he made. Reference might just as well have
been made to the New England speech, or to the Elberton
speech, or to the little speech he delivered at Eatonton,
and which was never reported. In each and all of these
there is to be found the qualities that are greater than literary
nimbleness or rhetorical fluency—the qualities that
kindle the fires of patriotism and revive and restore the
love of country.</p>

<p class='c018'><span class='pageno' id='Page_14'>14</span>In his Eatonton speech, Mr. Grady was particularly
happy in his references to a restored Union and a common
country, and his earnestness and his eloquence were as
conscientious there as if he were speaking to the largest
and most distinguished audience in the world, and as if his
address were to be printed in all the newspapers of the
land. I am dwelling on these things in order to show that
there was nothing affected or perfunctory in Mr. Grady’s
attitude. He had political enemies in the State—men who,
at some turn in their career, had felt the touch and influence
of his hand, or thought they did—and these men were
always ready, through their small organs and mouthpieces,
to belittle his efforts and to dash their stale small beer
across the path of this prophet of the New South, who
strove to impress his people with his own brightness and
to lead them into the sunshine that warmed his own life
and made it beautiful. Perhaps these things should not
be mentioned in a sketch that can only be general in its
nature; and yet they afford a key to Mr. Grady’s character;
they supply the means of getting an intimate glimpse
of his motives. That the thoughtless and ill-tempered
criticisms of his contemporaries wounded him is beyond
question. They troubled him greatly, and he used to talk
about them to his co-workers with the utmost freedom.
But they never made him malicious. He always had some
excuse to offer for those who misinterpreted him, and no
attack, however bitter, was ever made on his motives, that
he could not find a reasonable excuse for in some genial
and graceful way.</p>

<p class='c018'>The great point about this man was that he never bore
malice. His heart was too tender and his nature too generous.
The small jealousies, and rivalries, and envies that
appertain to life, and, indeed, are a definite part of it,
never touched him in the slightest degree. He was conscious
of the growth of his powers, and he watched their
development with the curiosity and enthusiasm of a boy,
but the egotism that is based on arrogance or self-esteem
he had no knowledge of. The consciousness of the purity
<span class='pageno' id='Page_15'>15</span>of his motives gave him strength and power in a direction
where most other public men are weak. This same consciousness
gave a breadth, an ardor, and an impulsiveness
to his actions and utterances that seem to be wholly lacking
in the lives of other public men who have won the
applause of the public. The secret of this it would be
difficult to define. When his companions in the office
insisted that it was his duty to prepare at least an outline
of his speeches so that the newspapers could have the
benefit of such a basis, the suggestion fretted him. His
speech at the annual banquet of the New England Society,
which created such a tremendous sensation, was an
impromptu effort from beginning to end. It was the creature
of the occasion. Fortunately, a reporter of the New York
<i>Tribune</i> was present, and he has preserved for us something
of the flavor and finish of the words which the young
Southerner uttered on his first introduction to a Northern
audience. The tremendous impression that he made, however,
has never been recorded. There was a faint echo of
it in the newspapers, a buzz and a stir in the hotel lobbies,
but all that was said was inadequate to explain why these
sons of New England, accustomed as they were to eloquence
of the rarer kind, as the volumes of their proceedings
show, rose to their feet and shouted themselves hoarse
over the simple and impromptu effort of this young
Georgian.</p>

<p class='c018'>Mr. Grady attended the New England banquet for the
purpose of making a mere formal response to the toast of
“The South,” but, as he said afterwards, there was something
in the scene that was inspiring. Near him sat General
Tecumseh Sherman, who marched through Georgia
with fire and sword, and all around him were the fat and
jocund sons of New England who had prospered by the
results of the war while his own people had had the direst
poverty for their portion. “When I found myself on my
feet,” he said, describing the scene on his return, “every
nerve in my body was strung as tight as a fiddle-string, and
all tingling. I knew then that I had a message for that
<span class='pageno' id='Page_16'>16</span>assemblage, and as soon as I opened my mouth it came
rushing out.”</p>

<p class='c018'>That speech, as we all know, was an achievement in
its way. It stirred the whole country from one end to the
other, and made Mr. Grady famous. Invitations to speak
poured in upon him from all quarters, and he at last decided
to deliver an address at Dallas, Texas. His friends advised
him to prepare the speech in advance, especially as many of
the newspapers of the country would be glad to have proofs
of it to be used when it was delivered. He saw how essential
this would be, but the preparation of a speech in cold blood
(as he phrased it) was irksome to him, and failed to meet the
approval of his methods, which were as responsive to the
occasion as the report of the thunder-clap is to the lightning’s
flash. He knew that he could depend on these
methods in all emergencies and under all circumstances,
and he felt that only by depending on them could he do
himself justice before an audience. The one characteristic
of all his speeches, as natural to his mind as it was surprising
to the minds of others, was the ease and felicity
with which he seized on suggestions born of the moment
and growing out of his immediate surroundings. It might
be some incident occurring to the audience, some failure in
the programme, some remark of the speaker introducing
him, or some unlooked-for event; but, whatever it was, he
seized it and compelled it to do duty in pointing a beautiful
moral, or he made it the basis of that swift and genial
humor that was a feature not only of his speeches, but of
his daily life.</p>

<p class='c018'>He was prevailed on, however, to prepare his Dallas
speech in advance. It was put in type in the <i>Constitution</i>
office, carefully revised, and proof slips sent out to a number
of newspapers. Mr. Grady’s journey from Atlanta to
Dallas, which was undertaken in a special car, was in the
nature of an ovation. He was met at every station by large
crowds, and his appearance created an enthusiasm that is
indescribable. No such tribute as this has ever before been
paid, under any circumstances, to any private American
<span class='pageno' id='Page_17'>17</span>citizen, and it is to be doubted whether even any public
official, no matter how exalted his station, has ever been
greeted with such hearty and spontaneous enthusiasm.
His reception in Dallas was the culmination of the series
of ovations through which he had passed. Some sort of
programme had been arranged by a committee, but the
crowds trampled on this, and the affair took the shape of
an American hullaballoo, so to speak, and, as such, it was
greatly enjoyed by Mr. Grady.</p>

<p class='c018'>Meanwhile, the programme that had been arranged for
the speech-making was fully carried out. The young editor
completely captured the vast crowd that had assembled
to hear him. This information had been promptly carried
to the <i>Constitution</i> office by private telegrams, and everything
was made ready for giving the speech to the public
the next morning; but during the afternoon this telegram
came:</p>

<p class='c021'>“<i>Suppress speech: It has been entirely changed.
Notify other papers.</i>”</p>

<p class='c023'>At the last moment, his mind full of the suggestions of
his surroundings, he felt that the prepared speech could
not be depended on, and he threw it away. It was a great
relief to him, he told me afterward, to be able to do this.
Whatever in the prepared speech seemed to be timely he
used, but he departed entirely from the line of it at every
point, and the address that the Texans heard was mainly
an impromptu one. It created immense enthusiasm, and
confirmed the promise of the speech before the New England
Society.</p>

<p class='c018'>The speech before the University of Virginia was also
prepared beforehand, but Mr. Grady made a plaything of
the preparation before his audience. “I was never so thoroughly
convinced of Mr. Grady’s power,” said the Hon.
Guyton McLendon, of Thomasville, to the writer, “as
when I heard him deliver this speech.” Mr. McLendon had
accompanied him on his journey to Charlottesville. “We
<span class='pageno' id='Page_18'>18</span>spent a day in Washington,” said Mr. McLendon, recalling
the incidents of the trip. “The rest of the party rode
around the capital looking at the sights, but Mr. Grady,
myself, and one or two others remained in the car. While
we were waiting there, Mr. Grady read me the printed slips
of his speech, and I remember that it made a great impression
on me. I thought it was good enough for any occasion,
but Mr. Grady seemed to have his doubts about it.
He examined it critically two or three times, and made
some alterations. Finally he laid it away. When he did
come to deliver the speech, I was perhaps the most astonished
person you ever saw. I expected to hear again the
speech that had been read to me in the Pullman coach, but
I heard a vastly different and a vastly better one. He used
the old speech only where it was most timely and most
convenient. The incident of delivering the prize to a young
student who had won it on a literary exercise of some sort,
started Mr. Grady off in a new vein and on a new line, and
after that he used the printed speech merely to fill out with
here and there. It was wonderful how he could break
away from it and come back to it, fitting the old with the
new in a beautiful and harmonious mosaic. If anybody
had told me that the human mind was capable of such a
performance as this on the wing and in the air, so to speak,
I shouldn’t have believed it. To me it was a wonderful
manifestation of genius, and I knew then, for the first
time, that there was no limit to Mr. Grady’s power and
versatility as a speaker.”</p>

<p class='c018'>In his speeches in the country towns of Georgia and
before the farmers, Mr. Grady made no pretense of preparation.
His private secretary, Mr. James R. Holliday,
caught and wrote out the pregnant paragraphs that go to
make up his Elberton speech, which was the skeleton and
outline on which he based his speeches to the farmers.
Each speech, as might be supposed, was a beautiful variation
of this rural theme to which he was wedded, but the
essential part of the Elberton speech was the bone and
marrow of all. I think there is no passage in our modern
<span class='pageno' id='Page_19'>19</span>literature equal in its effectiveness and pathos to his
picture of a Southern farmer’s home. It was a matter on
which his mind dwelt. There was that in his nature to
which both sun and soil appealed. The rain falling on a
fallow field, the sun shining on the bristling and waving
corn, and the gentle winds of heaven blowing over all—he
was never tired of talking of these, and his talk always
took the shape of a series of picturesque descriptions. He
appreciated their spiritual essence as well as their material
meaning, and he surrendered himself entirely to all the
wholesome suggestions that spring from the contemplation
of rural scenes.</p>

<p class='c018'>I suppose it is true that all men—except those who
are brought in daily contact with the practical and prosy
side of it—have a longing for a country life. Mr. Grady’s
longing in that direction took the shape of a passion that
was none the less serious and earnest because he knew it
was altogether romantic. In the Spring of 1889, the matter
engaged his attention to such an extent, that he commissioned
a compositor in the <i>Constitution</i> office to purchase
a suburban farm. He planned it all out beforehand, and
knew just where the profits were to come in. His descriptions
of his imaginary farm were inimitable, and the
details, as he gave them out, were marked by the rare
humor with which he treated the most serious matters.
There was to be an old-fashioned spring in a clump of large
oak-trees on the place, meadows of orchard grass and clover,
through which mild-eyed Jerseys were to wander at
will, and in front of the house there was to be a barley
patch gloriously green, and a colt frolicking and capering
in it. The farm was of course a dream, but it was a very
beautiful one while it lasted, and he dwelt on it with an
earnestness that was quite engaging to those who enjoyed
his companionship. The farm was a dream, but he no
doubt got more enjoyment and profit out of it than a great
many prosy people get out of the farms that are real.
Insubstantial as it was, Mr. Grady’s farm served to relieve
the tension of a mind that was always busy with the larger
<span class='pageno' id='Page_20'>20</span>affairs of this busy and stirring age, and many a time when
he grew tired of the incessant demands made on his time
and patience he would close the door of his room with a
bang and instruct the office-boy to tell all callers that he
had “gone to his farm.” The fat cows that grazed there
lowed their welcome, the chickens cackled to see him come,
and the colt capered nimbly in the green expanse of barley—children
of his dreams all, but all grateful and restful
to a busy mind.</p>
<h3 class='c016'>II.</h3>

<p class='c024'>In this hurriedly written sketch, which is thrown
together to meet the modern exigencies of publishing, the
round, and full, and complete biography cannot be looked
for. There is no time here for the selection and arrangement
in an orderly way of the details of this busy and
brilliant life. Under the circumstances, even the hand of
affection can only touch it here and there so swiftly and so
lightly that the random result must be inartistic and unsatisfactory.
It was at such moments as these—moments of
hurry and high-pressure—that Mr. Grady was at his best.
His hand was never surer,—the machinery of his mind was
never more responsive to the tremendous demands he made
on it,—than when the huge press of the <i>Constitution</i> was
waiting his orders; when the forms were waiting to be
closed, when the compositors were fretting and fuming for
copy, and when, perhaps, an express train was waiting ten
minutes over its time to carry the <i>Constitution</i> to its subscribers.
All his faculties were trained to meet emergencies;
and he was never happier than when meeting them,
whether in a political campaign, in conventions, in local
issues, or in the newspaper business as correspondent or
managing editor. Pressed by the emergency of his death,
which to me was paralyzing, and by the necessity of haste,
which, at this juncture, is confusing, these reminiscences
have taken on a disjointed shape sadly at variance with
the demands of literary art. Let me, therefore, somewhere
in the middle, begin at the beginning.</p>

<p class='c018'><span class='pageno' id='Page_21'>21</span>Henry Woodfin Grady was born in Athens, Georgia,
on the 24th of April, 1850. As a little boy he was the
leader of all the little boys of his acquaintance—full of
that moral audacity that takes the lead in all innocent and
healthy sports. An old gentleman, whose name I have
forgotten, came into the <i>Constitution</i> editorial rooms
shortly after Mr. Grady delivered the New England banquet
speech, to say that he knew Henry when a boy. I
listened with interest, but the memory of what he said is
vague. I remember that his reminiscences had a touch of
enthusiasm, going to show that the little boy was attractive
enough to make a deep impression on his elders. He had,
even when a child, all those qualities that draw attention
and win approval. It is easy to believe that he was a somewhat
boisterous boy. Even after he had a family of his
own, and when he was supposed (as the phrase is) to have
settled down, he still remained a boy to all intents and
purposes. His vitality was inexhaustible, and his flow of
animal spirits unceasing. In all athletic sports and out-door
exercises he excelled while at school and college, and
it is probable that his record as a boxer, wrestler, sprinter,
and an all-around athlete is more voluminous than his
record for scholarship. To the very last, his enthusiasm
for these sports was, to his intimate friends, one of the
most interesting characteristics of this many-sided man.</p>

<p class='c018'>One of his characteristics as a boy, and it was a characteristic
that clung to him through all his life, was his
love and sympathy for the poor and lowly, for the destitute
and the forlorn. This was one of the problems of life
that he could never understand,—why, in the economy of
Providence, some human beings should be rich and happy,
and others poor and friendless. When a very little child
he began to try to solve the problem in his own way. It
was a small way, indeed, but if all who are fortunately
situated should make the same effort charity would cause
the whole world to smile, and Heaven could not possibly
withhold the rich promise of its blessings. From his earliest
childhood, Mr. Grady had a fondness for the negro
<span class='pageno' id='Page_22'>22</span>race. He was fond of the negroes because they were
dependent, his heart went out to them because he understood
and appreciated their position. When he was two
years old, he had a little negro boy named Isaac to wait on
him. He always called this negro “Brother Isaac,” and
he would cry bitterly, if any one told him that Isaac was not
his brother. As he grew older his interest in the negroes
and his fondness for them increased. Until he was eight
or nine years old he always called his mother “Dear
mother,” and when the weather was very cold, he had a
habit of waking in the night and saying: “Dear mother,
do you think the servants have enough cover? It’s so cold,
and I want them to be warm.” His first thought was
always for the destitute and the lowly—for those who were
dependent on him or on others. At home he always shared
his lunch with the negro children, and after the slaves were
freed, and were in such a destitute condition, scarcely a
week passed that some forlorn-looking negro boy did not
bring his mother a note something like this: “<span class='sc'>Dear
Mother</span>: Please give this child something to eat. He
looks so hungry. H. W. G.” It need not be said that no
one bearing credentials signed by this thoughtful and
unselfish boy was ever turned away hungry from the Grady
door. It may be said, too, that his love and sympathy for
the negroes was fully appreciated by that race. His
mother says that she never had a servant during all his
life that was not devoted to him, and never knew one to
be angry or impatient with him. He could never bear to
see any one angry or unhappy about him. As a child he
sought to heal the wounds of the sorrowing, and to the
last, though he was worried by the vast responsibilities he
had taken on his shoulders and disturbed by the thoughtless
demands made on his time and patience, he suffered more
from the sorrows of others than from any troubles of his
own. When he went to school, he carried the same qualities
of sympathy and unselfishness that had made him
charming as a child. If, among his school-mates, there
was to be found a poor or a delicate child, he took that
<span class='pageno' id='Page_23'>23</span>child under his especial care, and no one was allowed to
trouble it in any way.</p>

<p class='c018'>Shortly after he graduated at the State University, an
event occurred that probably decided Mr. Grady’s future
career. In an accidental way he went on one of the
annual excursions of the Georgia Press Association as the
correspondent of the <i>Constitution</i>. His letters describing
the incidents of the trip were written over the signature of
“King Hans.”</p>

<p class='c018'>They were full of that racy humor that has since
become identified with a large part of Mr. Grady’s journalistic
work. They had a flavor of audacity about them, and
that sparkling suggestiveness that goes first by one name
and then another, but is chiefly known as individuality.
The letters created a sensation among the editors. There
was not much that was original or interesting in Georgia
journalism in that day and time. The State was in the
hands of the carpet-baggers, and the newspapers reflected
in a very large degree the gloom and the hopelessness of
that direful period. The editors abused the Republicans
in their editorial columns day after day, and made no
effort to enlarge their news service, or to increase the scope
of their duties or their influence. Journalism in Georgia,
in short, was in a rut, and there it was content to jog.</p>

<p class='c018'>Though the “King Hans” letters were the production
of a boy, their humor, their aptness, their illuminating
power (so to say), their light touch, and their suggestiveness,
showed that a new star had arisen. They created a
lively diversion among the gloomy-minded editors for a
while, and then the procession moved sadly forward in the
old ruts. But the brief, fleeting, and humorous experience
that Mr. Grady had as the casual correspondent of the
<i>Constitution</i> decided him. Perhaps this was his bent
after all, and that what might be called a happy accident
was merely a fortunate incident that fate had arranged, for
to this beautiful and buoyant nature fate seemed to be
always kind. Into his short life it crowded its best and
dearest gifts. All manner of happiness was his—the happiness
<span class='pageno' id='Page_24'>24</span>of loving and of being beloved—the happiness of
doing good in directions that only the Recording Angel
could follow—and before he died Fame came and laid a
wreath of flowers at his feet. Fate or circumstance carried
him into journalism. His “King Hans” letters had
attracted attention to him, and it seemed natural that he
should follow this humorous experiment into a more serious
field.</p>

<p class='c018'>He went to Rome not long afterwards, and became
editor of the Rome <i>Courier</i>. The <i>Courier</i> was the
oldest paper in the city, and therefore the most substantial.
It was, in fact, a fine piece of property. But the
town was a growing town, and the <i>Courier</i> had rivals, the
Rome <i>Daily</i>, if my memory serves me, and the Rome <i>Commercial</i>.
Just how long Mr. Grady edited the <i>Courier</i>, I
have no record of; but one fine morning, he thought he
discovered a “ring” of some sort in the village. I do not
know whether it was a political or a financial ring. We
have had so many of these rings in one shape or another
that I will not trust my memory to describe it; but it was
a ring, and probably one of the first that dared to engage
in business. Mr. Grady wrote a fine editorial denouncing
it, but when the article was submitted to the proprietor,
he made some objection. He probably thought that some
of his patrons would take offense at the strong language
Mr. Grady had used. After some conversation on the subject,
the proprietor of the <i>Courier</i> flatly objected to the
appearance of the editorial in his paper. Mr. Grady was
about eighteen years old then, with views and a little
money of his own. In the course of a few hours he had
bought out the two opposing papers, consolidated them,
and his editorial attack on the ring appeared the next
morning in the Rome <i>Daily Commercial</i>. It happened on
the same morning that the two papers, the <i>Courier</i> and the
<i>Daily Commercial</i>, both appeared with the name of Henry
W. Grady as editor. The ring, or whatever it was, was
smashed. Nobody heard anything more of it, and the
<i>Commercial</i> was greeted by its esteemed contemporaries as
<span class='pageno' id='Page_25'>25</span>a most welcome addition to Georgia journalism. It was
bright and lively, and gave Rome a new vision of herself.</p>

<p class='c018'>It was left to the <i>Commercial</i> to discover that Rome was
a city set on the hills, and that she ought to have an advertising
torch in her hands. The <i>Commercial</i>, however, was
only an experiment. It was run, as Mr. Grady told me
long afterwards, as an amateur casual. He had money to
spend on it, and he gave it a long string to go on. Occasionally
he would fill it up with his bright fancies, and then
he would neglect it for days at a time, and it would then be
edited by the foreman. It was about this time that I met Mr.
Grady. We had had some correspondence. He was appreciative,
and whatever struck his fancy he had a quick
response for. Some foolish paragraph of mine had
appealed to his sense of humor, and he pursued the matter
with a sympathetic letter that made a lasting impression.
The result of that letter was that I went to Rome, pulled
him from his flying ponies, and had a most enjoyable visit.
From Rome we went to Lookout Mountain, and it is needless
to say that he was the life of the party. He was its
body, its spirit, and its essence. We found, in our journey,
a dissipated person who could play on the zither. Just
how important that person became, those who remember
Mr. Grady’s pranks can imagine. The man with the zither
took the shape of a minstrel, and in that guise he went
with us, always prepared to make music, which he had
often to do in response to Mr. Grady’s demands.</p>

<p class='c018'>Rome, however, soon ceased to be large enough for the
young editor. Atlanta seemed to offer the widest field,
and he came here, and entered into partnership with Colonel
Robert A. Alston and Alex St. Clair-Abrams. It was
a queer partnership, but there was much that was congenial
about it. Colonel Alston was a typical South Carolinian,
and Abrams was a Creole. It would be difficult to get
together three more impulsive and enterprising partners.
Little attention was paid to the business office. The principal
idea was to print the best newspaper in the South,
and for a time this scheme was carried out in a magnificent
<span class='pageno' id='Page_26'>26</span>way that could not last. Mr. Grady never bothered himself
about the finances, and the other editors were not
familiar with the details of business. The paper they published
attracted more attention from newspaper men than
it did from the public, and it was finally compelled to suspend.
Its good will—and it had more good will than capital—was
sold to the <i>Constitution</i>, which had been managed
in a more conservative style. It is an interesting fact,
however, that Mr. Grady’s experiments in the <i>Herald</i>,
which were failures, were successful when tried on the
<i>Constitution</i>, whose staff he joined when Captain Evan
P. Howell secured a controlling interest. And yet Mr.
Grady’s development as a newspaper man was not as
rapid as might be supposed. He was employed by the
<i>Constitution</i> as a reporter, and his work was intermittent.</p>

<p class='c018'>One fact was fully developed by Mr. Grady’s early work
on the <i>Constitution</i>,—namely, that he was not fitted for
the routine work of a reporter. One day he would fill several
columns of the paper with his bright things, and then
for several days he would stand around in the sunshine
talking to his friends, and entertaining them with his racy
sayings. I have seen it stated in various shapes in books
and magazines that the art of conversation is dead. If it
was dead before Mr. Grady was born, it was left to him to
resurrect it. Charming as his pen was, it could bear no
reasonable comparison with his tongue. I am not alluding
here to his eloquence, but to his ordinary conversation.
When he had the incentive of sympathetic friends and
surroundings, he was the most fascinating talker I have
ever heard. General Toombs had large gifts in that
direction, but he bore no comparison in any respect to
Mr. Grady, whose mind was responsive to all suggestions
and to all subjects. The men who have made
large reputations as talkers have had the habit of selecting
their own subjects and treating them dogmatically. We
read of Coleridge buttonholing an acquaintance and talking
him to death on the street, and of Carlyle compelling
himself to be heard by sheer vociferousness. Mr. Grady
<span class='pageno' id='Page_27'>27</span>could have made the monologue as interesting as he did
his orations, but this was not his way. What he did was
to take up whatever commonplace subject was suggested,
and so charge it with his nimble wit and brilliant imagination
as to give it a new importance.</p>

<p class='c018'>It was natural, under the circumstances, that his home
in Atlanta should be the center of the social life of the city.
He kept open house, and, aided by his lovely wife and two
beautiful children, dispensed the most charming hospitality.
There was nothing more delightful than his home-life.
Whatever air or attitude he had to assume in business, at
home he was a rollicking and romping boy. He put aside all
dignity there, and his most distinguished guest was never
distinguished enough to put on the airs of formality that
are commonly supposed to be a part of social life. His
home was a typical one,—the center of his affections and
the fountain of all his joys—and he managed to make all
his friends feel what a sacred place it was. It was the
headquarters of all that is best and brightest in the social
and intellectual life of Atlanta, and many of the most distinguished
men of the country have enjoyed the dispensation
of his hospitality, which was simple and homelike,
having about it something of the flavor and ripeness of the
old Southern life.</p>

<p class='c018'>In writing of the life and career of a man as busy in so
many directions as Mr. Grady, one finds it difficult to
pursue the ordinary methods of biographical writing. One
finds it necessary, in order to give a clear idea of his
methods, which were his own in all respects, to be continually
harking back to some earlier period of his career. I
have alluded to his distaste for the routine of reportorial
work. The daily grind—the treadmill of trivial affairs—was
not attractive to him; but when there was a sensation
in the air—when something of unusual importance was
happening or about to happen—he was in his element. His
energy at such times was phenomenal. He had the faculty
of grasping all the details of an event, and the imagination
to group them properly so as to give them their full force
<span class='pageno' id='Page_28'>28</span>and effect. The result of this is shown very clearly in his
telegrams to the New York <i>Herald</i> and the <i>Constitution</i>
from Florida during the disputed count going on there in
1876 and the early part of 1877. Mr. Tilden selected Senator
Joseph E. Brown, among other prominent Democrats,
to proceed to Florida, and look after the Democratic case
there. Mr. Grady went as the special correspondent of the
New York <i>Herald</i> and the Atlanta <i>Constitution</i>, and
though he had for his competitors some of the most famous
special writers of the country, he easily led them all in the
brilliancy of his style, in the character of his work, and in
his knack of grouping together gossip and fact. He was
always proud of his work there; he was on his mettle, as
the saying is, and I think there is no question that, from a
journalist’s point of view, his letters and telegrams, covering
the history of what is known politically as the Florida
fraud, have no equal in the newspaper literature of the day.
There is no phase of that important case that his reports
do not cover, and they represent a vast amount of rapid
and accurate work—work in which the individuality of the
man is as prominent as his accuracy and impartiality. One
of the results of Mr. Grady’s visit to Florida, and his association
with the prominent politicians gathered there, was
to develop a confidence in his own powers and resources
that was exceedingly valuable to him when he came afterwards
to the management of the leading daily paper in the
South. He discovered that the men who had been successful
in business and in politics had no advantage over him
in any of the mental qualities and attributes that appertain
to success, and this discovery gave purpose and determination
to his ambition.</p>

<p class='c018'>Another fruitful fact in his career, which he used
to dwell on with great pleasure, was his association while
in Florida with Senator Brown—an association that
amounted to intimacy. Mr. Grady always had a very
great admiration for Senator Brown, but in Florida he had
the opportunity of working side by side with the Senator
and of studying the methods by which he managed
<span class='pageno' id='Page_29'>29</span>men and brought them within the circle of his powerful
influence. Mr. Grady often said that it was one of the
most instructive lessons of his life to observe the influence
which Senator Brown, feeble as he was in body, exerted on
men who were almost total strangers. The contest between
the politicians for the electoral vote of Florida was in the
nature of a still hunt, where prudence, judgment, skill,
and large knowledge of human nature were absolutely
essential. In such a contest as this, Senator Brown was
absolutely master of the situation, and Mr. Grady took
great delight in studying his methods, and in describing
them afterwards.</p>

<p class='c018'>Busy as Mr. Grady was in Florida with the politicians
and with his newspaper correspondence, he nevertheless
found time to make an exhaustive study of the material
resources of the State, and the result of this appeared in
the columns of the <i>Constitution</i> at a later date in the shape
of a series of letters that attracted unusual attention
throughout the country. This subject, the material
resources of the South, and the development of the section,
was always a favorite one with Mr. Grady. He
touched it freely from every side and point of view, and
made a feature of it in his newspaper work. To his mind
there was something more practical in this direction than
in the heat and fury of partisan politics. Whatever would
aid the South in a material way, develop her resources and
add to her capital, population, and industries, found in
him not only a ready, but an enthusiastic and a tireless
champion. He took great interest in politics, too, and
often made his genius for the management of men and
issues felt in the affairs of the State; but the routine of
politics—the discussion that goes on, like Tennyson’s
brook, forever and forever—were of far less importance in
his mind than the practical development of the South.
This seemed to be the burthen of his speeches, as it was of
all his later writings. He never tired of this subject, and
he discussed it with a brilliancy, a fervor, a versatility, and
a fluency marvelous enough to have made the reputation of
<span class='pageno' id='Page_30'>30</span>half a dozen men. Out of his contemplation of it grew the
lofty and patriotic purpose which drew attention to his
wonderful eloquence, and made him famous throughout
the country—the purpose to draw the two sections together
in closer bonds of union, fraternity, harmony, and good-will.
The real strength and symmetry of his career can
only be properly appreciated by those who take into consideration
the unselfishness with which he devoted himself
to this patriotic purpose. Instinctively the country seemed
to understand something of this, and it was this instinctive
understanding that caused him to be regarded with
affectionate interest and appreciation from one end of the
country to the other by people of all parties, classes, and
interests. It was this instinctive understanding that made
him at the close of his brief career one of the most conspicuous
Americans of modern times, and threw the whole
country into mourning at his death.</p>
<h3 class='c016'>III.</h3>

<p class='c024'>When in 1880 Mr. Grady bought a fourth interest in the
<i>Constitution</i>, he gave up, for the most part, all outside
newspaper work, and proceeded to devote his time and
attention to his duties as managing editor, for which he
was peculiarly well fitted. His methods were entirely his
own. He borrowed from no one. Every movement he
made in the field of journalism was stamped with the seal
of his genius. He followed no precedent. He provided
for every emergency as it arose, and some of his strokes of
enterprise were as bold as they were startling. He had a
rapid faculty of organization. This was shown on one
occasion when he determined to print official reports of the
returns of the congressional election in the seventh Georgia
district. Great interest was felt in the result all over the
State. An independent candidate was running against the
Democratic nominee, and the campaign was one of the liveliest
ever had in Georgia. Yet it is a district that lies
in the mountains and winds around and over them.
Ordinarily, it was sometimes a fortnight and frequently a
<span class='pageno' id='Page_31'>31</span>month before the waiting newspapers and the public knew
the official returns. Mr. Grady arranged for couriers with
relays of horses at all the remote precincts, and the majority
of them are remote from the lines of communication, and
his orders to these were to spare neither horse-flesh nor
money in getting the returns to the telegraph stations. At
important points, he had placed members of the <i>Constitution’s</i>
editorial and reportorial staff, who were to give the
night couriers the assistance and directions which their
interest and training would suggest. It was a tough piece
of work, but all the details and plans had been so perfectly
arranged that there was no miscarriage anywhere. One of
the couriers rode forty miles over the mountains, fording
rushing streams and galloping wildly over the rough roads.
It was a rough job, but he had been selected by Mr. Grady
especially for this piece of work; he was a tough man and
he had tough horses under him, and he reached the telegraph
station on time. This sort of thing was going on all
over the district, and the next morning the whole State
had the official returns. Other feats of modern newspaper
enterprise have been more costly and as successful, but
there is none that I can recall to mind showing a more
comprehensive grasp of the situation or betraying a more
daring spirit. It was a feat that appealed to the imagination,
and therefore on the Napoleonic order.</p>

<p class='c018'>And yet it is a singular fact that all his early journalistic
ventures were in the nature of failures. The Rome
<i>Commercial</i>, which he edited before he had attained his
majority, was a bright paper, but not financially successful.
Mr. Grady did some remarkably bold and brilliant
work on the Atlanta <i>Daily Herald</i>, but it was expensive
work, too, and the <i>Herald</i> died for lack of funds. Mr.
Marion J. Verdery, in his admirable memorial of Mr.
Grady, prepared for the Southern Society of New York
(which I have taken the liberty of embodying in this volume)
alludes to these failures of Mr. Grady, and a great
many of his admirers have been mystified by them. I
think the explanation is very simple. Mr. Grady was a
<span class='pageno' id='Page_32'>32</span>new and a surprising element in the field of journalism, and
his methods were beyond the comprehension of those who
had grown gray watching the dull and commonplace politicians
wielding their heavy pens as editors, and getting the
news accidentally, if at all. There are a great many people
in this world of ours—let us say the average people, in
order to be mathematically exact—who have to be educated
up to an appreciation of what is bright and beautiful,
or bold and interesting. Some of Mr. Grady’s methods
were new even in American journalism, and it is no
wonder that his dashing experiments with the <i>Daily Herald</i>
were failures, or that commonplace people regarded
them as crude and reckless manifestations of a purpose
and a desire to create a sensation. Moreover, it should be
borne in mind that when the <i>Daily Herald</i> was running
its special locomotives up and down the railroads of the
State, the field of journalism in Atlanta was exceedingly
narrow and provincial. The town had been rescued from
the village shape, but neither its population nor its progress
warranted the experiments on the <i>Herald</i>. They were
mistakes of time and place, but they were not mistakes of
conception and execution. They helped to educate and
enlighten the public, and to give that dull, clumsy, and
slow-moving body a taste of the spirit and purpose of
modern journalism. The public liked the taste that it got,
and smacked its lips over it and remembered it, and was
always ready after that to respond promptly to the efforts
of Mr. Grady to give it the work of his head and hands.</p>

<p class='c018'>Bright and buoyant as he was, his early failures in
journalism dazed and mortified him, but they did not leave
him depressed. If he had his hours of depression and
gloom he reserved them for himself. Even when all his
resources had been exhausted, he was the same genial,
witty, and appreciative companion, the center of attraction
wherever he went. The year 1876 was the turning-point
in his career in more ways than one. In the fall of that
year, Captain Evan P. Howell bought a controlling interest
in the <i>Constitution</i>. The day after the purchase was
<span class='pageno' id='Page_33'>33</span>made, Captain Howell met Mr. Grady, who was on his way
to the passenger station.</p>

<p class='c018'>“I was just hunting for you,” said Captain Howell.
“I want to have a talk with you.”</p>

<p class='c018'>“Well, you’ll have to talk mighty fast,” said Mr.
Grady. “Atlanta’s either too big for me, or I am too big
for Atlanta.”</p>

<p class='c018'>It turned out that the young editor, discomfited in
Atlanta, but not discouraged, was on his way to Augusta
to take charge of the <i>Constitutionalist</i> of that city. Captain
Howell offered him a position at once, which was
promptly accepted. There was no higgling or bargaining;
the two men were intimate friends; there was something
congenial in their humor, in their temperaments, and in a
certain fine audacity in political affairs that made the two
men invincible in Georgia politics from the day they began
working together. Before the train that was to bear Mr.
Grady to Augusta had steamed out of the station, he was
on his way to the <i>Constitution</i> office to enter on his duties,
and then and there practically began between the two men
a partnership as intimate in its relations of both friendship
and business as it was important on its bearings on the
wonderful success of the <i>Constitution</i> and on the local history
and politics of Georgia. It was an ideal partnership
in many respects, and covered almost every movement,
with one exception, that the two friends made. That
exception was the prohibition campaign in Atlanta, that
attracted such widespread attention throughout the country.
Mr. Grady represented the prohibitionists and Captain
Howell the anti-prohibitionists, and it was one of the
most vigorous and amusing campaigns the town has ever
witnessed. Each partner was the chief speaker of the side
he represented, and neither lost an opportunity to tell a
good-humored joke at the other’s expense. Thus, while
the campaign was an earnest one in every respect, and even
embittered to some small extent by the thoughtless utterances
of those who seem to believe that moral issues can
best be settled by a display of fanaticism, the tension was
<span class='pageno' id='Page_34'>34</span>greatly relieved by the wit, the humor, the good nature
and the good sense which the two leaders injected into the
canvas.</p>

<p class='c018'>The sentimental side of Mr. Grady’s character was more
largely and more practically developed than that of any
other person I have ever seen. In the great majority of
cases sentiment develops into a sentimentality that is sometimes
maudlin, sometimes officious, and frequently offensive.
In most people it develops as the weakest and least
attractive side of their character. It was the stronghold of
Mr. Grady’s nature. It enveloped his whole career, to use
Matthew Arnold’s phrase, in sweetness and light, and
made his life a real dispensation in behalf of the lives of
others. Wherever he found suffering and sorrow, no matter
how humble—wherever he found misery, no matter how
coarse and degraded, he struck hands with them then and
there, and wrapped them about and strengthened them
with his abundant sympathy. Until he could give them
relief in some shape, he became their partner, and a very
active and energetic partner he was. I have often thought
that his words of courage and cheer, always given with a
light and humorous touch to hide his own feelings, was
worth more than the rich man’s grudging gift. It was this
side of Mr. Grady’s nature that caused him to turn with
such readiness to the festivities of Christmas. He was a
great admirer of Charles Dickens, especially of that writer’s
Christmas literature. It was an ideal season with Mr.
Grady, and it presented itself to his mind less as a holiday
time than as an opportunity to make others happy—the
rich as well as the poor. He had a theory that the rich
who have become poor by accident or misfortune suffer the
stings of poverty more keenly than the poor who have
always been poor, for the reason that they are not qualified
to fight against conditions that are at once strange and
crushing. Several Christmases ago, I had the pleasure of
witnessing a little episode in which he illustrated his
theory to his own satisfaction as well as to mine.</p>

<p class='c018'>On that particular Christmas eve, there was living in
<span class='pageno' id='Page_35'>35</span>Atlanta an old gentleman who had at one time been one of
the leading citizens of the town. He had in fact been a
powerful influence in the politics of the State, but the war
swept away his possessions, and along with them all the
conditions and surroundings that had enabled him to maintain
himself comfortably. His misfortunes came on him
when he was too old to begin the struggle with life anew
with any reasonable hope of success. He gave way to a
disposition that had been only convivial in his better days
when he had hope and pride to sustain him, and he sank
lower until he had nearly reached the gutter.</p>

<p class='c018'>I joined Mr. Grady as he left the office, and we walked
slowly down the street enjoying the kaleidoscopic view of
the ever-shifting, ever hurrying crowd as it swept along the
pavements. In all that restless and hastening throng there
seemed to be but one man bent on no message of enjoyment
or pleasure, and he was old and seedy-looking. He
was gazing about him in an absent-minded way. The
weather was not cold, but a disagreeable drizzle was falling.</p>

<p class='c018'>“Yonder is the Judge,” said Mr. Grady, pointing to
the seedy-looking old man. “Let’s go and see what he is
going to have for Christmas.”</p>

<p class='c018'>I found out long afterwards that the old man had long
been a pensioner on Mr. Grady’s bounty, but there was
nothing to suggest this in the way in which the young
editor approached the Judge. His manner was the very
perfection of cordiality and consideration, though there
was just a touch of gentle humor in his bright eyes.</p>

<p class='c018'>“It isn’t too early to wish you a merry Christmas, I
hope,” said Mr. Grady, shaking hands with the old man.</p>

<p class='c018'>“No, no,” replied the Judge, straightening himself up
with dignity; “not at all. The same to you, my boy.”</p>

<p class='c018'>“Well,” remarked Mr. Grady lightly, “you ought to
be fixing up for it. I’m not as old as you are, and I’ve got
lots of stirring around and shopping to do if I have any fun
at home.”</p>

<p class='c018'>The eyes of the Judge sought the ground. “No. I
was—ah—just considering.” Then he looked up into the
laughing but sympathetic eyes of the boyish young fellow,
<span class='pageno' id='Page_36'>36</span>and his dignity sensibly relaxed. “I was only—ah—Grady,
let me see you a moment.”</p>

<p class='c018'>The two walked to the edge of the pavement, and talked
together some little time. I did not overhear the conversation,
but learned afterwards that the Judge told Mr.
Grady that he had no provisions at home, and no money
to buy them with, and asked for a small loan.</p>

<p class='c018'>“I’ll do better than that,” said Mr. Grady. “I’ll go
with you and buy them myself. Come with us,” he remarked
to me with a quizzical smile. “The Judge here
has found a family in distress, and we are going to send
them something substantial for Christmas.”</p>

<p class='c018'>We went to a grocery store near at hand, and I saw,
as we entered, that the Judge had not only recovered his
native dignity, but had added a little to suit the occasion.
I observed that his bearing was even haughty. Mr. Grady
had observed it, too, and the humor of the situation so
delighted him that he could hardly control the laughter in
his voice.</p>

<p class='c018'>“Now, Judge,” said Mr. Grady, as we approached the
counter, “we must be discreet as well as liberal. We must
get what you think this suffering family most needs. You
call off the articles, the clerk here will check them off, and
I will have them sent to the house.”</p>

<p class='c018'>The Judge leaned against the counter with a careless
dignity quite inimitable, and glanced at the well-filled
shelves.</p>

<p class='c018'>“Well,” said he, thrumming on a paper-box, and
smacking his lips thoughtfully, “we will put down first a
bottle of chow-chow pickles.”</p>

<p class='c018'>“Why, of course,” exclaimed Mr. Grady, his face radiant
with mirth; “it is the very thing. What next?”</p>

<p class='c018'>“Let me see,” said the Judge, closing his eyes reflectively—“two
tumblers of strawberry jelly, three pounds of
mince-meat, and two pounds of dates, if you have real
good ones, and—yes—two cans of deviled ham.”</p>

<p class='c018'>Every article the Judge ordered was something he had
been used to in his happier days. The whole episode was
<span class='pageno' id='Page_37'>37</span>like a scene from one of Dickens’s novels, and I have never
seen Mr. Grady more delighted. He was delighted with
the humor of it, and appreciated in his own quaint and
charming way and to the fullest extent the pathos of it.
He dwelt on it then and afterwards, and often said that he
envied the broken-down old man the enjoyment of the luxuries
of which he had so long been deprived.</p>

<p class='c018'>On a memorable Christmas day not many years after,
Mr. Grady stirred Atlanta to its very depths by his eloquent
pen, and brought the whole community to the
heights of charity and unselfishness on which he always
stood. He wrought the most unique manifestation of
prompt and thoughtful benevolence that is to be found
recorded in modern times. The day before Christmas was
bitter cold, and the night fell still colder, giving promise
of the coldest weather that had been felt in Georgia for
many years. The thermometer fell to zero, and it was difficult
for comfortably clad people to keep warm even by
the fires that plenty had provided, and it was certain that
there would be terrible suffering among the poor of the city.
The situation was one that appealed in the strongest manner
to Mr. Grady’s sympathies. It appealed, no doubt, to
the sympathies of all charitably-disposed people; but the
shame of modern charity is its lack of activity. People
are horrified when starving people are found near their
doors, when a poor woman wanders about the streets until
death comes to her relief; they seem to forget that it is
the duty of charity to act as well as to give. Mr. Grady
was a man of action. He did not wait for the organization
of a relief committee, and the meeting of prominent citizens
to devise ways and means for dispensing alms. He was
his own committee. His plans were instantly formed and
promptly carried out. The organization was complete the
moment he determined that the poor of Atlanta should not
suffer for lack of food, clothing, or fuel. He sent his
reporters out into the highways and byways, and into every
nook and corner of the city. He took one assignment for
himself, and went about through the cold from house to
<span class='pageno' id='Page_38'>38</span>house. He had a consultation with the Mayor at midnight,
and cases of actual suffering were relieved then and there.
The next morning, which was Sunday, the columns of the
<i>Constitution</i> teemed with the results of the investigation
which Mr. Grady and his reporters had made. A stirring
appeal was made in the editorial columns for aid for the
poor—such an appeal as only Mr. Grady could make. The
plan of relief was carefully made out. The <i>Constitution</i>
was prepared to take charge of whatever the charitably
disposed might feel inclined to send to its office—and whatever
was sent should be sent early.</p>

<p class='c018'>The effect of this appeal was astonishing—magical, in
fact. It seemed impossible to believe that any human
agency could bring about such a result. By eight o’clock
on Christmas morning—the day being Sunday—the street
in front of the <i>Constitution</i> office was jammed with wagons,
drays, and vehicles of all kinds, and the office itself was
transformed into a vast depot of supplies. The merchants
and business men had opened their stores as well as their
hearts, and the coal and wood dealers had given the keys
of their establishments into the gentle hands of charity.
Men who were not in business subscribed money, and this
rose into a considerable sum. When Mr. Grady arrived
on the scene, he gave a shout of delight, and cut up antics
as joyous as those of a schoolboy. Then he proceeded
to business. He had everything in his head, and he organized
his relief trains and put them in motion more
rapidly than any general ever did. By noon, there was
not a man, woman, or child, white or black, in the city
of Atlanta that lacked any of the necessaries of life, and
to such an extent had the hearts of the people been stirred
that a large reserve of stores was left over after everybody
had been supplied. It was the happiest Christmas day the
poor of Atlanta ever saw, and the happiest person of all
was Henry Grady.</p>

<p class='c018'>It is appropriate to his enjoyment of Christmas to give
here a beautiful editorial he wrote on Christmas day a year
before he was buried. It is a little prose poem that
<span class='pageno' id='Page_39'>39</span>attracted attention all over the country. Mr. Grady
called it</p>

<div class='nf-center-c0'>
<div class='nf-center c025'>
    <div>A PERFECT CHRISTMAS DAY.</div>
  </div>
</div>

<p class='c022'>No man or woman now living will see again such a Christmas day
as the one which closed yesterday, when the dying sun piled the
western skies with gold and purple.</p>

<p class='c022'>A winter day it was, shot to the core with sunshine. It was enchanting
to walk abroad in its prodigal beauty, to breathe its elixir, to reach
out the hands and plunge them open-fingered through its pulsing
waves of warmth and freshness. It was June and November welded
and fused into a perfect glory that held the sunshine and snow beneath
tender and splendid skies. To have winnowed such a day from
the teeming winter was to have found an odorous peach on a bough
whipped in the storms of winter. One caught the musk of yellow
grain, the flavor of ripening nuts, the fragrance of strawberries, the
exquisite odor of violets, the aroma of all seasons in the wonderful day.
The hum of bees underrode the whistling wings of wild geese flying
southward. The fires slept in drowsing grates, while the people, marveling
outdoors, watched the soft winds woo the roses and the lilies.</p>

<p class='c022'>Truly it was a day of days. Amid its riotous luxury surely life was
worth living to hold up the head and breathe it in as thirsting men
drink water; to put every sense on its gracious excellence; to throw
the hands wide apart and hug whole armfuls of the day close to the
heart, till the heart itself is enraptured and illumined. God’s benediction
came down with the day, slow dropping from the skies. God’s
smile was its light, and all through and through its supernal beauty
and stillness, unspoken but appealing to every heart and sanctifying
every soul, was His invocation and promise, “Peace on earth, good
will to men.”</p>
<h3 class='c016'>IV.</h3>

<p class='c024'>Mr. Grady took great interest in children and young
people. It pleased him beyond measure to be able to contribute
to their happiness. He knew all the boys in the
<i>Constitution</i> office, and there is quite a little army of them
employed there in one way and another; knew all about
their conditions, their hopes and their aspirations, and
knew their histories. He had favorites among them, but
his heart went out to all. He interested himself in them in
a thousand little ways that no one else would have thought
of. He was never too busy to concern himself with their
affairs. A year or two before he died he organized a dinner
<span class='pageno' id='Page_40'>40</span>for the newsboys and carriers. It was at first intended
that the dinner should be given by the <i>Constitution</i>, but
some of the prominent people heard of it, and insisted in
making contributions. Then it was decided to accept contributions
from all who might desire to send anything, and
the result of it was a dinner of magnificent proportions.
The tables were presided over by prominent society ladies,
and the occasion was a very happy one in all respects.</p>

<p class='c018'>This is only one of a thousand instances in which Mr.
Grady interested himself in behalf of young people.
Wherever he could find boys who were struggling to make
a living, with the expectation of making something of
themselves; wherever he could find boys who were giving
their earnings to widowed mothers—and he found hundreds
of them—he went to their aid as promptly and as
effectually as he carried out all his schemes, whether great
or small. It was his delight to give pleasure to all the
children that he knew, and even those he didn’t know. He
had the spirit and the manner of a boy, when not engrossed
in work, and he enjoyed life with the zest and enthusiasm
of a lad of twelve. He was in his element when a circus
was in town, and it was a familiar and an entertaining
sight to see him heading a procession of children—sometimes
fifty in line—going to the big tents to see the animals
and witness the antics of the clowns. At such times, he
considered himself on a frolic, and laid his dignity on the
shelf. His interest in the young, however, took a more
serious shape, as I have said. When Mr. Clark Howell,
the son of Captain Evan Howell, attained his majority, Mr.
Grady wrote him a letter, which I give here as one of the
keys to the character of this many-sided man. Apart from
this, it is worth putting in print for the wholesome advice
it contains. The young man to whom it was written has
succeeded Mr. Grady as managing editor of the <i>Constitution</i>.
The letter is as follows:</p>

<div class='c026'><span class='sc'>Atlanta, Ga.</span>, <i>Sept. 20, 1884</i>.</div>

<p class='c022'><span class='sc'>My Dear Clark</span>:—I suppose that just about the time I write this
to you—a little after midnight—you are twenty-one years old. If you
<span class='pageno' id='Page_41'>41</span>were born a little later than this hour it is your mother’s fault (or your
father’s), and I am not to blame for it. I assume, therefore, that this is
your birthday, and I send you a small remembrance. I send you a
pen (that you may wear as a cravat-pin) for several reasons. In the
first place, I have no money, my dear boy, with which to buy you
something new. In the next place, it is the symbol of the profession
to which we both belong, in which each has done some good work, and
will, God being willing, do much more. Take the pen, wear it, and
let it stand as a sign of the affection I have for you.</p>

<p class='c022'>Somehow or other (as the present is a right neat one I have the right
to bore you a little) I look upon you as my own boy. My son will be
just about your age when you are about mine, and he will enter the
paper when you are about where I am. I have got to looking at you
as a sort of prefiguring of what my son may be, and of looking over
you, and rejoicing in your success, as I shall want you to feel toward
him. Let me write to you what I would be willing for you to write to
him.</p>

<p class='c022'><i>Never Gamble.</i> Of all the vices that enthrall men, this is the worst,
the strongest, and the most insidious. Outside of the morality of it, it
is the poorest investment, the poorest business, and the poorest fun.
No man is safe who plays at all. It is easiest <i>never</i> to play. I never
knew a man, a gentleman and man of business, who did not regret the
time and money he had wasted in it. A man who plays poker is unfit
for every other business on earth.</p>

<p class='c022'><i>Never Drink.</i> I love liquor and I love the fellowship involved in
drinking. My safety has been that I never drink at all. It is much
easier not to drink at all than to drink a little. If I had to attribute
what I have done in life to any one thing, I should attribute it to the
fact that I am a teetotaler. As sure as you are born, it is the pleasantest,
the easiest, and the safest way.</p>

<p class='c022'><i>Marry Early.</i> There is nothing that steadies a young fellow like
marrying a good girl and raising a family. By marrying young your
children grow up when they are a pleasure to you. You feel the
responsibility of life, the sweetness of life, and you avoid bad habits.</p>

<p class='c022'>If you never drink, never gamble, and marry early, there is no
limit to the useful and distinguished life you may live. You will be
the pride of your father’s heart, and the joy of your mother’s.</p>

<p class='c022'>I don’t know that there is any happiness on earth worth having
outside of the happiness of knowing that you have done your duty and
that you have tried to do good. You try to build up,—there are
always plenty others who will do all the tearing down that is necessary.
You try to live in the sunshine,—men who stay in the shade
always get mildewed.</p>

<p class='c022'>I will not tell you how much I think of you or how proud I am of
<span class='pageno' id='Page_42'>42</span>you. We will let that develop gradually. There is only one thing I
am a little disappointed in. You don’t seem to care quite enough
about base-ball and other sports. Don’t make the mistake of standing
aloof from these things and trying to get old too soon. Don’t underrate
out-door athletic sports as an element of American civilization and
American journalism. I am afraid you inherit this disposition from
your father, who has never been quite right on this subject, but who is
getting better, and will soon be all right, I think.</p>

<p class='c022'>Well, I will quit. May God bless you, my boy, and keep you
happy and wholesome at heart, and in health. If He does this, we’ll
try and do the rest.</p>
<p class='c027'>Your friend, <span class='sc'>H. W. Grady</span>.</p>

<p class='c023'>Mr. Grady’s own boyishness led him to sympathize with
everything that appertains to boyhood. His love for his
own children led him to take an interest in other children.
He wanted to see them enjoy themselves in a boisterous,
hearty, health-giving way. The sports that men forget
or forego possessed a freshness for him that he never tried
to conceal. His remarks, in the letter just quoted, in regard
to out-door sports, are thoroughly characteristic. In all
contests of muscle, strength, endurance and skill he took a
continual and an absorbing interest. At school he excelled
in all athletic sports and out-door games. He had a gymnasium
of his own, which was thrown open to his school-mates,
and there he used to practice for hours at a time.
His tastes in this direction led a great many people, all
his friends, to shake their heads a little, especially as he
was not greatly distinguished for scholarship, either at
school or college. They wondered, too, how, after neglecting
the text-books, he could stand so near the head of his
classes. He did not neglect his books. During the short
time he devoted to them each day, his prodigious memory
and his wonderful powers of assimilation enabled him to
master their contents as thoroughly as boys that had spent
half the night in study. Even his family were astonished
at his standing in school, knowing how little time he
devoted to his text-books. He found time, however, in
spite of his devotion to out-door sports and athletic exercises,
to read every book in Athens, and in those days
every family in town had a library of more or less value.</p>

<p class='c018'><span class='pageno' id='Page_43'>43</span>He had a large library of his own, and, by exchanging
his books with other boys and borrowing, he managed
to get at the pith and marrow of all the English
literature to be found in the university town. Not content
with this, he became, during one of his vacation periods, a
clerk in the only bookstore in Athens. The only compensation
that he asked was the privilege of reading when
there were no customers to be waited on. This was during
his eleventh year, and by the time he was twelve he was
by far the best-read boy that Athens had ever known.
This habit of reading he kept up to the day of his death.
He read all the new books as they came out, and nothing
pleased him better than to discuss them with some congenial
friend. He had no need to re-read his old favorites—the
books he loved as boy and man—for these he could
remember almost chapter by chapter. He read with amazing
rapidity; it might be said that he literally absorbed
whatever interested him, and his sympathies were so wide
and his taste so catholic that it was a poor writer indeed
in whom he could not find something to commend. He
was fond of light literature, but the average modern novel
made no impression on him. He enjoyed it to some extent,
and was amazed as well as amused at the immense amount
of labor expended on the trivial affairs of life by the writers
who call themselves realists. He was somewhat interested
in Henry James’s “Portrait of a Lady,” mainly, I suspect,
because it so cleverly hits off the character of the modern
female newspaper correspondent in the person of Miss
Henrietta Stackpole. Yet there was much in the book that
interested him—the dreariness of parts of it was relieved
by Mrs. Touchett. “Dear old Mrs. Touchett!” he used
to say. “Such immense cleverness as hers does credit to
Mr. James. She refuses to associate with any of the
other characters in the book. I should like to meet her,
and shake hands with her, and talk the whole matter
over.”</p>

<p class='c018'>When a school-boy, and while devouring all the stories
that fell in his way, young Grady was found one day reading
<span class='pageno' id='Page_44'>44</span>Blackstone. His brother asked him if he thought of
studying law. “No,” was the reply, “but I think everyone
ought to read Blackstone. Besides, the book interests
me.” With the light and the humorous he always mixed
the solids. He was fond of history, and was intensely
interested in all the social questions of the day. He set
great store by the new literary development that has been
going on in the South since the war, and sought to promote
it by every means in his power, through his newspaper and
by his personal influence. He looked forward to the time
when the immense literary field, as yet untouched in the
South, would be as thoroughly worked and developed as
that of New England has been; and he thought that this
development might reasonably be expected to follow, if it
did not accompany, the progress of the South in other
directions. This idea was much in his mind, and in the
daily conversations with the members of his editorial staff,
he recurred to it time and again. One view that he took
of it was entirely practical, as, indeed, most of his views
were. He thought that the literature of the South ought
to be developed, not merely in the interest of belles-lettres,
but in the interest of American history. He regarded it as
in some sort a weapon of defense, and he used to refer in
terms of the warmest admiration to the oftentimes unconscious,
but terribly certain and effective manner in which
New England had fortified herself by means of the literary
genius of her sons and daughters. He perceived, too, that
all the talk about a distinctive Southern literature, which
has been in vogue among the contributors of the Lady’s
Books and annuals, was silly in the extreme. He desired
it to be provincial in a large way, for, in this country, provinciality
is only another name for the patriotism that has
taken root in the rural regions, but his dearest wish was
that it should be purely and truly American in its aim and
tendency. It was for this reason that he was ready to
welcome any effort of a Southern writer that showed a
spark of promise. For such he was always ready with
words of praise.</p>

<p class='c018'><span class='pageno' id='Page_45'>45</span>He was fond, as I have said, of Dickens, but his favorite
novel, above all others, was Victor Hugo’s “Les Misérables.”
His own daring imagination fitted somewhat into
the colossal methods of Hugo, and his sympathies enabled
him to see in the character of Jean Valjean a type of the
pathetic struggle for life and justice that is going on around
us every day. Mr. Grady read between the lines and saw
beneath the surface, and he was profoundly impressed
with the strong and vital purpose of Hugo’s book. Its
almost ferocious protest against injustice, and its indignant
arraignment of the inhumanity of society, stirred him
deeply. Not only the character of Jean Valjean, but the
whole book appealed to his sense of the picturesque and
artistic. The large lines on which the book is cast, the
stupendous nature of the problem it presents, the philanthropy,
the tenderness—all these moved him as no other
work of fiction ever did. Mr. Grady’s pen was too busy to
concern itself with matters merely literary. He rarely
undertook to write what might be termed a literary essay;
the affairs of life—the demands of the hour—the pressure
of events—precluded this; but all through his lectures
and occasional speeches (that were never reported), there
are allusions to Jean Valjean, and to Victor Hugo. I have
before me the rough notes of some of his lectures, and in
these appear more than once picturesque allusions to
Hugo’s hero struggling against fate and circumstance.</p>
<h3 class='c016'>V.</h3>

<p class='c024'>The home-life of Mr. Grady was peculiarly happy. He
was blessed, in the first place, with a good mother, and he
never grew away from her influence in the smallest particular.
When his father was killed in the war, his mother
devoted herself the more assiduously to the training of her
children. She molded the mind and character of her
brilliant son, and started him forth on a career that has no
parallel in our history. To that mother his heart always
turned most tenderly. She had made his boyhood bright
<span class='pageno' id='Page_46'>46</span>and happy, and he was never tired of bringing up recollections
of those wonderful days. On one occasion, the
Christmas before he died, he visited his mother at the old
home in Athens. He returned brimming over with happiness.
To his associates in the <i>Constitution</i> office he told
the story of his visit, and what he said has been recorded
by Mrs. Maude Andrews Ohl, a member of the editorial
staff.</p>

<p class='c018'>“Well do I remember,” says Mrs. Ohl, “how he spent
his last year’s holiday season, and the little story he told
me of it as I sat in his office one morning after New
Year’s.</p>

<p class='c018'>“He had visited his mother in Athens Christmas week,
and he said: ‘I don’t think I ever felt happier than when
I reached the little home of my boyhood. I got there at
night. She had saved supper for me and she had remembered
all the things I liked. She toasted me some cheese over
the fire. Why, I hadn’t tasted anything like it since I put
off my round jackets. And then she had some home-made
candy, she knew I used to love and bless her heart! I
just felt sixteen again as we sat and talked, and she told
me how she prayed for me and thought of me always, and
what a brightness I had been to her life, and how she heard
me coming home in every boy that whistled along the
street. When I went to bed she came and tucked the
covers all around me in the dear old way that none but a
mother’s hands know, and I felt so happy and so peaceful
and so full of tender love and tender memories that I cried
happy, grateful tears until I went to sleep.’</p>

<p class='c018'>“When he finished his eyes were full of tears and so
were mine. He brushed his hands across his brow swiftly
and said, laughingly: ‘Why, what are you crying about?
What do you know about all this sort of feeling!’</p>

<p class='c018'>“He never seemed brighter than on that day. He had
received an ovation of loving admiration from the friends
of his boyhood at his old home, and these honors from the
hearts that loved him as a friend were dearer than all
others. It was for these friends, these countrymen of
<span class='pageno' id='Page_47'>47</span>his own, that his honors were won and his life was
sacrificed.”</p>

<p class='c018'>From the home-life of his boyhood he stepped into the
fuller and richer home-life that followed his marriage. He
married the sweetheart of his early youth, Miss Julia King,
of Athens, and she remained his sweetheart to the last.
The first pseudonym that he used in his contributions to
the <i>Constitution</i>, “King Hans,” was a fanciful union
of Miss King’s name with his, and during his service in
Florida, long after he was married, he signed his telegrams
“Jule.” In the office not a day passed that he did not
have something to say of his wife and children. They
were never out of his thoughts, no matter what business
occupied his mind. In his speeches there are constant
allusions to his son, and in his conversation the gentle-eyed
maiden, his daughter, was always tenderly figuring. His
home-life was in all respects an ideal one; ideal in its surroundings,
in its influences, and in its purposes. I think
that the very fact of his own happiness gave him a certain
restlessness in behalf of the happiness of others. His
writings, his speeches, his lectures—his whole life, in fact—teem
with references to home-happiness and home-content.
Over and over again he recurs to these things—always
with the same earnestness, always with the same
enthusiasm. He never meets a man on the street, but he
wonders if he has a happy home—if he is contented—if he
has children that he loves. To him home was a shrine to
be worshiped at—a temple to be happy in, no matter how
humble, or how near to the brink of poverty.</p>

<p class='c018'>One of his most successful lectures, and the one that he
thought the most of, was entitled “A Patchwork Palace:
The story of a Home.” The Patchwork Palace still exists
in Atlanta, and the man who built it is living in it to-day.
Mr. Grady never wrote out the lecture, and all that can be
found of it is a few rough and faded notes scratched on
little sheets of paper. On one occasion, however, he condensed
the opening of his lecture for the purpose of making
a newspaper sketch of the whole. It is unfinished, but the
<span class='pageno' id='Page_48'>48</span>following has something of the flavor of the lecture. He
called the builder of the Palace Mr. Mortimer Pitts, though
that is not his name:</p>

<p class='c021'>Mr. Mortimer Pitts was a rag-picker. After a patient study of the
responsibility that the statement carries, I do not hesitate to say that he
was the poorest man that ever existed. He lived literally from hand to
mouth. His breakfast was a crust; his dinner a question; his supper
a regret. His earthly wealth, beyond the rags that covered him, was—a
cow that I believe gave both butter-milk and sweet-milk—a dog that
gave neither—and a hand-cart in which he wheeled his wares about.
His wife had a wash-tub that she held in her own title, a wash-board
similarly possessed, and two chairs that came to her as a dowry.</p>

<p class='c022'>In opposition to this poverty, my poor hero had—first, a name
(Mortimer Pitts, Esq.) which his parents, whose noses were in the air
when they christened him, had saddled upon him aspiringly, but which
followed him through life, his condition being put in contrast with its
rich syllables, as a sort of standing sarcasm. Second, a multitude of
tow-headed children with shallow-blue eyes. The rag-picker never
looked above the tow-heads of his brats, nor beyond the faded blue eyes
of his wife. His world was very small. The cricket that chirped
beneath the hearthstone of the hovel in which he might chance to live,
and the sunshine that crept through the cracks, filled it with music and
light. Trouble only strengthened the bonds of love and sympathy that
held the little brood together, and whenever the Wolf showed his gaunt
form at the door, the white faces, and the blue eyes, and the tow-heads
only huddled the closer to each other, until, in very shame, the
intruder would take himself off.</p>

<p class='c022'>Mr. Pitts had no home. With the restlessness of an Arab he flitted
from one part of the city to another. He was famous for frightening
the early market-maids by pushing his white round face, usually set in
a circle of smaller white round faces, through the windows of long-deserted
hovels. Wherever there was a miserable shell of a house that
whistled when the wind blew, and wept when the rain fell, there you
might be sure of finding Mr. Pitts at one time or another. I do not
care to state how many times my hero, with an uncertain step and a
pitifully wandering look—his fertile wife, in remote or imminent process
of fruitage—his wan and sedate brood of young ones—his cow, a
thoroughly conscientious creature, who passed her scanty diet to milk
to the woeful neglect of tissue—and his dog, too honest for any foolish
pride, ambling along in an unpretending, bench-legged sort of way,—I
do not care to state, I say, how many times this pale and melancholy
procession passed through the streets, seeking for a shelter in which it
might hide its wretchedness and ward off the storms.</p>

<p class='c022'><span class='pageno' id='Page_49'>49</span>During these periods of transition, Mr. Pitts was wonderfully low-spirited.
“Even a bird has its nest; and the poorest animal has some
sort of a hole in the ground, or a roost where it can go when it is
a-weary,” he said to me once, when I caught him fluttering aimlessly
out of a house which, under the influence of a storm, had spit out its
western wall, and dropped its upper jaw dangerously near to the back
of the cow. And from that time forth, I fancied I noticed my poor
friend’s face growing whiter, and the blue in his eye deepening, and
his lips becoming more tremulous and uncertain. The shuffling figure,
begirt with the rag-picker’s bells, and dragging the wobbling cart, gradually
bended forward, and the look of childish content was gone from
his brow, and a great dark wrinkle had knotted itself there.</p>

<p class='c022'>And now let me tell you about the starting of the Palace.</p>

<p class='c022'>One day in the springtime, when the uprising sap ran through every
fibre of the forest, and made the trees as drunk as lords—when the
birds were full-throated, and the air was woven thick with their songs
of love and praise—when the brooks kissed their uttermost banks, and
the earth gave birth to flowers, and all nature was elastic and alert, and
thrilled to the core with the ecstasy of the sun’s new courtship—a
divine passion fell like a spark into Mr. Mortimer Pitts’s heart. How
it ever broke through the hideous crust of poverty that cased the man
about, I do not know, nor shall we ever know ought but that God put
it there in his own gentle way. But there it was. It dropped into the
cold, dead heart like a spark—and there it flared and trembled, and
grew into a blaze, and swept through his soul, and fed upon its bitterness
until the scales fell off and the eyes flashed and sparkled, and the
old man was illumined with a splendid glow like that which hurries
youth to its love, or a soldier to the charge. You would not have
believed he was the same man. You would have laughed had you
been told that the old fellow, sweltering in the dust, harnessed like a
dog to a cart, and plying his pick into the garbage heaps like a man
worn down to the stupidity of a machine, was burning and bursting
with a great ambition—that a passion as pure and as strong as ever
kindled blue blood, or steeled gentle nerves was tugging at his heart-strings.
And yet, so it was. The rag-picker was filled with a consuming
fire—and as he worked, and toiled, and starved, his soul sobbed, and
laughed, and cursed, and prayed.</p>

<p class='c022'>Mr. Pitts wanted a home. A man named Napoleon once wanted
universal empire. Mr. Pitts was vastly the more daring dreamer of
the two.</p>

<p class='c022'>I do not think he had ever had a home. Possibly, away back beyond
the years a dim, sweet memory of a hearthstone and a gable roof with
the rain pattering on it, and a cupboard and a clock, and a deep, still
well, came to him like an echo or a dream. Be this as it may, our
<span class='pageno' id='Page_50'>50</span>hero, crushed into the very mud by poverty—upon knees and hands
beneath his burden—fighting like a beast for his daily food—shut out
inexorably from all suggestions of home—embittered by starvation—with
his faculties chained down apparently to the dreary problem of
to-day—nevertheless did lift his eyes into the gray future, and set his
soul upon a home.</p>

<p class='c023'>This is a mere fragment—a bare synopsis of the opening
of what was one of the most eloquent and pathetic lectures
ever delivered from the platform. It was a beautiful idyll
of home—an appeal, a eulogy—a glimpse, as it were, of the
passionate devotion with which he regarded his own home.
Here is another fragment of the lecture that follows closely
after the foregoing:</p>

<p class='c021'>After a month’s struggle, Mr. Pitts purchased the ground on which
his home was to be built. It was an indescribable hillside, bordering
on the precipitous. A friend of mine remarked that “it was such an
aggravating piece of profanity that the owner gave Mr. Pitts five dollars
to accept the land and the deed to it.” This report I feel bound to
correct. Mr. Pitts purchased the land. He gave three dollars for it.
The deed having been properly recorded, Mr. Pitts went to work. He
borrowed a shovel, and, perching himself against his hillside, began
loosening the dirt in front of him, and spilling it out between his legs,
reminding me, as I passed daily, of a giant dirt-dauber. At length
(and not very long either, for his remorseless desire made his arms fly
like a madman’s) he succeeded in scooping an apparently flat place out
of the hillside and was ready to lay the foundation of his house.</p>

<p class='c022'>There was a lapse of a month, and I thought that my hero’s soul had
failed him—that the fire, with so little of hope to feed upon, had faded
and left his heart full of ashes. But at last there was a pile of dirty
second-hand lumber placed on the ground. I learned on inquiry that
it was the remains of a small house of ignoble nature which had been
left standing in a vacant lot, and which had been given him by the
owner. Shortly afterwards there came some dry-goods boxes; then
three or four old sills; then a window-frame; then the wreck of another
little house; and then the planks of an abandoned show-bill board.
Finally the house began to grow. The sills were put together by Mr.
Pitts and his wife. A rafter shot up toward the sky and stood there,
like a lone sentinel, for some days, and then another appeared, and
then another, and then the fourth. Then Mr. Pitts, with an agility
born of desperation, swarmed up one of them, and began to lay the
cross-pieces. God must have commissioned an angel especially to watch
over the poor man and save his bones, for nothing short of a miracle
<span class='pageno' id='Page_51'>51</span>could have kept him from falling while engaged in the perilous work.
The frame once up, he took the odds and ends of planks and began to
fit them. The house grew like a mosaic. No two planks were alike in
size, shape, or color. Here was a piece of a dry-goods box, with its
rich yellow color, and a mercantile legend still painted on it, supplemented
by a dozen pieces of plank; and there was an old door nailed
up bodily and fringed around with bits of board picked up at random.
It was a rare piece of patchwork, in which none of the pieces were
related to or even acquainted with each other. A nose, an eye, an ear,
a mouth, a chin picked up at random from the ugliest people of a
neighborhood, and put together in a face, would not have been odder
than was this house. The window was ornamented with panes of three
different sizes, and some were left without any glass at all, as Mr. Pitts
afterwards remarked, “to see through.” The chimney was a piece of
old pipe that startled you by protruding unexpectedly through the wall,
and looked as if it were a wound. The entire absence of smoke at the
outer end of this chimney led to a suspicion, justified by the facts, that
there was no stove at the other end. The roof, which Mrs. Pitts, with
a recklessness beyond the annals, mounted herself and attended to,
was partially shingled and partially planked, this diversity being in the
nature of a plan, as Mr. Pitts confidentially remarked, “to try which
style was the best.”</p>

<p class='c022'>Such a pathetic travesty on house-building was never before seen. It
started a smile or a tear from every passer-by, as it reared its homely
head there, so patched, uncouth, and poor. And yet the sun of Austerlitz
never brought so much happiness to the heart of Napoleon as came to
Mr. Pitts, as he crept into this hovel, and, having a blanket before the
doorless door, dropped on his knees and thanked God that at last he
had found a home.</p>

<p class='c022'>The house grew in a slow and tedious way. It ripened with the
seasons. It budded in the restless and rosy spring; unfolded and
developed in the long summer; took shape and fullness in the brown
autumn; and stood ready for the snows and frost when winter had
come. It represented a year of heroism, desperation, and high resolve.
It was the sum total of an ambition that, planted in the breast of a king,
would have shaken the world.</p>

<p class='c022'>To say that Mr. Pitts enjoyed it would be to speak but a little of
the truth. I have a suspicion that the older children do not appreciate
it as they should. They have a way, when they see a stranger examining
their home with curious and inquiring eyes, of dodging away from
the door shamefacedly, and of reappearing cautiously at the window.
But Mr. Pitts is proud of it. There is no foolishness about him. He
sits on his front piazza, which, I regret to say, is simply a plank resting
on two barrels, and smokes his pipe with the serenity of a king; and
<span class='pageno' id='Page_52'>52</span>when a stroller eyes his queer little home curiously, he puts on the air
that the Egyptian gentleman (now deceased) who built the pyramids
might have worn while exhibiting that stupendous work. I have
watched him hours at a time enjoying his house. I have seen him
walk around it slowly, tapping it critically with his knife, as if to
ascertain its state of ripeness, or pressing its corners solemnly as if
testing its muscular development.</p>

<p class='c023'>Here ends this fragment—a delicious bit of description
that only seems to be exaggerated because the hovel was
seen through the eyes of a poet—of a poet who loved all
his fellow men from the greatest to the smallest, and who
was as much interested in the home-making of Mr. Pitts
as he was in the making of Governors and Senators, a business
in which he afterwards became an adept. From the
fragments of one of his lectures, the title of which I am
unable to give, I have pieced together another story as
characteristic of Mr. Grady as the Patchwork Palace. It
is curious to see how the idea of home and of home-happiness
runs through it all:</p>

<p class='c021'>One of the happiest men that I ever knew—one whose serenity
was unassailable, whose cheerfulness was constant, and from whose
heart a perennial spring of sympathy and love bubbled up—was a
man against whom all the powers of misfortune were centered. He
belonged to the tailors—those cross-legged candidates for consumption.
He was miserably poor. Fly as fast as it could through the endless
pieces of broadcloth, his hand could not always win crusts for his
children. But he walked on and on; his thin white fingers faltered
bravely through their tasks as the hours slipped away, and his serene
white face bended forward over the tedious cloth into which, stitch
after stitch, he was working his life—and, with once in a while a wistful
look at the gleaming sunshine and the floating clouds, he breathed
heavily and painfully of the poisoned air of his work-room, from which
a score of stronger lungs had sucked all the oxygen. And when, at
night, he would go home, and find that there were just crusts enough
for the little ones to eat, the capricious old fellow would dream that he
was not hungry; and when pressed to eat of the scanty store by his sad
and patient wife, would with an air of smartness pretend a sacred lie—that
he had dined with a friend—and then, with a heart that swelled
almost to bursting, turn away to hide his glistening eyes. Hungry?
Of course he was, time and again. As weak as his body was, as faltering
as was the little fountain that sent the life-blood from his heart—as
<span class='pageno' id='Page_53'>53</span>meagre as were his necessities, I doubt if there was a time in all the
long years when he was not hungry.</p>

<p class='c022'>Did you ever think of how many people have died out of this world
through starvation. Thousands! Not recorded in the books as having
died of starvation,—ah, no? Sometimes it is a thin and watery sort of
apoplexy—sometimes it is dyspepsia, and often consumption. These
terms read better. But there are thousands of them, sensitive, shy
gentlemen—too proud to beg and too honest to steal—too straightforward
to scheme or maneuver—too refined to fill the public with their
griefs—too heroic to whine—that lock their sorrows up in their own
hearts, and go on starving in silence, weakening day after day from
the lack of proper food—the blood running slower and slower through
their veins—their pulse faltering as they pass through the various
stages of inanition, until at last, worn out, apathetic, exhausted, they
are struck by some casual illness, and lose their hold upon life as easily
and as naturally as the autumn leaf, juiceless, withered and dry, parts
from the bough to which it has clung, and floats down the vast silence
of the forest.</p>

<p class='c022'>But my tailor was cheerful. Nothing could disturb his serenity.
His thin white face was always lit with a smile, and his eyes shone with
a peace that passed my understanding. Hour after hour he would
sing an asthmatic little song that came in wheezes from his starved
lungs—a song that was pitiful and cracked, but that came from his
heart so freighted with love and praise that it found the ears of Him
who softens all distress and sweetens all harmonies. I wondered where
all this happiness came from. How gushed this abundant stream from
this broken reed—how sprung this luxuriant flower of peace from the
scant soil of poverty? From these hard conditions, how came this
ever-fresh felicity?</p>

<p class='c022'>After he had been turned out of his home, the tailor was taken sick.
His little song gave way to a hectic cough. His place at the work-room
was vacant, and a scanty bed in wretched lodgings held his frail and
fevered frame. The thin fingers clutched the cover uneasily, as if they
were restless of being idle while the little ones were crying for bread.
The tired man tossed to and fro, racked by pain,—but still his face was
full of content, and no word of bitterness escaped him. And the little
song, though the poor lungs could not carry it to the lips, and the
trembling lips could not syllable its music, still lived in his heart and
shone through his happy eyes. “I will be happy soon,” he said in a
faltering way; “I will be better soon—strong enough to go to work
like a man again, for Bessie and the babies.” And he did get better—better
until his face had worn so thin that you could count his heart-beats
by the flush of blood that came and died in his cheeks—better
until his face had sharpened and his smiles had worn their deep lines
<span class='pageno' id='Page_54'>54</span>about his mouth—better until the poor fingers lay helpless at his side,
and his eyes had lost their brightness. And one day, as his wife sat
by his side, and the sun streamed in the windows, and the air was full
of the fragrance of spring—he turned his face toward her and said:
“I am better now, my dear.” And, noting a rapturous smile playing
about his mouth, and a strange light kindling in his eyes, she bended
her head forward to lay her wifely kiss upon his face. Ah! a last kiss,
good wife, for thy husband! Thy kiss caught his soul as it fluttered
from his pale lips, and the flickering pulse had died in his patient wrist,
and the little song had faded from his heart and gone to swell a divine
chorus,—and at last, after years of waiting, the old man was well!</p>

<p class='c023'>There was nothing strained or artificial in the sentiment
that led him to dwell so constantly on the theme of home
and home happiness. The extracts I have given are merely
the rough lecture notes which he wrote down in order to
confirm and congeal his ideas. On the platform, while
following the current of these notes, he injected into them
the quality of his rare and inimitable humor, the contrast
serving to give greater strength and coherence to the pathos
that underlay it all. I do not know that I have dwelt with
sufficient emphasis on his humor. He could be witty
enough on occasion, but the sting of it seemed to leave a
bad taste in his mouth. The quality of his humor was not
greatly different from that of Charles Lamb. It was gentle
and perennial—a perpetual wonder and delight to his
friends—irrepressible and unbounded—as antic and as
tricksy as that of a boy, as genial and as sweet as the
smile of a beautiful woman. Mr. Grady depended less on
anecdote than any of our great talkers and speakers, though
the anecdote, apt, pat, and pointed, was always ready at
the proper moment. He depended rather on the originality
of his own point of view—on the results of his own individuality.
The charm of his personal presence was indescribable.
In every crowd and on every occasion he was a
marked man. Quite independently of his own intentions,
he made his presence and his influence felt. What he said,
no matter how light and frivolous, no matter how trivial,
never failed to attract attention. He warmed the hearts of
the old and fired the minds of the young. He managed, in
<span class='pageno' id='Page_55'>55</span>some way, to impart something of the charm of his personality
to his written words, so that he carried light, and
hope, and courage to many hearts, and when he passed
away, people who had never seen him fell to weeping when
they heard of his untimely death.</p>
<h3 class='c016'>VI.</h3>

<p class='c024'>There are many features and incidents in Mr. Grady’s
life that cannot be properly treated in this hurriedly written
and altogether inadequate sketch. His versatility was
such that it would be difficult, even in a deliberately written
biography, to deal with its manifestations and results
as they deserve to be dealt with. At the North, the cry is,
who shall take his place as a peacemaker? At the South,
who shall take his place as a leader, as an orator, and as a
peacemaker? In Atlanta, who shall take his place as all
of these, and as a builder-up of our interests, our enterprises,
and our industries! Who is to make for us the
happy and timely suggestion? Who is to speak the right
word at the right time! The loss the country has sustained
in Mr. Grady’s death can only be measurably estimated
when we examine one by one the manifold relations he
bore to the people.</p>

<p class='c018'>I have spoken of the power of organization that he
possessed. There is hardly a public enterprise in Georgia
or in Atlanta—begun and completed since 1880—that does
not bear witness to his ability, his energy, and his unselfishness.
His busy brain and prompt hand were behind
the great cotton exposition held in Atlanta in 1881. Late
in the spring of 1887, one of the editorial writers of the
<i>Constitution</i> remarked that the next fair held in Atlanta
should be called the Piedmont Exposition. “That shall
be its name,” said Mr. Grady, “and it will be held this
fall.” That was the origin of the Piedmont Exposition.
Within a month the exposition company had been organized,
the land bought, and work on the grounds begun. It
seemed to be a hopeless undertaking—there was so much
to be done, and so little time to do it in. But Mr, Grady
<span class='pageno' id='Page_56'>56</span>was equal to the emergency. He so infused the town with
his own energy and enthusiasm that every citizen came to
regard the exposition as a personal matter, and the <i>Constitution</i>
hammered away at it with characteristic iteration.
There was not a detail of the great show from beginning to
end that was not of Mr. Grady’s suggestion. When it
seemed to him that he was taking too prominent a part in
the management, he would send for other members of the
fair committee, pour his suggestions into their ears, and
thus evade the notoriety of introducing them himself and
prevent the possible friction that might be caused if he
made himself too prominent. He understood human
nature perfectly, and knew how to manage men.</p>

<p class='c018'>The exposition was organized and the grounds made
ready in an incredibly short time, and the fair was the
most successful in every respect that has ever been held in
the South. Its attractions, which were all suggested by
Mr. Grady, appealed either to the interest or the curiosity
of the people, and the result was something wonderful. It
is to be very much doubted whether any one in this country,
in time of peace, has seen an assemblage of such vast and
overwhelming proportions as that which gathered in Atlanta
on the principal day of the fair. Two years later, the
Piedmont Exposition was reorganized, and Mr. Grady once
more had practical charge of all the details. The result
was an exhibition quite as attractive as the first, to which
the people responded as promptly as before. The Exposition
Company cleared something over $20,000, a result
unprecedented in the history of Southern fairs.</p>

<p class='c018'>In the interval of the two fairs, Mr. Grady organized the
Piedmont Chautauqua at a little station on the Georgia
Pacific road, twenty miles from Atlanta. Beautiful grounds
were laid out and commodious buildings put up. In all
this work Mr. Grady took the most profound interest. The
intellectual and educational features of such an institution
appealed strongly to his tastes and sympathies, and to that
active missionary spirit which impelled him to be continually
on the alert in behalf of humanity. He expended a
<span class='pageno' id='Page_57'>57</span>good deal of energy on the Chautauqua and on the programme
of exercises, but the people did not respond
heartily, and the session was not a financial success. And
yet there never was a Chautauqua assembly that had a
richer and a more popular programme of exercises. The
conception was a success intellectually, and it will finally
grow into a success in other directions. Mr. Grady, with
his usual unselfishness, insisted on bearing the expenses of
the lecturers and others, though it crippled him financially
to do so. He desired to protect the capitalists who went
into the enterprise on his account, and, as is usual in such
cases, the capitalists were perfectly willing to be protected.
Mr. Grady was of the opinion that his experience with the
Chautauqua business gave him a deeper and a richer
knowledge of human nature than he had ever had before.</p>

<p class='c018'>One morning Mr. Grady saw in a New York newspaper
that a gentleman from Texas was in that city making a
somewhat unsuccessful effort to raise funds for a Confederate
veterans’ home. The comments of the newspaper
were not wholly unfriendly, but something in their tone
stirred Mr. Grady’s blood. “I will show them,” he said,
“what can be done in Georgia,” and with that he turned
to his stenographer and dictated a double-leaded editorial
that stirred the State from one end to the other. He
followed it up the next day, and immediately subscriptions
began to flow in. He never suffered interest in the project
to flag until sufficient funds for a comfortable home for
the Confederate veterans had been raised.</p>

<p class='c018'>Previously, he had organized a movement for putting
up a building for the Young Men’s Christian Association,
and that building now stands a monument to his earnestness
and unselfishness. Years ago, shortly after he came
to Atlanta, he took hold of the Young Men’s Library,
which was in a languishing condition, and put it on its
feet. It was hard work, for he was comparatively unknown
then. Among other things, he organized a lecture course
for the benefit of the library, and he brought some distinguished
lecturers to Atlanta—among others the late
<span class='pageno' id='Page_58'>58</span>S. S. Cox. Mr. Cox telegraphed from New York that he
would come to Atlanta, and also the subject of the lecture,
so that it could be properly advertised. The telegram said
that the title of the lecture was “Just Human,” and large
posters, bearing that title, were placed on the bill-boards
and distributed around town. As Mr. Grady said, “the
town broke into a profuse perspiration of placards bearing
the strange device, while wrinkles gathered on the brow of
the public intellect and knotted themselves hopelessly as
it pondered over what might be the elucidation of such a
strangely-named subject. At last,” Mr. Grady goes on to
say, “the lecturer came, and a pleasant little gentleman he
was, who beguiled the walk to the hotel with the airiest of
jokes and the brightest of comment. At length, when he
had registered his name in the untutored chirography of
the great, he took me to one side, and asked in an undertone
what those placards meant.”</p>

<p class='c018'>“That,” I replied, looking at him in astonishment, “is
the subject of your lecture.”</p>

<p class='c018'>“‘My lecture!’ he shrieked, ‘whose lecture? What
lecture? My subject! Whose subject? Why, sir,’ said
he, trying to control himself, ‘my subject is ‘Irish
Humor,’ while this is ‘Just Human,’ and he put on his
spectacles and glared into space as if he were determined
to wring from that source some solution of this cruel
joke.”</p>

<p class='c018'>By an error of transmission, “Irish Humor” had
become “Just Human.” Mr. Grady does not relate the
sequel, but what followed was as characteristic of him as
anything in his unique career.</p>

<p class='c018'>“Well,” said he, turning to Mr. Cox, his bright eyes
full of laughter, “you stick to your subject, and I’ll take
this ready-made one; you lecture on ‘Irish Humor’ and
I’ll lecture on ‘Just Human.’”</p>

<p class='c018'>And he did. He took the telegraphic error for a subject,
and delivered in Atlanta one of the most beautiful
lectures ever heard here. There was humor in it and
laughter, but he handled his theme with such grace and
<span class='pageno' id='Page_59'>59</span>tenderness that the vast audience that sat entranced under
his magnetic oratory went home in tears.</p>

<p class='c018'>The lecture course that Mr. Grady instituted was never
followed up, although it was a successful one. It was his
way, when he had organized an enterprise and placed it on
its feet, to turn his attention to something else. Sometimes
his successors were equal to the emergency, and
sometimes they were not. The Young Men’s Library has
been in good hands, and it is what may be termed a successful
institution, but it is not what it was when Mr.
Grady was booming the town in its behalf. When he put
his hand to any enterprise or to any movement the effect
seemed to be magical. It was not his personal influence, for
there were some enterprises beyond the range of that, that
responded promptly to his touch. It was not his enthusiasm,
for there have been thousands of men quite as
enthusiastic. Was it his methods? Perhaps the secret
lies hidden there; but I have often thought, while witnessing
the results he brought about, that he had at his
command some new element, or quality, or gift not vouchsafed
to other men. Whatever it was, he employed it only
for the good of his city, his State, his section, and his
country. His patriotism was as prominent and as permanent
as his unselfishness. His public spirit was
unbounded, and, above all things, restless and eager.</p>

<p class='c018'>I have mentioned only a few of the more important
enterprises in Atlanta that owe their success to Mr. Grady.
He was identified with every public movement that took
shape in Atlanta, and the people were always sure that his
interest and his influence were on the side of honesty and
justice. But his energies took a wider range. He was the
very embodiment of the spirit that he aptly named “the
New South,”—the New South that, reverently remembering
and emulating the virtues of the old, and striving to
forget the bitterness of the past, turns its face to the future
and seeks to adapt itself to the conditions with which an
unsuccessful struggle has environed it, and to turn them
to its profit. Of the New South Mr. Grady was the prophet,
<span class='pageno' id='Page_60'>60</span>if not the pioneer. He was never tired of preaching
about the rehabilitation of his section. Much of the marvelous
development that has taken place in the South
during the past ten years has been due to his eager and
persistent efforts to call the attention of the world to her
vast resources. In his newspaper, in his speeches, in his
contributions to Northern periodicals, this was his theme.
No industry was too small to command his attention and
his aid, and none were larger than his expectations. His
was the pen that first drew attention to the iron fields of
Alabama, and to the wonderful marble beds and mineral
wealth of Georgia. Other writers had preceded him,
perhaps, but it is due to his unique methods of advertising
that the material resources of the two States are in their
present stage of development. He had no individual
interest in the development of the material wealth of the
South. During the past ten years there was not a day when
he was alive that he could not have made thousands of
dollars by placing his pen at the disposal of men interested
in speculative schemes. He had hundreds of opportunities
to write himself rich, but he never fell below the high level
of unselfishness that marked his career as boy and man.</p>

<p class='c018'>There was no limit to his interest in Southern development.
The development of the hidden wealth of the
hills and valleys, while it appealed strongly to an imagination
that had its practical and common-sense side, but not
more strongly than the desperate struggle of the farmers
of the South in their efforts to recover from the disastrous
results of the war while facing new problems of labor and
conditions wholly strange. Mr. Grady gave them the
encouragement of his voice and pen, striving to teach them
the lessons of hope and patience. He was something more
than an optimist. He was the embodiment, the very
essence, as it seemed—of that smiling faith in the future
that brings happiness and contentment, and he had the
faculty of imparting his faith to other people. For him
the sun was always shining, and he tried to make it shine
for other men. At one period, when the farmers of Georgia
<span class='pageno' id='Page_61'>61</span>seemed to be in despair, and while there was a notable
movement from this State to Georgia, Mr. Grady caused
the correspondents of the <i>Constitution</i> to make an investigation
into the agricultural situation in Georgia. The
result was highly gratifying in every respect. The correspondents
did their work well, as, indeed, they could
hardly fail to do under the instructions of Mr. Grady.
The farmers who had been despondent took heart, and
from that time to the present there has been a steady
improvement in the status of agriculture in Georgia.</p>

<p class='c018'>It would be difficult to describe or to give an adequate
idea of the work—remarkable in its extent as well as in its
character—that Mr. Grady did for Georgia and for the
South. It was his keen and hopeful eyes that first saw the
fortunes that were to be made in Florida oranges. He
wrote for the <i>Constitution</i> in 1877 a series of glowing letters
that were full of predictions and figures based on
them. The matter was so new at that time, and Mr.
Grady’s predictions and estimates seemed to be so extravagant,
that some of the editors, irritated by his optimism,
as well as by his success as a journalist, alluded to his figures
as “Grady’s facts,” and this expression had quite a
vogue, even among those who were not unfriendly.</p>

<p class='c018'>Nevertheless there is not a prediction to be found in
Mr. Grady’s Florida letters that has not been fulfilled, and
his figures appear to be tame enough when compared with
the real results that have been brought about by the
orange-growers. Long afterwards he alluded publicly to
“Grady’s facts,” accepted its application, and said he was
proud that his facts always turned out to be facts.</p>

<p class='c018'>It would be impossible to enumerate the practical subjects
with which Mr. Grady dealt in the <i>Constitution</i>. In
the editorial rooms he was continually suggesting the
exhaustive treatment of some matter of real public interest,
and in the majority of instances, after making the suggestion
to one of his writers, he would treat the subject
himself in his own inimitable style. His pleasure trips
were often itineraries in behalf of the section he was visiting.
<span class='pageno' id='Page_62'>62</span>He went on a pleasure trip to Southern Georgia on
one occasion, and here are the headlines of a few of the
letters he sent back: “Berries and Politics,” “The Savings
of the Georgia Farmers,” “The Largest Strawberry
Farm in the State,” “A Wandering Bee, and How it Made
the LeConte Pear,” “The Turpentine Industries.” All
these are suggestive. Each letter bore some definite relation
to the development of the resources of the State.</p>

<p class='c018'>To Mr. Grady, more than to any other man, is due the
development of the truck gardens and watermelon farms
of southern and southwest Georgia. When he advised in
the <i>Constitution</i> the planting of watermelons for shipment
to the North, the proposition was hooted at by some of the
rival editors, but he “boomed” the business, as the phrase
is, and to-day the watermelon business is an established
industry, and thousands of farmers are making money
during what would otherwise be a dull season of the year.
And so with hundreds of other things. His suggestions
were always practicable, though they were sometimes so
unique as to invite the criticism of the thoughtless, and
they were always for the benefit of others—for the benefit
of the people. How few men, even though they live to a
ripe old age, leave behind them such a record of usefulness
and unselfish devotion as that of this man, who died before
his prime!</p>
<h3 class='c016'>VII.</h3>

<p class='c024'>Mr. Grady’s editorial methods were as unique as all his
other methods. They can be described, but they cannot
be explained. He had an instinctive knowledge of news
in its embryonic state; he seemed to know just where and
when a sensation or a startling piece of information would
develop itself, and he was always ready for it. Sometimes
it seemed to grow and develop under his hands, and his
insight and information were such that what appeared to
be an ordinary news item would suddenly become, under
his manipulation and interpretation, of the first importance.
It was this faculty that enabled him to make the <i>Constitution</i>
<span class='pageno' id='Page_63'>63</span>one of the leading journals of the country in its method
of gathering and treating the news.</p>

<p class='c018'>Mr. Grady was not as fond of the editorial page as
might be supposed. Editorials were very well in their way—capital
in an emergency—admirable when a nail was to
be clinched, so to speak—but most important of all to his
mind was the news and the treatment of it. The whirl of
events was never too rapid for him. The most startling
developments, the most unexpected happenings, always
found him ready to deal with them instantly and in just
the right way.</p>

<p class='c018'>He magnified the office of reporting, and he had a great
fancy for it himself. There are hundreds of instances
where he voluntarily assumed the duties of a reporter after
he became managing editor. A case in point is the work
he did on the occasion of the Charleston earthquake. The
morning after that catastrophe he was on his way to
Charleston. He took a reporter with him, but he preferred
to do most of the work. His graphic descriptions of the
disaster in all its phases—his picturesque grouping of all
the details—were the perfection of reporting, and were
copied all over the country. The reporter who accompanied
Mr. Grady had a wonderful tale to tell on his return.
To the people of that desolate town, the young Georgian
seemed to carry light and hope. Hundreds of citizens were
encamped on the streets. Mr. Grady visited these camps,
and his sympathetic humor brought a smile to many a sad
face. He went from house to house, and from encampment
to encampment, wrote two or three columns of telegraphic
matter on his knee, went to his room in the hotel in the
early hours of morning, fell on the bed with his clothes on,
and in a moment was sound asleep. The reporter never
knew the amount of work Mr. Grady had done until he
saw it spread out in the columns of the <i>Constitution</i>.
Working at high-pressure there was hardly a limit to the
amount of copy Mr. Grady could produce in a given time,
and it sometimes happened that he dictated an editorial to
his stenographer while writing a news article.</p>

<p class='c018'><span class='pageno' id='Page_64'>64</span>He did a good deal of his more leisurely newspaper work
at home, with his wife and children around him. He never
wrote on a table or desk, but used a lapboard or a pad,
leaning back in his chair with his feet as high as his head.
His house was always a centre of attraction, and when visitors
came in Mrs. Grady used to tell them that they
needn’t mind Henry. The only thing that disturbed him
on such occasions was when the people in the room conversed
in a tone so low that he failed to hear what they
were saying. When this happened he would look up from
his writing with a quick “What’s that?” This often happened
in the editorial rooms, and he would frequently write
while taking part in a conversation, never losing the thread
of his article or of the talk.</p>

<p class='c018'>As I have said, he reserved his editorials for occasions
or emergencies, and it was then that his luminous style
showed at its best. He employed always the apt phrase;
he was, in fact a phrase-builder. His gift of expression
was something marvelous, and there was something melodious
and fluent about his more deliberate editorials that
suggested the movement of verse. I was reading awhile
ago his editorial appealing to the people of Atlanta on the
cold Christmas morning which has already been alluded to
in this sketch. It is short—not longer than the pencil with
which he wrote it, but there is that about it calculated to
stir the blood, even now. Above any other man I have
ever known Mr. Grady possessed the faculty of imparting
his personal magnetism to cold type; and even such a
statement as this is an inadequate explanation of the swift
and powerful effect that his writings had on the public
mind.</p>

<p class='c018'>He had a keen eye for what, in a general way, may be
called climaxes. Thus he was content to see the daily <i>Constitution</i>
run soberly and sedately along during the week
if it developed into a great paper on Sunday. He did
more editorial work for the Sunday paper than for any
other issue, and bent all his energies toward making an
impression on that day. There was nothing about the
<span class='pageno' id='Page_65'>65</span>details of the paper that he did not thoroughly understand.
He knew more about the effects of type combinations than
the printers did; he knew as much about the business
department as the business manager; and he could secure
more advertisements in three hours than his advertising
clerks could solicit in a week. It used to be said of him
that he lacked the business faculty. I suppose the remark
was based on the fact that, in the midst of all the tremendous
booms he stirred up, and the enterprises he fostered,
he remained comparatively poor. I think he purposely
neglected the opportunities for private gain that
were offered him. There can be no more doubt of his business
qualification than there can be of the fact that he
neglected opportunities for private gain; but his business
faculties were given to the service of the public—witness
his faultless management of two of the greatest expositions
ever held in the South. Had he served his own interests
one-half as earnestly as he served those of the people, he
would have been a millionaire. As it was, he died comparatively
poor.</p>

<p class='c018'>Mr. Grady took great pride in the <i>Weekly Constitution</i>,
and that paper stands to-day a monument to his business
faculty and to his wonderful methods of management.
When Mr. Grady took hold of the weekly edition, it had
about seven thousand subscribers, and his partners thought
that the field would be covered when the list reached ten
thousand. To-day the list of subscribers is not far below
two hundred thousand, and is larger than that of the weekly
edition of any other American newspaper. Just how this
result has been brought about it is impossible to say. His
methods were not mysterious, perhaps, but they did not lie
on the surface. The weekly editions of newspapers that
have reached large circulations depend on some specialty—as,
for instance, the Detroit <i>Free Press</i> with the popular
sketches of M. Quad, and the Toledo <i>Blade</i>, with the rancorous,
but still popular, letters of Petroleum V. Nasby.
The <i>Weekly Constitution</i> has never depended on such
things. It has had, and still has, the letters of Bill Arp,
<span class='pageno' id='Page_66'>66</span>of Sarge Wier, and of Betsey Hamilton, homely humorists
all, but Mr. Grady took great pains never to magnify these
things into specialties. Contributions that his assistants
thought would do for the weekly, Mr. Grady would cut out
relentlessly.</p>

<p class='c018'>It sometimes happened that subscribers would begin to
fall off. Then Mr. Grady would send for the manager of
the weekly department, and proceed to caucus with him,
as the young men around the office termed the conference.
During the next few days there would be a great stir in the
weekly department, and in the course of a fortnight the
list of subscribers would begin to grow again. Once, when
talking about the weekly, Mr. Grady remarked in a jocular
way that when subscriptions began to flow in at the rate of
two thousand a day, he wanted to die. Singularly enough,
when he was returning from Boston, having been seized
with the sickness that was so soon to carry him off, the
business manager telegraphed him that more than two
thousand subscribers had been received the day before.</p>

<p class='c018'>In the midst of the manifold duties and responsibilities
that he had cheerfully taken on his shoulders, there came
to Mr. Grady an ardent desire to aid in the reconciliation
of the North and South, and to bring about a better understanding
between them. This desire rapidly grew into a
fixed and solemn purpose. His first opportunity was an
invitation to the banquet of the New England Society,
which he accepted with great hesitation. The wonderful
effect of his speech at that banquet, and the tremendous
response of applause and approval that came to him from
all parts of the country, assured him that he had touched
the key-note of the situation, and he knew then that his
real mission was that of Pacificator. There was a change
in him from that time forth, though it was a change visible
only to friendly and watchful eyes. He put away something
of his boyishness, and became, as it seemed, a trifle
more thoughtful. His purpose developed into a mission,
and grew in his mind, and shone in his eyes, and remained
with him day and night. He made many speeches after
<span class='pageno' id='Page_67'>67</span>that, frequently in little out-of-the-way country places, but
all of them had a national significance and national bearing.
He was preaching the sentiments of harmony, fraternity,
and good will to the South as well as to the North.</p>

<p class='c018'>He prepared his Boston speech with great care, not
merely to perfect its form, but to make it worthy of the
great cause he had at heart, and in its preparation he
departed widely from his usual methods of composition.
He sent his servants away, locked himself in Mrs. Grady’s
room, and would not tolerate interruptions from any source.
His memory was so prodigious that whatever he wrote was
fixed in his mind, so that when he had once written out a
speech, he needed the manuscript no more. Those who
were with him say that he did not confine himself to the
printed text of the Boston speech, but made little excursions
suggested by his surroundings. Nevertheless, that
speech, as it stands, reaches the high-water mark of modern
oratory. It was his last, as it was his best, contribution
to the higher politics of the country—the politics that are
above partisanry and self-seeking.</p>
<h3 class='c016'>VIII.</h3>

<p class='c024'>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.</p>

<p class='c018'><span class='pageno' id='Page_68'>68</span>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.</p>
<div class='pbb'>
 <hr class='pb c007' />
</div>
<div class='chapter'>
  <span class='pageno' id='Page_69'>69</span>
  <h2 class='c012'>MEMORIAL OF HENRY W. GRADY.</h2>
</div>
<hr class='c013' />

<div class='nf-center-c0'>
  <div class='nf-center'>
    <div><span class='sc'>Prepared by Marion J. Verdery, at the Request of the New York Southern Society.</span></div>
  </div>
</div>

<hr class='c028' />
<p class='drop-capa0_25_0_7 c020'>HENRY WOODFIN GRADY was born in Athens,
Georgia, May 17, 1851, and died in Atlanta,
Georgia, December 23, 1889.</p>

<p class='c018'>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.</p>

<p class='c018'>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.</p>

<p class='c018'>He fought in defense of his convictions, and fell “a
martyr for conscience’ sake.”</p>

<p class='c018'>His widow, bereft of her helpmate, faced alone the grave
responsibility of rearing her three young children.</p>

<p class='c018'><span class='pageno' id='Page_70'>70</span>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.</p>

<p class='c018'>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.</p>

<p class='c018'>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.</p>

<p class='c018'>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
<span class='pageno' id='Page_71'>71</span>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.</p>

<p class='c018'>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.”</p>

<p class='c018'>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.</p>

<p class='c018'>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.</p>

<p class='c018'>During his college days, he was a boy of bounding
spirit, who, by an inexplicable power over his associates,
<span class='pageno' id='Page_72'>72</span>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.</p>

<p class='c018'>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.</p>

<p class='c018'>In all the relations of college life he was universally
popular. He had a real genius for putting himself <i>en rapport</i>
with all sorts and conditions of men. His sympathy
<span class='pageno' id='Page_73'>73</span>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.</p>

<p class='c018'>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.</p>

<p class='c018'>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.</p>

<p class='c018'>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
<span class='pageno' id='Page_74'>74</span>wonderful buoyancy of his nature, he might have succumbed
permanently to the severe blow which had been
struck at his youthful aspirations and hopes.</p>

<p class='c018'>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.</p>

<p class='c018'>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.</p>

<p class='c018'>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.</p>

<p class='c018'>Soon after marriage he moved to Rome, Georgia, and
established himself in the joint ownership, and editorial
management of the Rome <i>Commercial</i>, 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 <i>Herald</i>. 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 <i>Herald</i> 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
<span class='pageno' id='Page_75'>75</span>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 <i>Herald</i>
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.</p>

<p class='c018'>He made another effort, and started a weekly paper
called the <i>Atlanta Capital</i>. This, however, soon went the
sorrowing way of his other hopes.</p>

<p class='c018'>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.</p>

<p class='c018'>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.</p>

<p class='c018'>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
<span class='pageno' id='Page_76'>76</span>(North Carolina) <i>Star</i>, 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.</p>

<p class='c018'>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.</p>

<p class='c018'>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
<i>Herald</i> 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 <i>Herald</i> 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
<i>Herald</i>. 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 <i>Herald</i> with a trembling hand,
<span class='pageno' id='Page_77'>77</span>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 <i>Herald</i> 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 <i>Herald</i>.’”</p>

<p class='c018'>Almost immediately after his return to Atlanta, he was
tendered, and gladly accepted, a position on the editorial
staff of the Atlanta <i>Constitution</i>. He worked vigorously
for the New York <i>Herald</i> 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.</p>

<p class='c018'>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 <i>his</i> report of it to the <i>Herald</i> was exclusive.
For that piece of work alone, Mr. Bennett paid him a thousand
dollars. His attachment to the editorial staff of the
Atlanta <i>Constitution</i> gave him an opportunity to impress
himself upon the people of Georgia, which he did with
great rapidity and power.</p>

<p class='c018'>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 <i>Constitution</i>. 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 <i>Constitution</i>
during his identification with it shows nothing more plainly
than the value of his marvelous work in its service.</p>

<p class='c018'>Securing an interest in the Atlanta <i>Constitution</i> may be
<span class='pageno' id='Page_78'>78</span>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.</p>

<p class='c018'>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.</p>

<p class='c018'>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.</p>

<p class='c018'>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
<span class='pageno' id='Page_79'>79</span>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.</p>

<p class='c018'>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.</p>

<p class='c018'>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.</p>

<p class='c018'>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.</p>

<p class='c018'>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.</p>

<p class='c018'>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.</p>

<p class='c018'><span class='pageno' id='Page_80'>80</span>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.</p>

<p class='c018'>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.</p>

<p class='c018'>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.</p>
<div class='pbb'>
 <hr class='pb c007' />
</div>

<div class='nf-center-c0'>
<div class='nf-center c001'>
    <div><span class='pageno' id='Page_81'>81</span><span class='c029'>SPEECHES.</span></div>
  </div>
</div>

<div class='pbb'>
 <hr class='pb c001' />
</div>
<div class='chapter'>
  <span class='pageno' id='Page_83'>83</span>
  <h2 class='c012'>THE NEW SOUTH.</h2>
</div>
<hr class='c013' />
<p class='drop-capa0_25_0_7 c030'><span class='sc'>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</span>:</p>
<p class='c023'>“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.</p>

<p class='c018'>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.</p>

<p class='c018'>I bespeak the utmost stretch of your courtesy to-night.
I am not troubled about those from whom I come. You
<span class='pageno' id='Page_84'>84</span>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?”</p>

<p class='c018'>“No, I didn’t,” said John, “but I’ll be dinged if I
don’t.”</p>

<p class='c018'>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.</p>

<p class='c018'>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.</p>

<p class='c018'>Let me remind you that the Virginia Cavalier first
challenged France on the continent—that Cavalier, John
<span class='pageno' id='Page_85'>85</span>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.</p>

<p class='c018'>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.</p>

<p class='c018'>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
<span class='pageno' id='Page_86'>86</span>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.</p>

<p class='c018'>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
<span class='pageno' id='Page_87'>87</span>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.</p>

<p class='c018'>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.</p>

<p class='c018'>But what is the sum of our work? We have found out
that in the summing up the free negro counts more than he
<span class='pageno' id='Page_88'>88</span>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.</p>

<p class='c018'>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
<span class='pageno' id='Page_89'>89</span>illustration we await with confidence the verdict of the
world.</p>

<p class='c018'>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.</p>

<p class='c018'>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
<span class='pageno' id='Page_90'>90</span>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.</p>

<p class='c018'>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.</p>

<p class='c018'>The old South rested everything on slavery and agriculture,
<span class='pageno' id='Page_91'>91</span>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.</p>

<p class='c018'>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.</p>

<p class='c018'>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
<span class='pageno' id='Page_92'>92</span>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.</p>

<p class='c018'>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.</p>

<p class='c018'>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
<span class='pageno' id='Page_93'>93</span>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,</p>

<div class='lg-container-b c031'>
  <div class='linegroup'>
    <div class='group'>
      <div class='line in14'>“Those opened eyes,</div>
      <div class='line'>Which like the meteors of a troubled heaven,</div>
      <div class='line'>All of one nature, of one substance bred,</div>
      <div class='line'>Did lately meet in th’ intestine shock,</div>
      <div class='line'>Shall now, in mutual well beseeming ranks,</div>
      <div class='line'>March all one way.”</div>
    </div>
  </div>
</div>

<div class='pbb'>
 <hr class='pb c007' />
</div>
<div class='chapter'>
  <span class='pageno' id='Page_94'>94</span>
  <h2 class='c012'>THE SOUTH AND HER PROBLEMS.</h2>
</div>
<hr class='c013' />
<p class='drop-capa0_25_0_70 c017'><span class='sc'>AT the Dallas, Texas, State Fair, on the 26th of
October, 1887, Mr. Grady was the Orator of
the Day. He said</span>:</p>
<p class='c021'>“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.”</p>

<p class='c023'>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.</p>

<p class='c018'>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.</p>

<p class='c018'>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
<span class='pageno' id='Page_95'>95</span>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.</p>

<p class='c018'>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.
<span class='pageno' id='Page_96'>96</span>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.</p>

<p class='c018'>But the future holds a problem, in solving which the
South must stand alone; in dealing with which, she must
come closer together than ambition or despair have driven
her, and on the outcome of which her very existence depends.
This problem is to carry within her body politic
two separate races, and nearly equal in numbers. She
must carry these races in peace—for discord means ruin.
She must carry them separately—for assimilation means
debasement. She must carry them in equal justice—for to
this she is pledged in honor and in gratitude. She must
carry them even unto the end, for in human probability
she will never be quit of either.</p>

<p class='c018'>This burden no other people bears to-day—on none
hath it ever rested. Without precedent or companionship,
the South must bear this problem, the awful responsibility
of which should win the sympathy of all human
kind, and the protecting watchfulness of God—alone, even
unto the end. Set by this problem apart from all other
peoples of the earth, and her unique position emphasized
rather than relieved, as I shall show hereafter, by her
material conditions, it is not only fit but it is essential that
she should hold her brotherhood unimpaired, quicken her
sympathies, and in the light or in the shadows of this surpassing
problem work out her own salvation in the fear of
God—but of God alone.</p>

<p class='c018'><span class='pageno' id='Page_97'>97</span>What shall the South do to be saved? Through what
paths shall she reach the end? Through what travail, or
what splendors, shall she give to the Union this section, its
wealth garnered, its resources utilized, and its rehabilitation
complete—and restore to the world this problem solved
in such justice as the finite mind can measure, or finite
hands administer?</p>

<p class='c018'>In dealing with this I shall dwell on two points.</p>

<p class='c018'>First, the duty of the South in its relation to the race
problem.</p>

<p class='c018'>Second, the duty of the South in relation to its no less
unique and important industrial problem.</p>

<p class='c018'>I approach this discussion with a sense of consecration.
I beg your patient and cordial sympathy. And I invoke
the Almighty God, that having showered on this people His
fullest riches has put their hands to this task, that He will
draw near unto us, as He drew near to troubled Israel, and
lead us in the ways of honor and uprightness, even through
a pillar of cloud by day, and a pillar of fire by night.</p>

<p class='c018'>What of the negro? This of him. I want no better
friend than the black boy who was raised by my side, and
who is now trudging patiently with downcast eyes and
shambling figure through his lowly way in life. I want
no sweeter music than the crooning of my old “mammy,”
now dead and gone to rest, as I heard it when she held
me in her loving arms, and bending her old black face
above me stole the cares from my brain, and led me smiling
into sleep. I want no truer soul than that which moved
the trusty slave, who for four years while my father fought
with the armies that barred his freedom, slept every night
at my mother’s chamber door, holding her and her children
as safe as if her husband stood guard, and ready to lay
down his humble life on her threshold. History has no
parallel to the faith kept by the negro in the South during
the war. Often five hundred negroes to a single white man,
and yet through these dusky throngs the women and children
walked in safety, and the unprotected homes rested in
peace. Unmarshaled, the black battalions moved patiently
<span class='pageno' id='Page_98'>98</span>to the fields in the morning to feed the armies their idleness
would have starved, and at night gathered anxiously
at the big house to “hear the news from marster,” though
conscious that his victory made their chains enduring.
Everywhere humble and kindly; the bodyguard of the
helpless; the rough companion of the little ones; the
observant friend; the silent sentry in his lowly cabin; the
shrewd counselor. And when the dead came home, a
mourner at the open grave. A thousand torches would
have disbanded every Southern army, but not one was
lighted. When the master going to a war in which slavery
was involved said to his slave, “I leave my home and loved
ones in your charge,” the tenderness between man and master
stood disclosed. And when the slave held that charge
sacred through storm and temptation, he gave new meaning
to faith and loyalty. I rejoice that when freedom came to
him after years of waiting, it was all the sweeter because the
black hands from which the shackles fell were stainless of a
single crime against the helpless ones confided to his care.</p>

<p class='c018'>From this root, imbedded in a century of kind and constant
companionship, has sprung some foliage. As no
race had ever lived in such unresisting bondage, none was
ever hurried with such swiftness through freedom into
power. Into hands still trembling from the blow that
broke the shackles, was thrust the ballot. In less than
twelve months from the day he walked down the furrow a
slave, the negro dictated in legislative halls from which
Davis and Calhoun had gone forth, the policy of twelve
commonwealths. When his late master protested against
his misrule, the federal drum-beat rolled around his strong-holds,
and from a hedge of federal bayonets he grinned in
good-natured insolence. From the proven incapacity of
that day has he far advanced? Simple, credulous, impulsive—easily
led and too often easily bought, is he a safer,
more intelligent citizen now than then? Is this mass of
votes, loosed from old restraints, inviting alliance or awaiting
opportunity, less menacing than when its purpose was
plain and its way direct?</p>

<p class='c018'><span class='pageno' id='Page_99'>99</span>My countrymen, right here the South must make a
decision on which very much depends. Many wise men
hold that the white vote of the South should divide, the
color line be beaten down, and the southern States ranged
on economic or moral questions as interest or belief demands.
I am compelled to dissent from this view. The
worst thing in my opinion that could happen is that the
white people of the South should stand in opposing factions,
with the vast mass of ignorant or purchasable negro votes
between. Consider such a status. If the negroes were
skillfully led,—and leaders would not be lacking,—it would
give them the balance of power—a thing not to be considered.
If their vote was not compacted, it would invite
the debauching bid of factions, and drift surely to that
which was the most corrupt and cunning. With the shiftless
habit and irresolution of slavery days still possessing
him, the negro voter will not in this generation, adrift from
war issues, become a steadfast partisan through conscience
or conviction. In every community there are colored men
who redeem their race from this reproach, and who vote
under reason. Perhaps in time the bulk of this race may
thus adjust itself. But, through what long and monstrous
periods of political debauchery this status would be
reached, no tongue can tell.</p>

<p class='c018'>The clear and unmistakable domination of the white
race, dominating not through violence, not through party
alliance, but through the integrity of its own vote and the
largeness of its sympathy and justice through which it
shall compel the support of the better classes of the
colored race,—that is the hope and assurance of the South.
Otherwise, the negro would be bandied from one faction to
another. His credulity would be played upon, his cupidity
tempted, his impulses misdirected, his passions inflamed.
He would be forever in alliance with that faction
which was most desperate and unscrupulous. Such a state
would be worse than reconstruction, for then intelligence
was banded, and its speedy triumph assured. But with
intelligence and property divided—bidding and overbidding
<span class='pageno' id='Page_100'>100</span>for place and patronage—irritation increasing with
each conflict—the bitterness and desperation seizing every
heart—political debauchery deepening, as each faction
staked its all in the miserable game—there would be no
end to this, until our suffrage was hopelessly sullied, our
people forever divided, and our most sacred rights surrendered.</p>

<p class='c018'>One thing further should be said in perfect frankness.
Up to this point we have dealt with ignorance and corruption—but
beyond this point a deeper issue confronts us.
Ignorance may struggle to enlightenment, out of corruption
may come the incorruptible. God speed the day
when,—every true man will work and pray for its coming,—the
negro must be led to know and through sympathy to
confess that his interests and the interests of the people of
the South are identical. The men who, from afar off, view
this subject through the cold eye of speculation or see it
distorted through partisan glasses, insist that, directly or
indirectly, the negro race shall be in control of the affairs
of the South. We have no fears of this; already we are
attaching to us the best elements of that race, and as we
proceed our alliance will broaden; external pressure but
irritates and impedes. Those who would put the negro race
in supremacy would work against infallible decree, for the
white race can never submit to its domination, because the
white race is the superior race. But the supremacy of the
white race of the South must be maintained forever, and
the domination of the negro race resisted at all points and
at all hazards—because the white race is the superior race.
This is the declaration of no new truth. It has abided
forever in the marrow of our bones, and shall run forever
with the blood that feeds Anglo-Saxon hearts.</p>

<p class='c018'>In political compliance the South has evaded the truth,
and men have drifted from their convictions. But we cannot
escape this issue. It faces us wherever we turn. It is
an issue that has been, and will be. The races and tribes
of earth are of Divine origin. Behind the laws of man and
the decrees of war, stands the law of God. What God hath
<span class='pageno' id='Page_101'>101</span>separated let no man join together. The Indian, the Malay,
the Negro, the Caucasian, these types stand as markers
of God’s will. Let not man tinker with the work of the
Almighty. Unity of civilization, no more than unity of
faith, will never be witnessed on earth. No race has risen,
or will rise, above its ordained place. Here is the pivotal
fact of this great matter—two races are made equal in law,
and in political rights, between whom the caste of race has
set an impassable gulf. This gulf is bridged by a statute,
and the races are urged to cross thereon. This cannot be.
The fiat of the Almighty has gone forth, and in eighteen
centuries of history it is written. We would escape this
issue if we could. From the depths of its soul the South
invokes from heaven “peace on earth, and good will to
man.” She would not, if she could, cast this race back into
the condition from which it was righteously raised. She
would not deny its smallest or abridge its fullest privilege.
Not to lift this burden forever from her people, would she
do the least of these things. She must walk through the
valley of the shadow, for God has so ordained. But he has
ordained that she shall walk in that integrity of race, that
created in His wisdom has been perpetuated in His strength.
Standing in the presence of this multitude, sobered with
the responsibility of the message I deliver to the young
men of the South, I declare that the truth above all others
to be worn unsullied and sacred in your hearts, to be surrendered
to no force, sold for no price, compromised in no
necessity, but cherished and defended as the covenant of
your prosperity, and the pledge of peace to your children,
is that the white race must dominate forever in the South,
because it is the white race, and superior to that race by
which its supremacy is threatened.</p>

<p class='c018'>It is a race issue. Let us come to this point, and stand
here. Here the air is pure and the light is clear, and here
honor and peace abide. Juggling and evasion deceives not
a man. Compromise and subservience has carried not a
point. There is not a white man North or South who does
not feel it stir in the gray matter of his brain and throb in
<span class='pageno' id='Page_102'>102</span>his heart. Not a negro who does not feel its power. It is
not a sectional issue. It speaks in Ohio, and in Georgia.
It speaks wherever the Anglo-Saxon touches an alien race.
It has just spoken in universally approved legislation in
excluding the Chinaman from our gates, not for his ignorance,
vice or corruption, but because he sought to establish
an inferior race in a republic fashioned in the wisdom
and defended by the blood of a homogeneous people.</p>

<p class='c018'>The Anglo-Saxon blood has dominated always and
everywhere. It fed Alfred when he wrote the charter of
English liberty; it gathered about Hampden as he stood
beneath the oak; it thundered in Cromwell’s veins as he
fought his king; it humbled Napoleon at Waterloo; it has
touched the desert and jungle with undying glory; it carried
the drumbeat of England around the world and spread
on every continent the gospel of liberty and of God: it
established this republic, carved it from the wilderness,
conquered it from the Indians, wrested it from England,
and at last, stilling its own tumult, consecrated it forever
as the home of the Anglo-Saxon, and the theater of his
transcending achievement. Never one foot of it can be
surrendered while that blood lives in American veins,
and feeds American hearts, to the domination of an alien
and inferior race.</p>

<p class='c018'>And yet that is just what is proposed. Not in twenty
years have we seen a day so pregnant with fate to this section
as the sixth of next November. If President Cleveland
is then defeated, which God forbid, I believe these
States will be led through sorrows compared to which the
woes of reconstruction will be as the fading dews of morning
to the roaring flood. To dominate these States through
the colored vote, with such aid as federal patronage may
debauch or federal power deter, and thus through its
chosen instruments perpetuate its rule, is in my opinion the
settled purpose of the Republican party. I am appalled
when I measure the passion in which this negro problem
is judged by the leaders of the party. Fifteen years ago
Vice-President Wilson said—and I honor his memory as
<span class='pageno' id='Page_103'>103</span>that of a courageous man: “We shall not have finished
with the South until we force its people to change their
thought, and think as we think.” I repeat these words,
for I heard them when a boy, and they fell on my ears as
the knell of my people’s rights—“to change their thought,
and make them think as we think.” Not enough to have
conquered our armies—to have decimated our ranks, to
have desolated our fields and reduced us to poverty, to
have struck the ballot from our hands and enfranchised
our slaves—to have held us prostrate under bayonets while
the insolent mocked and thieves plundered—but their very
souls must be rifled of their faiths, their sacred traditions
cudgeled from memory, and their immortal minds beaten
into subjection until thought had lost its integrity, and
we were forced “to think as they think.” And just
now General Sherman has said, and I honor him as a
soldier:</p>

<p class='c021'>“The negro must be allowed to vote, and his vote must be counted;
otherwise, so sure as there is a God in heaven, you will have another
war, more cruel than the last, when the torch and dagger will take
the place of the muskets of well-ordered battalions. Should the negro
strike that blow, in seeming justice, there will be millions to assist
them.”</p>

<p class='c023'>And this General took Johnston’s sword in surrender!
He looked upon the thin and ragged battalions in gray,
that for four years had held his teeming and heroic legions
at bay. Facing them, he read their courage in their depleted
ranks, and gave them a soldier’s parole. When he
found it in his heart to taunt these heroes with this threat,
why—careless as he was twenty years ago with fire, he is
even more careless now with his words. If we could hope
that this problem would be settled within our lives I would
appeal from neither madness nor unmanliness. But when
I know that, strive as I may, I must at last render this
awful heritage into the untried hands of my son, already
dearer to me than my life, and that he must in turn bequeath
it unsolved to his children, I cry out against the
inhumanity that deepens its difficulties with this incendiary
<span class='pageno' id='Page_104'>104</span>threat, and beclouds its real issue with inflaming
passion.</p>

<p class='c018'>This problem is not only enduring, but it is widening.
The exclusion of the Chinese is the first step in the revolution
that shall save liberty and law and religion to this
land, and in peace and order, not enforced on the gallows
or at the bayonet’s end, but proceeding from the heart of
an harmonious people, shall secure in the enjoyment of
these rights, and the control of this republic, the homogeneous
people that established and has maintained it. The
next step will be taken when some brave statesman, looking
Demagogy in the face, shall move to call to the stranger
at our gates, “Who comes here?” admitting every man
who seeks a home, or honors our institutions, and whose
habit and blood will run with the native current; but excluding
all who seek to plant anarchy or to establish alien
men or measures on our soil; and will then demand that
the standard of our citizenship be lifted and the right of
acquiring our suffrage be abridged. When that day
comes, and God speed its coming, the position of the South
will be fully understood, and everywhere approved. Until
then, let us—giving the negro every right, civil and
political, measured in that fullness the strong should always
accord the weak—holding him in closer friendship
and sympathy than he is held by those who would crucify
us for his sake—realizing that on his prosperity ours
depends—let us resolve that never by external pressure, or
internal division, shall he establish domination, directly or
indirectly, over that race that everywhere has maintained
its supremacy. Let this resolution be cast on the lines of
equity and justice. Let it be the pledge of honest, safe
and impartial administration, and we shall command the
support of the colored race itself, more dependent than any
other on the bounty and protection of government. Let
us be wise and patient, and we shall secure through its
acquiescence what otherwise we should win through conflict,
and hold in insecurity.</p>

<p class='c018'>All this is no unkindness to the negro—but rather that
<span class='pageno' id='Page_105'>105</span>he may be led in equal rights and in peace to his uttermost
good. Not in sectionalism—for my heart beats true
to the Union, to the glory of which your life and heart is
pledged. Not in disregard of the world’s opinion—for to
render back this problem in the world’s approval is the
sum of my ambition, and the height of human achievement.
Not in reactionary spirit—but rather to make clear
that new and grander way up which the South is marching
to higher destiny, and on which I would not halt her for
all the spoils that have been gathered unto parties since
Catiline conspired, and Cæsar fought. Not in passion,
my countrymen, but in reason—not in narrowness, but in
breadth—that we may solve this problem in calmness and
in truth, and lifting its shadows let perpetual sunshine
pour down on two races, walking together in peace and
contentment. Then shall this problem have proved our
blessing, and the race that threatened our ruin work our
salvation as it fills our fields with the best peasantry the
world has ever seen. Then the South—putting behind her
all the achievements of her past—and in war and in
peace they beggar eulogy—may stand upright among the
nations and challenge the judgment of man and the approval
of God, in having worked out in their sympathy,
and in His guidance, this last and surpassing miracle of
human government.</p>

<p class='c018'>What of the South’s industrial problem? When we
remember that amazement followed the payment by thirty-seven
million Frenchmen of a billion dollars indemnity to
Germany, that the five million whites of the South rendered
to the torch and sword three billions of property—that
thirty million dollars a year, or six hundred million
dollars in twenty years, has been given willingly of our
poverty as pensions for Northern soldiers, the wonder is
that we are here at all. There is a figure with which history
has dealt lightly, but that, standing pathetic and
heroic in the genesis of our new growth, has interested me
greatly—our soldier-farmer of ’65. What chance had he
for the future as he wandered amid his empty barns, his
<span class='pageno' id='Page_106'>106</span>stock, labor, and implements gone—gathered up the fragments
of his wreck—urging kindly his borrowed mule—paying
sixty per cent. for all that he bought, and buying
all on credit—his crop mortgaged before it was planted—his
children in want, his neighborhood in chaos—working
under new conditions and retrieving every error by a costly
year—plodding all day down the furrow, hopeless and
adrift, save when at night he went back to his broken
home, where his wife, cheerful even then, renewed his
courage, while she ministered to him in loving tenderness.
Who would have thought as during those lonely and terrible
days he walked behind the plow, locking the sunshine
in the glory of his harvest, and spreading the showers and
the verdure of his field—no friend near save nature that
smiled at his earnest touch, and God that sent him the
message of good cheer through the passing breeze and the
whispering leaves—that he would in twenty years, having
carried these burdens uncomplaining, make a crop of
$800,000,000. Yet this he has done, and from his bounty
the South has rebuilded her cities, and recouped her losses.
While we exult in his splendid achievement, let us take
account of his standing.</p>

<p class='c018'>Whence this enormous growth? For ten years the
world has been at peace. The pioneer has now replaced
the soldier. Commerce has whitened new seas, and the
merchant has occupied new areas. Steam has made of the
earth a chess-board, on which men play for markets.
Our western wheat-grower competes in London with the
Russian and the East Indian. The Ohio wool grower
watches the Australian shepherd, and the bleat of the now
historic sheep of Vermont is answered from the steppes of
Asia. The herds that emerge from the dust of your amazing
prairies might hear in their pauses the hoof-beats of
antipodean herds marching to meet them. Under Holland’s
dykes, the cheese and butter makers fight American
dairies. The hen cackles around the world. California
challenges vine-clad France. The dark continent is disclosed
through meshes of light. There is competition
<span class='pageno' id='Page_107'>107</span>everywhere. The husbandman, driven from his market,
balances price against starvation, and undercuts his rival.
This conflict often runs to panic, and profit vanishes. The
Iowa farmer burning his corn for fuel is not an unusual
type.</p>

<p class='c018'>Amid this universal conflict, where stands the South?
While the producer of everything we eat or wear, in every
land, is fighting through glutted markets for bare existence,
what of the southern farmer? In his industrial as
in his political problem he is set apart—not in doubt, but
in assured independence. Cotton makes him king. Not
the fleeces that Jason sought can rival the richness of this
plant, as it unfurls its banners in our fields. It is gold
from the instant it puts forth its tiny shoot. The shower
that whispers to it is heard around the world. The trespass
of a worm on its green leaf means more to England
than the advance of the Russians on her Asiatic outposts.
When its fibre, current in every bank, is marketed, it
renders back to the South $350,000,000 every year. Its
seed will yield $60,000,000 worth of oil to the press and
$40,000,000 in food for soil and beast, making the stupendous
total of $450,000,000 annual income from this crop.
And now, under the Tompkins patent, from its stalk—news
paper is to be made at two cents per pound. Edward
Atkinson once said: “If New England could grow the
cotton plant, without lint, it would make her richest crop;
if she held monopoly of cotton lint and seed she would control
the commerce of the world.”</p>

<p class='c018'>But is our monopoly, threatened from Egypt, India and
Brazil, sure and permanent? Let the record answer. In
’72 the American supply of cotton was 3,241,000 bales,—foreign
supply 3,036,000. We led our rivals by less than
200,000 bales. This year the American supply is 8,000,000
bales—from foreign sources, 2,100,000, expressed in bales
of four hundred pounds each. In spite of new areas elsewhere,
of fuller experience, of better transportation, and
unlimited money spent in experiment, the supply of foreign
cotton has decreased since ’72 nearly 1,000,000 bales, while
<span class='pageno' id='Page_108'>108</span>that of the South has increased nearly 5,000,000. Further
than this: Since 1872, population in Europe has increased 13
per cent., and cotton consumption in Europe has increased
50 per cent. Still further: Since 1880 cotton consumption
in Europe has increased 28 per cent., wool only 4 per cent.,
and flax has decreased 11 per cent. As for new areas, the
uttermost missionary woos the heathen with a cotton shirt
in one hand and the Bible in the other, and no savage I
believe has ever been converted to one, without adopting
the other. To summarize: Our American fibre has increased
its product nearly three-fold, while it has seen the
product of its rival decrease one-third. It has enlarged
its dominion in the old centers of population, supplanting
flax and wool, and it peeps from the satchel of every business
and religious evangelist that trots the globe. In three
years the American crop has increased 1,400,000 bales, and
yet there is less cotton in the world to-day than at any time
for twenty years. The dominion of our king is established;
this princely revenue assured, not for a year, but for all
time. It is the heritage that God gave us when he arched
our skies, established our mountains, girt us about with
the ocean, tempered the sunshine, and measured the rain—ours
and our children’s forever.</p>

<p class='c018'>Not alone in cotton, but in iron, does the South excel.
The Hon. Mr. Norton, who honors this platform with his
presence, once said to me: “An Englishman of the highest
character predicted that the Atlantic will be whitened
within our lives with sails carrying American iron and coal
to England.” When he made that prediction the English
miners were exhausting the coal in long tunnels above which
the ocean thundered. Having ores and coal stored in exhaustless
quantity, in such richness, and in such adjustment,
that iron can be made and manufacturing done
cheaper than elsewhere on this continent, is to now command,
and at last control, the world’s market for iron.
The South now sells iron, through Pittsburg, in New York.
She has driven Scotch iron first from the interior, and
finally from American ports. Within our lives she will
<span class='pageno' id='Page_109'>109</span>cross the Atlantic, and fulfill the Englishman’s prophecy.
In 1880 the South made 212,000 tons of iron. In 1887, 845,000
tons. She is now actually building, or has finished this
year, furnaces that will produce more than her entire product
of last year. Birmingham alone will produce more
iron in 1889 than the entire South produced in 1887. Our
coal supply is exhaustless, Texas alone having 6000 square
miles. In marble and granite we have no rivals, as to quantity
or quality. In lumber our riches are even vaster.
More than fifty per cent. of our entire area is in forests,
making the South the best timbered region of the world.
We have enough merchantable yellow pine to bring, in
money, $2,500,000,000—a sum the vastness of which can
only be understood when I say it nearly equaled the assessed
value of the entire South, including cities, forests,
farms, mines, factories and personal property of every
description whatsoever. Back of this our forests of hard
woods, and measureless swamps of cypress and gum.
Think of it. In cotton a monopoly. In iron and coal establishing
swift mastery. In granite and marble developing
equal advantage and resource. In yellow pine and hard
woods the world’s treasury. Surely the basis of the South’s
wealth and power is laid by the hand of the Almighty God,
and its prosperity has been established by divine law which
work in eternal justice and not by taxes levied on its neighbors
through human statutes. Paying tribute for fifty years
that under artificial conditions other sections might reach
a prosperity impossible under natural laws, it has grown
apace—and its growth shall endure if its people are ruled
by two maxims, that reach deeper than legislative enactment,
and the operation of which cannot be limited by artificial
restraint, and but little hastened by artificial stimulus.</p>

<p class='c018'>First. No one crop will make a people prosperous. If
cotton held its monopoly under conditions that made other
crops impossible—or under allurements that made other
crops exceptional—its dominion would be despotism.</p>

<p class='c018'>Whenever the greed for a money crop unbalances the
wisdom of husbandry, the money crop is a curse. When
<span class='pageno' id='Page_110'>110</span>it stimulates the general economy of the farm, it is the profiting
of farming. In an unprosperous strip of Carolina,
when asked the cause of their poverty, the people say,
“Tobacco—for it is our only crop.” In Lancaster, Pa., the
richest American county by the census, when asked the
cause of their prosperity, they say, “Tobacco—for it is the
golden crown of a diversified agriculture.” The soil that
produces cotton invites the grains and grasses, the orchard
and the vine. Clover, corn, cotton, wheat, and barley
thrive in the same inclosure; the peach, the apple, the
apricot, and the Siberian crab in the same orchard. Herds
and flocks graze ten months every year in the meadows
over which winter is but a passing breath, and in which
spring and autumn meet in summer’s heart. Sugar-cane
and oats, rice and potatoes, are extremes that come
together under our skies. To raise cotton and send its
princely revenues to the west for supplies, and to the east
for usury, would be misfortune if soil and climate forced
such a curse. When both invite independence, to remain
in slavery is a crime. To mortgage our farms in Boston
for money with which to buy meat and bread from western
cribs and smokehouses, is folly unspeakable. I rejoice
that Texas is less open to this charge than others of the
cotton States. With her eighty million bushels of grain,
and her sixteen million head of stock, she is rapidly learning
that diversified agriculture means prosperity. Indeed,
the South is rapidly learning the same lesson; and learned
through years of debt and dependence it will never be forgotten.
The best thing Georgia has done in twenty years
was to raise her oat crop in one season from two million
to nine million bushels, without losing a bale of her cotton.
It is more for the South that she has increased her
crop of corn—that best of grains, of which Samuel J.
Tilden said, “It will be the staple food of the future,
and men will be stronger and better when that day
comes”—by forty-three million bushels this year, than
to have won a pivotal battle in the late war. In this
one item she keeps at home this year a sum equal to
<span class='pageno' id='Page_111'>111</span>the entire cotton crop of my State that last year went
to the west.</p>

<p class='c018'>This is the road to prosperity. It is the way to manliness
and sturdiness of character. When every farmer in
the South shall eat bread from his own fields and meat
from his own pastures, and disturbed by no creditor, and
enslaved by no debt, shall sit amid his teeming gardens,
and orchards, and vineyards, and dairies, and barnyards,
pitching his crops in his own wisdom, and growing them
in independence, making cotton his clean surplus, and
selling it in his own time, and in his chosen market, and
not at a master’s bidding—getting his pay in cash and not
in a receipted mortgage that discharges his debt, but does
not restore his freedom—then shall be breaking the fullness
of our day. Great is King Cotton! But to lie at his
feet while the usurer and grain-raiser bind us in subjection,
is to invite the contempt of man and the reproach of
God. But to stand up before him and amid the crops and
smokehouses wrest from him the magna charta of our
independence, and to establish in his name an ample and
diversified agriculture, that shall honor him while it enriches
us—this is to carry us as far in the way of happiness
and independence as the farmer, working in the fullest
wisdom, and in the richest field, can carry any people.</p>

<p class='c018'>But agriculture alone—no matter how rich or varied
its resources—cannot establish or maintain a people’s
prosperity. There is a lesson in this that Texas may learn
with profit. No commonwealth ever came to greatness by
producing raw material. Less can this be possible in the
future than in the past. The Comstock lode is the richest
spot on earth. And yet the miners, gasping for breath
fifteen hundred feet below the earth’s surface, get bare
existence out of the splendor they dig from the earth. It
goes to carry the commerce and uphold the industry of
distant lands, of which the men who produce it get but dim
report. Hardly more is the South profited when, stripping
the harvest of her cotton fields, or striking her teeming
hills, or leveling her superb forests, she sends the raw
<span class='pageno' id='Page_112'>112</span>material to augment the wealth and power of distant communities.</p>

<p class='c018'>Texas produces a million and a half bales of cotton,
which yield her $60,000,000. That cotton, woven into
common goods, would add $75,000,000 to Texas’s income
from this crop, and employ 220,000 operatives, who would
spend within her borders more than $30,000,000 in wages.
Massachusetts manufactures 575,000 bales of cotton, for
which she pays $31,000,000, and sells for $72,000,000,
adding a value nearly equal to Texas’s gross revenue from
cotton, and yet Texas has a clean advantage for manufacturing
this cotton of one per cent a pound over Massachusetts.
The little village of Grand Rapids began manufacturing
furniture simply because it was set in a timber
district. It is now a great city and sells $10,000,000 worth
of furniture every year, in making which 125,000 men are
employed, and a population of 40,000 people supported.
The best pine districts of the world are in eastern Texas.
With less competition and wider markets than Grand
Rapids has, will she ship her forests at prices that barely
support the wood-chopper and sawyer, to be returned in
the making of which great cities are built or maintained?
When her farmers and herdsmen draw from her cities
$126,000,000 as the price of their annual produce, shall this
enormous wealth be scattered through distant shops and
factories, leaving in the hands of Texas no more than the
sustenance, support, and the narrow brokerage between
buyer and seller? As one-crop farming cannot support
the country, neither can a resource of commercial exchange
support a city. Texas wants immigrants—she needs
them—for if every human being in Texas were placed at
equi-distant points through the State no Texan could hear
the sound of a human voice in your broad areas.</p>

<p class='c018'>So how can you best attract immigration? By furnishing
work for the artisan and mechanic if you meet the
demand of your population for cheaper and essential manufactured
articles. One-half million workers would be
needed for this, and with their families would double the
<span class='pageno' id='Page_113'>113</span>population of your State. In these mechanics and their
dependents farmers would find a market for not only
their staple crops but for the truck that they now despise
to raise or sell, but is at least the cream of the farm.
Worcester county, Mass., takes $720,000,000 of our material
and turns out $87,000,000 of products every year,
paying $20,000,000 in wages. The most prosperous section
of this world is that known as the Middle States of this
republic. With agriculture and manufacturers in the
balance, and their shops and factories set amid rich and
ample acres, the result is such deep and diffuse prosperity
as no other section can show. Suppose those States had a
monopoly of cotton and coal so disposed as to command
the world’s markets and the treasury of the world’s timber,
I suppose the mind is staggered in contemplating the majesty
of the wealth and power they would attain. What have
they that the South lacks?—and to her these things were
added, and climate, ampler acres and rich soil. It is
a curious fact that three-fourths of the population and
manufacturing wealth of this country is comprised in
a narrow strip between Iowa and Massachusetts, comprising
less than one-sixth of our territory, and that this
strip is distant from the source of raw materials on which
its growth is based, of hard climate and in a large part of
sterile soil. Much of this forced and unnatural development
is due to slavery, which for a century fenced enterprise
and capital out of the South. Mr. Thomas, who in the
Lehigh Valley owned a furnace in 1845 that set that pattern
for iron-making in America, had at that time bought mines
and forest where Birmingham now stands. Slavery forced
him away. He settled in Pennsylvania. I have wondered
what would have happened if that one man had opened his
iron mines in Alabama and set his furnaces there at that
time. I know what is going to happen since he has
been forced to come to Birmingham and put up two
furnaces nearly forty years after his survey.</p>

<p class='c018'>Another cause that has prospered New England and
the Middle States while the South languished, is the
<span class='pageno' id='Page_114'>114</span>system of tariff taxes levied on the unmixed agriculture of
these States for the protection of industries to our neighbors
to the North, a system on which the Hon. Roger Q.
Mills—that lion of the tribe of Judah—has at last laid his
mighty paw and under the indignant touch of which it trembles
to its center. That system is to be revised and its duties
reduced, as we all agree it should be, though I should say
in perfect frankness I do not agree with Mr. Mills in it. Let
us hope this will be done with care and industrious patience.
Whether it stands or falls, the South has entered the
industrial list to partake of his bounty if it stands, and
if it falls to rely on the favor with which nature has
endowed her, and from this immutable advantage to
fill her own markets and then have a talk with the world
at large.</p>

<p class='c018'>With amazing rapidity she has moved away from the
one-crop idea that was once her curse. In 1880 she was
esteemed prosperous. Since that time she has added 393,000,000
bushels to her grain crops, and 182,000,000 head to
her live stock. This has not lost one bale of her cotton
crop, which, on the contrary, has increased nearly
200,000 bales. With equal swiftness has she moved away
from the folly of shipping out her ore at $2 a ton and
buying it back in implements from $20 to $100 per ton; her
cotton at 10 cents a pound and buying it back in cloth at
20 to 80 cents per pound; her timber at $8 per thousand
and buying it back in furniture at ten to twenty times as
much. In the past eight years $250,000,000 have been
invested in new shops and factories in her States; 225,000
artisans are now working that eight years ago were idle or
worked elsewhere, and these added $227,000,000 to the
value of her raw material—more than half the value of her
cotton. Add to this the value of her increased grain crops
and stock, and in the past eight years she has grown in
her fields or created in her shops manufactures more than
the value of her cotton crop. The incoming tide has begun
to rise. Every train brings manufacturers from the East
and West seeking to establish themselves or their sons near
<span class='pageno' id='Page_115'>115</span>the raw material and in this growing market. Let the fullness
of the tide roll in.</p>

<p class='c018'>It will not exhaust our materials, nor shall we glut our
markets. When the growing demand of our southern
market, feeding on its own growth, is met, we shall find
new markets for the South. Under our new condition
many indirect laws of commerce shall be straightened.
We buy from Brazil $50,000,000 worth of goods, and sell
her $8,500,000. England buys only $29,000,000, and sells
her $35,000,000. Of $65,000,000 in cotton goods bought by
Central and South America, over $50,000,000 went to England.
Of $331,000,000 sent abroad by the southern half of
our hemisphere, England secures over half, although we
buy from that section nearly twice as much as England.
Our neighbors to the south need nearly every article we
make; we need nearly everything they produce. Less
than 2,500 miles of road must be built to bind by rail the
two American continents. When this is done, and even
before, we shall find exhaustless markets to the South.
Texas shall command, as she stands in the van of this new
movement, its richest rewards.</p>

<p class='c018'>The South, under the rapid diversification of crops and
diversification of industries, is thrilling with new life. As
this new prosperity comes to us, it will bring no sweeter
thought to me, and to you, my countrymen, I am sure, than
that it adds not only to the comfort and happiness of our
neighbors, but that it makes broader the glory and deeper
the majesty, and more enduring the strength, of the Union
which reigns supreme in our hearts. In this republic of
ours is lodged the hope of free government on earth. Here
God has rested the ark of his covenant with the sons of
men. Let us—once estranged and thereby closer bound,—let
us soar above all provincial pride and find our deeper
inspirations in gathering the fullest sheaves into the harvest
and standing the staunchest and most devoted of its
sons as it lights the path and makes clear the way through
which all the people of this earth shall come in God’s
appointed time.</p>

<p class='c018'><span class='pageno' id='Page_116'>116</span>A few words for the young men of Texas. I am glad
that I can speak to them at all. Men, especially young
men, look back for their inspiration to what is best in their
traditions. Thermopylæ cast Spartan sentiments in heroic
mould and sustained Spartan arms for more than a century.
Thermopylæ had survivors to tell the story of its
defeat. The Alamo had none. Though voiceless it shall
speak from its dumb walls. Liberty cried out to Texas, as
God called from the clouds unto Moses. Bowie and Fanning,
though dead still live. Their voices rang above the
din of Goliad and the glory of San Jacinto, and they
marched with the Texas veterans who rejoiced at the birth
of Texas independence. It is the spirit of the Alamo that
moved above the Texas soldiers as they charged like demigods
through a thousand battle-fields, and it is the spirit
of the Alamo that whispers from their graves held in every
State of the Union, ennobling their dust, their soil, that
was crimsoned with their blood.</p>

<p class='c018'>In this spirit of this inspiration and in the thrill of the
amazing growth that surrounds you, my young friends, it
will be strange if the young men of Texas do not carry the
lone star into the heart of the struggle. The South needs
her sons to-day more than when she summoned them to the
forum to maintain her political supremacy, more than
when the bugle called them to the field to defend issues
put to the arbitrament of the sword. Her old body is
instinct with appeal calling on us to come and give her
fuller independence than she has ever sought in field or
forum. It is ours to show that as she prospered with
slaves she shall prosper still more with freemen; ours to
see that from the lists she entered in poverty she shall
emerge in prosperity; ours to carry the transcending traditions
of the old South from which none of us can in honor
or in reverence depart, unstained and unbroken into the
new. Shall we fail? Shall the blood of the old South—the
best strain that ever uplifted human endeavor—that
ran like water at duty’s call and never stained where it
touched—shall this blood that pours into our veins through
<span class='pageno' id='Page_117'>117</span>a century luminous with achievement, for the first time
falter and be driven back from irresolute heat, when the
old South, that left us a better heritage in manliness and
courage than in broad and rich acres, calls us to settle
problems? A soldier lay wounded on a hard-fought field,
the roar of the battle had died away, and he rested in the
deadly stillness of its aftermath. Not a sound was heard
as he lay there, sorely smitten and speechless, but the shriek
of wounded and the sigh of the dying soul, as it escaped
from the tumult of earth into the unspeakable peace of the
stars. Off over the field flickered the lanterns of the surgeons
with the litter bearers, searching that they might
take away those whose lives could be saved and leave in
sorrow those who were doomed to die with pleading eyes
through the darkness. This poor soldier watched, unable
to turn or speak as the lanterns grew near. At last the
light flashed in his face, and the surgeon, with kindly face,
bent over him, hesitated a moment, shook his head, and
was gone, leaving the poor fellow alone with death. He
watched in patient agony as they went on from one part of
the field to another. As they came back the surgeon bent
over him again. “I believe if this poor fellow lives to sundown
to-morrow he will get well.” And again leaving him,
not to death but with hope; all night long these words fell
into his heart as the dews fell from the stars upon his lips,
“if he but lives till sundown, he will get well.” He
turned his weary head to the east and watched for the
coming sun. At last the stars went out, the east trembled
with radiance, and the sun, slowly lifting above the horizon,
tinged his pallid face with flame. He watched it
inch by inch as it climbed slowly up the heavens. He
thought of life, its hopes and ambitions, its sweetness and
its raptures, and he fortified his soul against despair until
the sun had reached high noon. It sloped down its slow
descent, and his life was ebbing away and his heart was
faltering, and he needed stronger stimulants to make him
stand the struggle until the end of the day had come. He
thought of his far-off home, the blessed house resting
<span class='pageno' id='Page_118'>118</span>in tranquil peace with the roses climbing to its door, and
the trees whispering to its windows, and dozing in the
sunshine, the orchard and the little brook running like a
silver thread through the forest.</p>

<p class='c018'>“If I live till sundown I will see it again. I will walk
down the shady lane: I will open the battered gate, and
the mocking-bird shall call to me from the orchard, and I
will drink again at the old mossy spring.”</p>

<p class='c018'>And he thought of the wife who had come from the
neighboring farmhouse and put her hand shyly in his, and
brought sweetness to his life and light to his home.</p>

<p class='c018'>“If I live till sundown I shall look once more into her
deep and loving eyes and press her brown head once more
to my aching breast.”</p>

<p class='c018'>And he thought of the old father, patient in prayer,
bending lower and lower every day under his load of sorrow
and old age.</p>

<p class='c018'>“If I but live till sundown I shall see him again and
wind my strong arm about his feeble body, and his hands
shall rest upon my head while the unspeakable healing of
his blessing falls into my heart.”</p>

<p class='c018'>And he thought of the little children that clambered on
his knees and tangled their little hands into his heart-strings,
making to him such music as the world shall not
equal or heaven surpass.</p>

<p class='c018'>“If I live till sundown they shall again find my parched
lips with their warm mouths, and their little fingers shall
run once more over my face.”</p>

<p class='c018'>And he then thought of his old mother, who gathered
these children about her and breathed her old heart afresh
in their brightness and attuned her old lips anew to their
prattle, that she might live till her big boy came home.</p>

<p class='c018'>“If I live till sundown I will see her again, and I will
rest my head at my old place on her knees, and weep away
all memory of this desolate night.” And the Son of God,
who had died for men, bending from the stars, put the
hand that had been nailed to the cross on ebbing life and
held on the staunch until the sun went down and the stars
<span class='pageno' id='Page_119'>119</span>came out, and shone down in the brave man’s heart and
blurred in his glistening eyes, and the lanterns of the surgeons
came and he was taken from death to life.</p>

<p class='c018'>The world is a battle-field strewn with the wrecks of
government and institutions, of theories and of faiths that
have gone down in the ravage of years. On this field lies
the South, sown with her problems. Upon the field swings
the lanterns of God. Amid the carnage walks the Great
Physician. Over the South he bends. “If ye but live
until to-morrow’s sundown ye shall endure, my countrymen.”
Let us for her sake turn our faces to the east and
watch as the soldier watched for the coming sun. Let us
staunch her wounds and hold steadfast. The sun mounts
the skies. As it descends to us, minister to her and stand
constant at her side for the sake of our children, and of
generations unborn that shall suffer if she fails. And when
the sun has gone down and the day of her probation has
ended, and the stars have rallied her heart, the lanterns
shall be swung over the field and the Great Physician shall
lead her up, from trouble into content, from suffering into
peace, from death to life. Let every man here pledge himself
in this high and ardent hour, as I pledge myself and
the boy that shall follow me; every man himself and his
son, hand to hand and heart to heart, that in death and
earnest loyalty, in patient painstaking and care, he shall
watch her interest, advance her fortune, defend her fame
and guard her honor as long as life shall last. Every man
in the sound of my voice, under the deeper consecration he
offers to the Union, will consecrate himself to the South.
Have no ambition but to be first at her feet and last at her
service. No hope but, after a long life of devotion, to sink
to sleep in her bosom, and as a little child sleeps at his
mother’s breast and rests untroubled in the light of her
smile.</p>

<p class='c018'>With such consecrated service, what could we not
accomplish; what riches we should gather for her; what
glory and prosperity we should render to the Union; what
blessings we should gather unto the universal harvest of
<span class='pageno' id='Page_120'>120</span>humanity. As I think of it, a vision of surpassing beauty
unfolds to my eyes. I see a South, the home of fifty
millions of people, who rise up every day to call from
blessed cities, vast hives of industry and of thrift; her
country-sides the treasures from which their resources are
drawn; her streams vocal with whirring spindles; her
valleys tranquil in the white and gold of the harvest; her
mountains showering down the music of bells, as her slow-moving
flocks and herds go forth from their folds; her
rulers honest and her people loving, and her homes happy
and their hearthstones bright, and their waters still, and
their pastures green, and her conscience clear; her wealth
diffused and poor-houses empty, her churches earnest and
all creeds lost in the gospel. Peace and sobriety walking
hand in hand through her borders; honor in her homes;
uprightness in her midst; plenty in her fields; straight
and simple faith in the hearts of her sons and daughters;
her two races walking together in peace and contentment;
sunshine everywhere and all the time, and night falling on
her generally as from the wings of the unseen dove.</p>

<p class='c018'>All this, my country, and more can we do for you. As
I look the vision grows, the splendor deepens, the horizon
falls back, the skies open their everlasting gates, and the
glory of the Almighty God streams through as He looks
down on His people who have given themselves unto Him
and leads them from one triumph to another until they
have reached a glory unspeaking, and the whirling stars,
as in their courses through Arcturus they run to the milky
way, shall not look down on a better people or happier
land.</p>
<div class='pbb'>
 <hr class='pb c007' />
</div>
<div class='chapter'>
  <span class='pageno' id='Page_121'>121</span>
  <h2 class='c012'>AT THE AUGUSTA EXPOSITION.</h2>
</div>
<hr class='c013' />
<p class='drop-capa0_25_0_7 c017'><span class='sc'>IN November, 1887, at the Augusta Exposition, Mr.
Grady delivered the following Address:</span></p>
<p class='c021'>“When my eyes for the last time behold the sun in the heavens,
may they rest upon the glorious ensign of this republic, still full high
advanced, its arms and trophies streaming in original lustre, not a star
obscured or a stripe effaced, but everywhere blazing in characters of
living light all over its ample folds as they wave over land and sea, and
in every wind under heaven, that sentiment dear to every American
heart, liberty and union now and forever, one and inseparable!”</p>

<p class='c023'>These words of Daniel Webster, whose brain was the
temple of wisdom and whose soul the temple of liberty,
inspire my heart as I speak to you to-day.</p>

<p class='c018'>Ladies and gentlemen: This day is auspicious. Set
apart by governor and president for universal thanksgiving,
our grateful hearts confirm the consecration. Though
we have not been permitted to parade our democratic
roosters in jubilant print, we may now lead them from
their innocuous desuetude, and making them the basis of
this day’s feast, gather about them a company that in cordial
grace shall be excelled by none—not even that which
invests the republican turkey, whose steaming thighs shall
be slipped to-day in Indianapolis, and attacking them with
an appetite that comes from abounding health, consign
them to that digestion that waits on a conscience void of
offense.</p>

<p class='c018'>We give thanks to-day that the Lord God Almighty,
having led us from desolation into plenty, from poverty
into substance, from passion into reason, and from estrangement
<span class='pageno' id='Page_122'>122</span>into love—having brought the harvests from
the ashes, and raised us homes from our ruins, and touched
our scarred land all over with beauty and with peace—permits
us to assemble here to-day and rejoice amid the
garnered heaps of our treasure. Your visitors give thanks
because, coming to a city that from deep disaster has risen
with energy and courage unequaled, and witnessing an exposition
that in the sweep of its mighty arms and the
splendor of its gathered riches surpasses all we have attempted,
they find all sense of rivalry blotted out in
wondering admiration, and from hearts that know not
envy or criticism, bid you God-speed to even higher
achievement, and to full and swift harvesting of the
prosperity to gain which you have builded so bravely
and so wisely.</p>

<p class='c018'>I am thankful, if you will pardon this personal digression,
because I now meet face to face, and can render service
to a people whose generous words on a late occasion
touched my heart more deeply than I shall attempt here
to express. I simply say to you now, and I would that
my voice could reach every man in Georgia to whom I am
in like indebted, that your kindness left no room for resentment
or regret; but a heart filled with gratitude and
love steadier in its resolution to deserve the approval you
so unstintingly gave, and more deeply consecrated to the
service of the people, that in giving me their love have
given all that I have dared to hope for, and more than I
had dared to ask. I know not what the future may hold
for the life that recent events have jostled from its accustomed
path. It would be affectation to say that I am careless—for,
in touching it with your loving confidence, you
have kindled inspirations that cherished without guile,
may be confessed in frankness. But if it be given to man
to read the human heart, and plumb the quicksands of
human ambition, I know that I speak the truth when I
say that if ever I hold in my grasp any honor, in the winning
or wearing of which my State is disadvantaged, and
my hand refuses to surrender it, I pray God that in remembrance
<span class='pageno' id='Page_123'>123</span>of this hour He will strike it from me forever;
and if my ambitious heart rebels, that He will lead it, even
through sorrow and humiliation, to know that unworthy
laurels will fade on the brow, and that no honor can ennoble,
no triumph advance, and no victory satisfy that is
not won and worn in the weal of the people and the prosperity
of the State.</p>

<p class='c018'>It gives us pleasure to meet to-day our neighbors from
Carolina, and by the banks of this river, more bond than
boundary, give them cordial welcome to Georgia. The
people of these States, sir, are ancient and honorable
friends. When the infant colony that settled Georgia
landed from its long voyage it was the hands of Carolinians
that helped them ashore, and Carolina’s hospitality
that gave them food and shelter. A banquet was served at
Beaufort, the details of which proved our ancestors to have
been doughty trenchermen, and at which we are not surprised
to learn a goodly quantity of most excellent wine
was served, nor to learn—for scribes extenuated then as
now—that, though the affair was conducted in the most
agreeable manner, no one became intoxicated. When the
Georgians took up their march to Savannah they carried
with them herds from the Carolinians’ folds, and food from
their granaries, and an offer from Mr. Whitaker—blessed
be his memory!—of a silver spoon for the first male child
born on Georgia soil, the first instance, I believe, of a
bounty offered or protection guaranteed to an infant industry
on this continent. When they settled, it was Carolina
gentlemen with their servants that builded the huts and
sheltered them, and Carolina captains with their picket
men that guarded them from the Indians. As from your
slender and pitiful store you gave then bountifully to us,
we invite you to-day to share with us our plenty and
rejoice with us that what you planted in neighborly kindness
hath grown into such greatness.</p>

<p class='c018'>I am stirred with the profoundest emotion when I
reflect upon what the peoples of these two States have
endured together. Shoulder to shoulder they have fought
<span class='pageno' id='Page_124'>124</span>through two revolutions. Side by side they have fallen
on the field of battle, and, brothers even in death, have
rested in common graves. Hand clasped in hand, they enjoyed
victory together, and together reaped in honor and
dignity the fruits of their triumph. Heart locked in
heart, they have stood undaunted in the desolation of defeat
and, fortified by unfailing comradeship, have wrought
gladness and peace from the tumult and bitterness of despair.
Of them it may be truly said, they have known no
rivalry save that emulation which inspires each, and embitters
neither. If we match your Calhoun, one of that
trinity that hath most been and shall not be equaled in
political record, with our Stephens, who was as acute in expounding,
and as devoted in defending the constitution as
he; your Hayne, who maintained himself valiantly against
the great mastodon in American politics, with our Hill
(would that he might be given back to us to-day), who took
the ablest debater of the age by the throat and shook him
until his eager tongue was stilled and the lips that had
slandered the South were livid in shame and confusion; if
against McDuffie, eloquent and immortal tribune, we put
our Toombs, the Mirabeau of his day, surpassing the
Frenchman in eloquence, and stainless of his crimes; if
against Legare, both scholar and statesman, we put our
Wilde, not surpassed as either; if we proffer Lanier,
Barick and Harris, when the praises of Sims, and Hayne,
and Timrod are sung, it is only because we rejoice in the
strength of each which has honored both, and glorified our
great republic. Let the glory of our past history incite us
to the future; let the trials we have endured nerve us for
trials yet to come, and let Georgia and Carolina, that in
prosperity united, in adversity have not been divided,
strike hands here to-day in a new compact that shall hold
them bound together in comradeship and love as long as
the Savannah, laying its lips on the cheeks of either, runs
down to the sea.</p>

<p class='c018'>The South is now confronted by two dangers.</p>

<p class='c018'>First, that by remaining solid it will force a permanent
<span class='pageno' id='Page_125'>125</span>sectional alignment, under which being in minority it has
nothing to gain, and everything to lose.</p>

<p class='c018'>Second, that by dividing it will debauch its political
system, destroy the defenses of its social integrity, and
put the balance of power in the hands of an ignorant and
dangerous class.</p>

<p class='c018'>Let us discuss these dangers for a moment.</p>

<p class='c018'>As to the first. I do not doubt that every day the South
remains solid, the drift toward a solid North is deepening.
The South is solid now in a sense not dreamed of in ante-bellum
days. Then we divided on every question save one,
that of preserving equal representation in the Senate.
Clay championed the protective tariff. Jackson flew at
Calhoun’s throat when Carolina threatened to nullify.
Polk, of Tennessee, was made president over Clay, of Kentucky.
In 1852, Pierce received the vote of twenty-seven
States out of thirty-one, though this period marked the
height of slavery disturbance. The South was solid
then on one thing alone. On all other questions national
suffrage knew no sectional lines. To-day the South
is a mass of States merged into one; every issue fused
in the ardor of one great question, and our 153 electoral
votes hurled as a rifle-ball into the electoral college.
The tendency of this must be to solidify the North. Indeed,
this is already being done. Seymour and Blair, in
1868, on a platform declaring the amendments null and
void, were beaten in the North by Grant, the hero of the
war, by less than 100,000 votes. Mr. Harrison, twenty
years later, beat Cleveland with a flawless record and a
careful platform, over 450,000 votes in the northern States.
The solid South invites the solid North. From this status
the South has little to hope. The North is already in the
majority. More than five million immigrants have poured
into her States in the past ten years, and will be declared in
the next census. Four new States will give her eight new
senators and twelve electoral votes. In the South but one
State has kept pace with the West—and that one, Texas,
has largely gained at the expense of the Atlantic States.
<span class='pageno' id='Page_126'>126</span>The South had thirty-eight per cent. of the electoral vote
in 1880. It is doubtful if she will have over twenty-five per
cent. in 1890. To remain solid, therefore, is to incur the
danger of being placed in perpetual minority, and practically
shut out from participation in the government, into which
Georgia and Massachusetts came as equals—that was fashioned
in their common wisdom, defended in their common
blood, and bought of their common treasure.</p>

<p class='c018'>But what of the other danger? Can we risk that to
avoid the first? I am sure we cannot. The very worst
thing that could happen to the South is to have her white
vote divided into factions, and each faction bidding for the
negro who holds the balance of power. What is this negro
vote? In every southern State it is considerable, and I
fear it is increasing. It is alien, being separated by racial
differences that are deep and permanent. It is ignorant—easily
deluded or betrayed. It is impulsive—lashed by a
word into violence. It is purchasable, having the incentive
of poverty and cupidity, and the restraint of neither pride
nor conviction. It can never be merged through logical or
orderly currents into either of two parties, if two should
present themselves. We cannot be rid of it. There it is,
a vast mass of impulsive, ignorant and purchasable votes.
With no factions between which to swing it has no play or
dislocation; but thrown from one faction to another it is
the loosed cannon on the storm-tossed ship. There is no
community that would deliberately tempt this danger; no
social or political fabric that could stand its strain. The
Tweed ring, backed by a similar and less irresponsible following
than a shrewd clique could rally and control in
every southern State, and daring less of plunder and insolence
than that following would sanction or support,
blotted out party lines in New York, and made its intelligence
and integrity as solid as the South ever was. Party
lines were promptly recast because New York had to deal
with the vicious, who once punished may be trusted to
sulk in quiet while their wounds heal. We deal with the
ignorant, that scourged from power to-day, may be deluded
<span class='pageno' id='Page_127'>127</span>to-morrow into assaulting the very position from which
they have been lashed. Never did robbers find followers
more to their mind than the emancipated slaves of reconstruction
days. Ignorant and confiding, they could be committed
to any excess, led to any outrage. Deep as was the
degradation to which these sovereign States were carried,
and heavy as is the burden they left on this impoverished
people, it was only when the white race, rallying from the
graves of its dead and the ashes of its homes, closed its
decimated ranks, and fronting federal bayonets, and defying
federal power, stood like a stone wall before the uttermost
temples of its liberty and credit, and the hideous
drama closed, that the miserable assault was checked.</p>

<p class='c018'>Shall those ranks be broken while the danger still
threatens?</p>

<p class='c018'>Let the whites divide, what happens? Here is this
dangerous and alien influence that holds the balance of
power. It cannot be won by argument, for it is without
information, understanding or traditions—hence without
convictions. It must be bought by race privileges granted
as such, or by money paid outright. Let us follow this in
its twofold aspect. One faction gives the negro certain
privileges and wins. The other offers more. The first bids
under, and so the sickening work goes on until the barriers
that now protect the social integrity and peace of both races
are swept away. The negro gains nothing, for he secures
these spoils and privileges not by deserving them, or qualifying
himself for them, but as the plunder of an irritating
struggle in which he loses that largeness of sympathy
and tolerance that is at last essential to his well-being and
advancement. The other aspect is as bad. One side puts
up five thousand dollars for the purchase of the negro vote
and wins. The other, declining at first to corrupt the suffrage,
but realizing at last that the administration on which
his life and property depends is at stake, doubles this, and
so the debauching deepens until at last such enormous
sums are spent that they must be recouped from the public
treasuries. Good men disgusted go to the rear. The shrewd
<span class='pageno' id='Page_128'>128</span>and unscrupulous are put to the front, and the negro, carrying
with him the balance of power, falls at last into the
grasp of the faction which is most cunning and conscienceless.
National parties, finding here their cheapest market
and widest field, will pour millions into the South, adding
to the corruption funds of municipal and State factions
until the ballot-box will be hopelessly debauched, all the
approaches thereto corrupt, and all the results therefrom
tainted.</p>

<p class='c018'>I understand perfectly that this is not the largest view
of this question to take. The larger interests of this section
and of the Union do not rest here. I deplore this fact.
I would that the South, fettered by no circumstances and
embarrassed by no problem, could take her place by the
side of her sister States, making alliance as her interest or
patriotism suggested.</p>

<p class='c018'>Let me say here that I yield to no man in my love for
this Union. I was taught from my cradle to love it, and
my father, loving it to the last, nevertheless gave his life
for Georgia when she asked it at his hands. Loving the
Union as he did, yet would I do unto Georgia even as
he did. I said once in New York, and I repeat it here,
honoring his memory as I do nothing on this earth, I still
thank God that the American conflict was adjudged by
higher wisdom than his or mine, that the honest purposes
of the South were crossed, her brave armies beaten, and
the American Union saved from the storm of war. I love
this Union because I am an American citizen. I love it because
it stands in the light while other nations are groping
in the dark. I love it because here, in this republic of a
homogeneous people, must be worked out the great problems
that perplex the world and established the axioms
that must uplift and regenerate humanity. I love it because
it is my country, and my State stood by when its flag
was once unfurled, and uplifted her stainless sword, and
pledged “her life, her property and her sacred honor,”
and when the last star glittered from the silken folds, and
with her precious blood wrote her loyalty in its crimson
<span class='pageno' id='Page_129'>129</span>bars. I love it, because I know that its flag, fluttering from
the misty heights of the future, followed by a devoted people
once estranged and thereby closer bound, shall blaze out
the way, and make clear the path up which all the nations
of the earth shall come in God’s appointed time.</p>

<p class='c018'>I know the ideal status is that every State should vote
without regard to sectional lines. The reconciliation of the
people will never be complete until Iowa and Georgia,
Texas and Massachusetts may stand side by side without
surprise. I would to God that status could be reached! If
any man can define a path on which the whites of the
South, though divided, can walk in honor and peace, I
shall take that path, though I walk down it alone—for at
the end of that path, and nowhere else, lies the full emancipation
of my section and the full restoration of this Union.</p>

<p class='c018'>But it cannot be. When the negro was enfranchised,
the South was condemned to solidity as surely as self-preservation
is the first law of nature. A State here
or there may drift away, but it will come back assuredly—and
come through such travail, and bearing such
burden, as neither war nor pestilence can bring. This
problem is not of our seeking. It was thrust upon us not
in the orderly unfolding of a preordained plan, but in hot
impulse and passion, against the judgment of the world
and the lessons of history, and to the peril of popular
government, which rests at last on a pure and unsullied
suffrage as a building rests on its cornerstone. If it be
urged that it was the inexorable result of our course in
1860, we reply that we took that course in deliberation,
maintained it in sincerity, sealed it with the blood of our
best and bravest—and we accept without complaint, and
abide in dignity, its direct and ultimate results, and shall
hold it to be, in spite of defeat, forever honorable and
sacred. This much I add. No king that ever sat on a
throne, though backed by autocratic power, would have
dared to subject his kingdom to the strain, and his people
to the burden that the North put on the prostrate, impoverished,
and helpless South when it enfranchised the body
<span class='pageno' id='Page_130'>130</span>of our late slaves. We would not undo this if we could.
We know that this step, though taken in haste, shall never
be retraced. Posterity will judge of the wisdom and
patriotism in which it was ordered, and the order and
equity in which it was worked out.</p>

<p class='c018'>To that judgment we appeal with confidence. From
that judgment Mr. Blaine has already appealed by shrewdly
urging in his written history, that the North did not intend
to enfranchise the negro, but was forced to do it by the
stubborn attitude of the South. Be that as it may, it is
our problem now, and with resolute hands and unfailing
hearts we must carry it to the end. It dominates, and will
dominate, all other issues with us. Political spoils are
not to be considered. The administration of our affairs is
secondary, and patronage is less. Economic issues are as
naught, and even great moral reforms must wait on the
settlement of this question. To quarrel over other issues
while this is impending is to imitate the mother quail that
thrums the leaves afar from her nest, or recall the finesse
of the Spartan boy who smiled in his mother’s face while
he hid the fox that was gnawing at his vitals.</p>

<p class='c018'>What then is the duty of the South? Simply this.
To maintain the political as well as the social integrity of
her white race, and to appeal to the world for patience and
justice. Let us show that it is not sectional prejudice, but
a sectional problem that keeps us compacted; that it is
not the hope of dominion or power, but an abiding necessity—not
spoils or patronage, but plain self-preservation
that holds the white race together in the South. Let us
make this so plain that a community anywhere, searching its
own heart, would say: “The necessity that binds our brothers
in the South would bind us as closely were the necessity
here.” Let us invite immigrants and meet them with
such cordial welcome that they will abide with us in brotherhood,
and so enlarge the body of intelligence and integrity,
that divided it may carry the burden of ignorance
without danger. Let us be loyal to the Union, and not
only loyal but loving. Let the republic know that in
<span class='pageno' id='Page_131'>131</span>peace it hath nowhere better citizens, nor in war braver
soldiers, than in these States. Though set apart by this
problem which God permits to rest upon us, and which
therefore is right, let us garner our sheaves gladly into the
harvest of the Union, and find joy in our work and progress,
because it makes broader the glory and deeper the
majesty of this republic that is cemented with our blood.
Let us love the flag that waved over Marion and Jasper,
that waves over us, and which when we are gathered to our
fathers shall be a guarantee of liberty and prosperity to
our children, and our children’s children, and know that
what we do in honor shall deepen, and what we do in dishonor
shall dim, the luster of its fixed and glittering stars.</p>

<p class='c018'>As for the negro, let us impress upon him what he
already knows, that his best friends are the people among
whom he lives, whose interests are one with his, and
whose prosperity depends on his perfect contentment.
Let us give him his uttermost rights, and measure out justice
to him in that fullness the strong should always give
to the weak. Let us educate him that he may be a better,
a broader, and more enlightened man. Let us lead him in
steadfast ways of citizenship, that he may not longer be
the sport of the thoughtless, and the prey of the unscrupulous.
Let us inspire him to follow the example of the
worthy and upright of his race, who may be found in every
community, and who increase steadily in numbers and influence.
Let us strike hands with him as friends—and as
in slavery we led him to heights which his race in Africa
had never reached, so in freedom let us lead him to a prosperity
of which his friends in the North have not dreamed.
Let us make him know that he, depending more than
any other on the protection and bounty of government,
shall find in alliance with the best elements of the whites
the pledge of safe and impartial administration. And let
us remember this—that whatever wrong we put on him
shall return to punish us. Whatever we take from him in
violence, that is unworthy and shall not endure. What we
steal from him in fraud, that is worse. But what we win
<span class='pageno' id='Page_132'>132</span>from him in sympathy and affection, what we gain in his
confiding alliance and confirm in his awakening judgment,
that is precious and shall endure—and out of it shall
come healing and peace.</p>

<p class='c018'>What is the attitude of the North on this issue? Two
propositions appear to be universally declared by the
Republicans. First, that the negro vote of the South is
suppressed by violence, or miscounted by fraud. Second,
that it shall be freely cast and fairly counted. While
Republicans agree on these declarations, there are those
who hold them sincerely, but would be glad to see the first
disapproved, and the second thereby wiped out—and
those who hold them in malignity, and who will maintain
the first that they may justify the storm that lies hid in
the second.</p>

<p class='c018'>Let us send to-day a few words to the fair-minded Republicans
of the North. Here is a fundamental assertion—the
negroes of the South can never be kept in antagonism
with their white neighbors—for the intimacy and friendliness
of the relation forbids. This friendliness, the most
important factor of the problem—the saving factor now as
always—the North has never, and it appears will never,
take account of. It explains that otherwise inexplicable
thing—the fidelity and loyalty of the negro during the war
to the women and children left in his care. Had Uncle
Tom’s Cabin portrayed the habit rather than the exception
of slavery, the return of the Confederate armies could
not have stayed the horrors of arson and murder their departure
would have invited. Instead of that, witness the
miracle of the slave in loyalty closing the fetters about his
own limbs—maintaining the families of those who fought
against his freedom—and at night on the far-off battle-field
searching among the carnage for his young master,
that he might lift the dying head to his humble breast and
with rough hands wipe the blood away, and bend his tender
ear to catch the last words for the old ones at home,
wrestling meanwhile in agony and love, that in vicarious
sacrifice he would have laid down his life in his master’s
<span class='pageno' id='Page_133'>133</span>stead. This friendliness, thank God, has survived the
lapse of years, the interruption of factions, and the violence
of campaigns, in which the bayonet fortified, and the
drum-beat inspired. Though unsuspected in slavery, it
explains the miracle of ’64—though not yet confessed, it
must explain the miracle of 1888.</p>

<p class='c018'>Can a Northern man dealing with casual servants,
querulous, sensitive, and lodged for a day in a sphere they
resent, understand the close relations of the races of the
South? Can he comprehend the open-hearted, sympathetic
negro, contented in his place, full of gossip and comradeship,
the companion of the hunt, the frolic, the furrow,
and the home, standing in kindly dependence that is the
habit of his blood, and lifting not his eyes beyond the narrow
horizon that shuts him in with his neighbors? This
relation may be interrupted, but permanent estrangement
can never come between these two races. It is upon this
that the South depends. By fair dealing and by sympathy
to deepen this friendship and add thereto the moral effect
of the better elements compacted, with the wealth and
intelligence and influence lodged therein—it is this upon
which the South has relied for years, and upon which she
will rest in future.</p>

<p class='c018'>Against this no outside power can prevail. That there
has been violence is admitted. There has also been brutality
in the North. But I do not believe there was a negro
voter in the South kept away from the polls by fear of violence
in the late election. I believe there were fewer votes
miscounted in the South than in the North. Even in those
localities where violence once occurred, wiser counsels have
prevailed, and reliance is placed on those higher and legitimate
and inexorable methods by which the superior race
always dominates, and by which intelligence and integrity
always resist the domination of ignorance and corruption.
If the honest Republicans of the North permit a scheme of
federal supervision, based on the assumption of intimidated
voters and a false count, they will blunder from the
start, for, beginning in error, they will end in worse. This
<span class='pageno' id='Page_134'>134</span>whole matter should be left now with the people, with
whom it must be left at last—that people most interested
in its honorable settlement. External pressure but irritates
and delays. The South has voluntarily laid down
the certainty of power which dividing her States would
bring, that she might solve this problem in the deliberation
and the calmness it demands. She turns away from spoils,
knowing that to struggle for them would bring irritation
to endanger greater things. She postpones reforms and
surrenders economic convictions, that unembarrassed she
may deal with this great issue. And she pledges her sacred
honor—by all that she has won, and all that she has suffered—that
she will settle this problem in such full and
exact justice as the finite mind can measure, or finite hands
administer. On this pledge she asks the patience and
waiting judgment of the world, and especially of the people—her
brothers and her kindred—that in passion forced
this problem into the keeping of her helpless hands.</p>

<p class='c018'>Shall she have it?</p>

<p class='c018'>Let us see. Was there a pistol shot through the South
on election day? Was there a riot? Was there anything
to equal the disturbance and arrests in President Harrison’s
own city? If so, diligent search has not found it.
Where then was the vote suppressed through violence?
In the 12,000 election precincts of the South, where was
a ballot-box rifled, or a registry list altered? Thirteen
Republican congressmen were elected, many of them by
majorities so slender that the vote of a single precinct
would have changed the result. In West Virginia, with
its wild and lawless districts, the governorship hangs on
less than three hundred votes, and this very day the governor
of Tennessee and his cabinet are passing on a legal
question in the casting of twenty-three votes that elects or
defeats a congressman. In West Virginia and in Tennessee
the law will be applied as impartially and the official vote
held as sacred as in New York or Ohio. Where, then, is
the wholesale fraud of which complaint is made?</p>

<p class='c018'>In the face of this showing, let me quote from an editorial
<span class='pageno' id='Page_135'>135</span>in the <i>Chicago Tribune</i>, one of the most powerful
and a usually conservative journal, charging that the negro
vote is suppressed and miscounted. It says:</p>

<p class='c021'>“The trouble is, the blacks will not fight for themselves. White
men, or Indians, situated as the negroes, would have made the rivers
of the South run red with blood before they would submit to the usurpations
and wrongs with which the black passively endure. Oppressed
by generations of slavery, the negroes are non-combatants. They will
not shoot and burn for their rights.”</p>

<p class='c023'>Mark the unspeakable infamy of this suggestion. The
“trouble” is that the negroes will not rise and shoot and
burn. Not the “mercy” is that they do not—but the
“mercy” is that they will not massacre and begin the
strife that would repeat the horrors of Hayti in the
various States of this Republic. Burn and shoot for what?
That they may vote in Georgia, where in front of me in
the line stood a negro, whose place was as sacred as mine,
and whose vote as safely counted? That they may vote in
the thirteen districts in which they have elected their congressmen?—in
the 320 counties in which they have elected
their representatives, and in old Virginia, where they came
within 1400 votes of carrying the State?</p>

<p class='c018'>As the 60,000 Virginia negroes who did vote did so in
admitted peace and safety, where was the violence that
prevented the needed 1400 from leaving their fields,
coming to the ballot-box, and giving the State to the
Republicans? And yet slavery itself, in which the selling
of a child from its mother’s arms and a wife from her
husband was permitted, never brought into reputable print
so villainous a suggestion as this, leveled by a knave at a
political condition which he views from afar, and which it
is proved does not exist. To pass by the man who wrote
these words, how shall we judge the temper of a community
in which they are applauded? Are these men
blood of our blood that they permit such things to go
unchallenged? Better that they had refused us parole at
Appomattox and had confiscated the ruins of our homes,
than twenty years later to bring us under the dominion of
<span class='pageno' id='Page_136'>136</span>such passion as this. Hear another witness, General
Sherman, not in hot speech but in cold print:</p>

<p class='c021'>“The negro must be allowed to vote, and his vote must be counted,
otherwise, so sure as there is a God in heaven, you will have another
war, more cruel than the last, when the torch and dagger will take
the place of the muskets of well-ordered battalions. Should the negro
strike that blow, in seeming justice, there will be millions to assist
them.”</p>

<p class='c023'>And this is the greatest living soldier of the Union
army. He covered the desolation he sowed in city and
country through these States with the maxim that
“cruelty in war, is mercy”—and no one lifted the cloak.
But when he insults the men he conquered, and endangers
the renewing growth of the country he wasted, with this
unmanly threat, he puts a stain on his name the maxims
of philosophy and fable from Socrates all the way cannot
cover, and the glory of Marlborough, were it added to his
own, could not efface.</p>

<p class='c018'>No answer can be made in passion to these men. If the
temper of the North is expressed in their words, the South
can do nothing but rally her sons for their last defense and
await in silence what the future may bring forth. This
much should be said: The negro can never be established
in dominion over the white race of the South. The sword
of Grant and the bayonets of his army could not maintain
them in the supremacy they had won from the helplessness
of our people. No sword drawn by mortal man, no
army martialed by mortal hand, can replace them in the
supremacy from which they were cast down by our people,
for the Lord God Almighty decreed otherwise when he
created these races, and the flaming sword of his archangel
will enforce his decree and work out his plan of
unchangeable wisdom.</p>

<p class='c018'>I do not believe the people of the North will be committed
to a violent policy. I believe in the good faith
and fair play of the American people. These noisy insects
of the hour will perish with the heat that warmed them
into life, and when their pestilent cries have ceased, the
<span class='pageno' id='Page_137'>137</span>great clock of the Republic will strike the slow-moving and
tranquil hours, and the watchmen from the streets will cry,
“All’s well—all’s well!” I thank God that through the
mists of passion that already cloud our northern horizon
comes the clear, strong voice of President Harrison declaring
that the South shall not suffer, but shall prosper, in
his election. Happy will it be for us—happy for this
country, and happy for his name and fame, if he has the
courage to withstand the demagogues who clamor for our
crucifixion, and the wisdom to establish a path in which
voters of all parties and of all sections may walk together
in peace and prosperity.</p>

<p class='c018'>Should the President yield to the demands of the pestilent,
the country will appeal from his decision. In Indiana
and New York more than two million votes were cast. By
less than 16,000 majority these States were given to Harrison,
and his election thereby secured. A change of less
than ten thousand in this enormous poll would restore the
Democratic party to power. If President Harrison permits
this unrighteous crusade on the peace of the South, and
the prosperity of the people, this change and more will be
made, and the Democratic party restored to power.</p>

<p class='c018'>In her industrial growth the South is daily making new
friends. Every dollar of Northern money invested in the
South gives us a new friend in that section. Every settler
among us raises up new witnesses to our fairness, sincerity
and loyalty. We shall secure from the North more friendliness
and sympathy, more champions and friends, through
the influence of our industrial growth, than through political
aspiration or achievement. Few men can comprehend—would
that I had the time to dwell on this point to-day—how
vast has been the development, how swift the growth,
and how deep and enduring is laid the basis of even greater
growth in the future. Companies of immigrants sent down
from the sturdy settlers of the North will solve the
Southern problem, and bring this section into full and
harmonious relations with the North quicker than all the
battalions that could be armed and martialed could do.</p>

<p class='c018'><span class='pageno' id='Page_138'>138</span>The tide of immigration is already springing this way.
Let us encourage it. But let us see that these immigrants
come in well-ordered procession, and not pell-mell. That
they come as friends and neighbors—to mingle their blood
with ours, to build their homes on our fields, to plant their
Christian faith on these red hills, and not seeking to plant
strange heresies of government and faith, but, honoring our
constitution and reverencing our God, to confirm, and not
estrange, the simple faith in which we have been reared,
and which we should transmit unsullied to our children.</p>

<p class='c018'>It may be that the last hope of saving the old-fashioned
on this continent will be lodged in the South. Strange
admixtures have brought strange results in the North.
The anarchist and atheist walk abroad in the cities, and,
defying government, deny God. Culture has refined for
itself new and strange religions from the strong old creeds.</p>

<p class='c018'>The old-time South is fading from observance, and the
mellow church-bells that called the people to the temples
of God are being tabooed and silenced. Let us, my countrymen,
here to-day—yet a homogeneous and God-fearing
people—let us highly resolve that we will carry untainted
the straight and simple faith—that we will give ourselves
to the saving of the old-fashioned, that we will wear in our
hearts the prayers we learned at our mother’s knee, and
seek no better faith than that which fortified her life
through adversity, and led her serene and smiling through
the valley of the shadow.</p>

<p class='c018'>Let us keep sacred the Sabbath of God in its purity, and
have no city so great, or village so small, that every Sunday
morning shall not stream forth over towns and meadows
the golden benediction of the bells, as they summon
the people to the churches of their fathers, and ring out in
praise of God and the power of His might. Though other
people are led into the bitterness of unbelief, or into the
stagnation of apathy and neglect—let us keep these two
States in the current of the sweet old-fashioned, that the
sweet rushing waters may lap their sides, and everywhere
from their soil grow the tree, the leaf whereof shall not
<span class='pageno' id='Page_139'>139</span>fade and the fruit whereof shall not die, but the fruit
whereof shall be meat, and the leaf whereof shall be healing.</p>

<p class='c018'>In working out our civil, political, and religious salvation,
everything depends on the union of our people. The
man who seeks to divide them now in the hour of their
trial, that man puts ambition before patriotism. A distinguished
gentleman said that “certain upstarts and speculators
were seeking to create a new South to the derision
and disparagement of the old,” and rebukes them for so
doing. These are cruel and unjust words. It was Ben
Hill—the music of whose voice hath not deepened, though
now attuned to the symphonies of the skies—who said:
“There was a South of secession and slavery—that South
is dead; there is a South of union and freedom—that South,
thank God, is living, growing, every hour.”</p>

<p class='c018'>It was he who named the New South. One of the “upstarts”
said in a speech in New York: “In answering the
toast to the New South, I accept that name in no disparagement
to the Old South. Dear to me, sir, is the home
of my childhood and the traditions of my people, and not
for the glories of New England history from Plymouth
Rock all the way, would I surrender the least of these.
Never shall I do, or say, aught to dim the luster of the
glory of my ancestors, won in peace and war.”</p>

<p class='c018'>Where is the young man in the South who has spoken
one word in disparagement of our past, or has worn lightly
the sacred traditions of our fathers? The world has not
equaled the unquestioning reverence and undying loyalty
of the young man of the South to the memory of our
fathers. History has not equaled the cheerfulness and
heroism with which they bestirred themselves amid the
poverty that was their legacy, and holding the inspiration
of their past to be better than rich acres and garnered
wealth, went out to do their part in rebuilding the fallen
fortunes of the South and restoring her fields to their pristine
beauty. Wherever they have driven—in marketplace,
putting youth against experience, poverty against
capital—in the shop earning in the light of their forges
<span class='pageno' id='Page_140'>140</span>and the sweat of their faces the bread and meat for those
dependent upon them—in the forum, eloquent by instinct,
able though unlettered—on the farm, locking the sunshine
in their harvests and spreading the showers on their fields—everywhere
my heart has been with them, and I thank God
that they are comrades and countrymen of mine. I have
stood with them shoulder to shoulder as they met new conditions
without surrendering old faiths—and I have been
content to feel the grasp of their hands and the throb of
their hearts, and hear the music of their quick step as they
marched unfearing into new and untried ways. If I should
attempt to prostitute the generous enthusiasm of these
my comrades to my own ambition, I should be unworthy.
If any man enwrapping himself in the sacred memories of
the Old South, should prostitute them to the hiding of his
weakness, or the strengthening of his failing fortunes, that
man would be unworthy. If any man for his own advantage
should seek to divide the old South from the new, or
the new from the old—to separate these that in love hath
been joined together—to estrange the son from his father’s
grave and turn our children from the monuments of our
dead, to embitter the closing days of our veterans with suspicion
of the sons who shall follow them—this man’s words
are unworthy and are spoken to the injury of his people.</p>

<p class='c018'>Some one has said in derision that the old men of the
South, sitting down amid their ruins, reminded him “of
the Spanish hidalgos sitting in the porches of the Alhambra,
and looking out to sea for the return of the lost
Armada.” There is pathos but no derision in this picture
to me. These men were our fathers. Their lives were stainless.
Their hands were daintily cast, and the civilization
they builded in tender and engaging grace hath not been
equaled. The scenes amid which they moved, as princes
among men, have vanished forever. A grosser and material
day has come, in which their gentle hands could garner
but scantily, and their guileless hearts fend but feebly.
Let them sit, therefore, in the dismantled porches of their
homes, into which dishonor hath never entered, to which
<span class='pageno' id='Page_141'>141</span>discourtesy is a stranger—and gaze out to the sea, beyond
the horizon of which their armada has drifted forever.
And though the sea shall not render back for them the
Arguses that went down in their ship, let us build for them
in the land they love so well a stately and enduring temple—its
pillars founded in justice, its arches springing to
the skies, its treasuries filled with substance; liberty walking
in its corridors; art adorning its walls; religion filling
its aisles with incense,—and here let them rest in honorable
peace and tranquillity until God shall call them hence
to “a house not made with hands, eternal in the heavens.”</p>

<p class='c018'>There are other things I wish to say to you to-day, my
countrymen, but my voice forbids. I thank you for your
courteous and patient attention. And I pray to God—who
hath led us through sorrow and travail—that on this day
of universal thanksgiving, when every Christian heart in
this audience is uplifted in praise, that He will open the
gates of His glory and bend down above us in mercy and
love! And that these people who have given themselves
unto Him, and who wear His faith in their hearts, that He
will lead them even as little children are led—that He will
deepen their wisdom with the ambition of His words—that
He will turn them from error with the touch of His
almighty hand—that he will crown all their triumphs with
the light of His approving smile, and into the heart of their
troubles, whether of people or state, that He will pour the
healing of His mercy and His grace.</p>
<div class='pbb'>
 <hr class='pb c007' />
</div>
<div class='chapter'>
  <span class='pageno' id='Page_142'>142</span>
  <h2 class='c012'>AGAINST CENTRALIZATION.</h2>
</div>
<hr class='c013' />
<p class='drop-capa0_26_0_7 c030'><span class='sc'>ADDRESS delivered before the Societies of the
University of Virginia, June 25, 1889.</span></p>

<p class='c023'><span class='sc'>Mr. President, Ladies and Gentlemen</span>: In thanking
you for this cordial—this Virginia—welcome, let me
say that it satisfies my heart to be with you to-day. This
is my alma mater. Kind, in the tolerant patience with
which she winnowed the chaff of idle days and idler nights
that she might find for me the grain of knowledge and of
truth, and in the charity with which she sealed in sorrow
rather than in anger my brief but stormy career within
these walls. Kinder yet, that her old heart has turned
lovingly after the lapse of twenty years to her scapegrace
son in a distant State, and recalling him with this honorable
commission, has summoned him to her old place at her
knees. Here at her feet, with the glory of her presence
breaking all about me, let me testify that the years have
but deepened my reverence and my love, and my heart has
owned the magical tenderness of the emotions first kindled
amid these sacred scenes. That which was unworthy has
faded—that which was good has abided. Faded the memory
of the tempestuous dyke and the riotous kalathump—dimmed
the memory of that society, now happily extinct,
but then famous as “The Nippers from Peru”—forgotten
even the glad exultation of those days when the neighboring
mountaineer in the pride of his breezy heights brought
down the bandaged bear to give battle to the urban dog.
Forgotten all these follies, and let us hope forgiven. But,
<span class='pageno' id='Page_143'>143</span>enduring in heart and in brain, the exhaustless splendor
of those golden days—the deep and pure inspiration of
these academic shades—the kindly admonition and wisdom
of the masters—the generous ardor of our mimic contests—and
that loving comradeship that laughed at separation
and has lived beyond the grave. Enduring and hallowed,
blessed be God, the strange and wild ambitions that startled
my boyish heart as amid these dim corridors, oh! my
mother, the stirring of unseen wings in thy mighty past
caught my careless ear, and the dazzling ideals of thy
future were revealed to my wondering sight.</p>

<p class='c018'>Gentlemen of the literary societies—I have no studied
oration for you to-day. A life busy beyond its capacities
has given scanty time for preparation. But from a loving
heart I shall speak to you this morning in comradely sympathy
of that which concerns us nearly.</p>

<p class='c018'>Will you allow me to say that the anxiety that always
possesses me when I address my young countrymen is to-day
quickened to the point of consecration. For the first
time in man’s responsibility I speak in Virginia to Virginia.
Beyond its ancient glories that made it matchless
among States, its later martyrdom has made it the Mecca
of my people. It was on these hills that our fathers gave
new and deeper meaning to heroism, and advanced the
world in honor! It is in these valleys that our dead lie
sleeping. Out there is Appomattox, where on every ragged
gray cap the Lord God Almighty laid the sword of His
imperishable knighthood. Beyond is Petersburg, where
he whose name I bear, and who was prince to me among
men, dropped his stainless sword and yielded up his stainless
life. Dear to me, sir, are the people among whom my
father died—sacred to me, sir, the soil that drank his
precious blood. From a heart stirred by these emotions
and sobered by these memories, let me speak to you to-day,
my countrymen—and God give me wisdom to speak aright
and the words wherewithal to challenge and hold your
attention.</p>

<p class='c018'>We are standing in the daybreak of the second century
<span class='pageno' id='Page_144'>144</span>of this Republic. The fixed stars are fading from the sky,
and we grope in uncertain light. Strange shapes have
come with the night. Established ways are lost—new
roads perplex, and widening fields stretch beyond the
sight. The unrest of dawn impels us to and fro—but
Doubt stalks amid the confusion, and even on the beaten
paths the shifting crowds are halted, and from the shadows
the sentries cry: “Who comes there?” In the obscurity
of the morning tremendous forces are at work. Nothing
is steadfast or approved. The miracles of the present belie
the simple truths of the past. The church is besieged from
without and betrayed from within. Behind the courts
smoulders the rioter’s torch and looms the gibbet of the
anarchists. Government is the contention of partisans
and the prey of spoilsmen. Trade is restless in the grasp
of monopoly, and commerce shackled with limitation. The
cities are swollen and the fields are stripped. Splendor
streams from the castle, and squalor crouches in the home.
The universal brotherhood is dissolving, and the people are
huddling into classes. The hiss of the Nihilist disturbs
the covert, and the roar of the mob murmurs along the
highway. Amid it all beats the great American heart
undismayed, and standing fast by the challenge of his conscience,
the citizen of the Republic, tranquil and resolute,
notes the drifting of the spectral currents, and calmly
awaits the full disclosures of the day.</p>

<p class='c018'>Who shall be the heralds of this coming day? Who
shall thread the way of honor and safety through these
besetting problems? Who shall rally the people to the
defense of their liberties and stir them until they shall cry
aloud to be led against the enemies of the Republic? You,
my countrymen, you! The university is the training camp
of the future. The scholar the champion of the coming
years. Napoleon over-ran Europe with drum-tap and
bivouac—the next Napoleon shall form his battalions at
the tap of the schoolhouse bell and his captains shall come
with cap and gown. Waterloo was won at Oxford—Sedan
at Berlin. So Germany plants her colleges in the shadow
<span class='pageno' id='Page_145'>145</span>of the French forts, and the professor smiles amid his students
as he notes the sentinel stalking against the sky.
The farmer has learned that brains mix better with his soil
than the waste of seabirds, and the professor walks by his
side as he spreads the showers in the verdure of his field,
and locks the sunshine in the glory of his harvest. A
button is pressed by a child’s finger and the work of a
million men is done. The hand is nothing—the brain
everything. Physical prowess has had its day and the age
of reason has come. The lion-hearted Richard challenging
Saladin to single combat is absurd, for even Gog and
Magog shall wage the Armageddon from their closets and
look not upon the blood that runs to the bridle-bit. Science
is everything! She butchers a hog in Chicago, draws
Boston within three hours of New York, renews the famished
soil, routs her viewless bondsmen from the electric
center of the earth, and then turns to watch the new Icarus
as mounting in his flight to the sun he darkens the burnished
ceiling of the sky with the shadow of his wing.</p>

<p class='c018'>Learning is supreme and you are its prophets. Here
the Olympic games of the Republic—and you its chosen
athletes. It is yours then to grapple with these problems,
to confront and master these dangers. Yours to decide
whether the tremendous forces of this Republic shall be
kept in balance, or whether unbalanced they shall bring
chaos; whether 60,000,000 men are capable of self-government,
or whether liberty shall be lost to them who would
give their lives to maintain it. Your responsibility is
appalling. You stand in the pass behind which the world’s
liberties are guarded. This government carries the hopes
of the human race. Blot out the beacon that lights the
portals of this Republic and the world is adrift again.
But save the Republic; establish the light of its beacon
over the troubled waters, and one by one the nations of the
earth shall drop anchor and be at rest in the harbor of
universal liberty. Let one who loves this Republic as he
loves his life, and whose heart is thrilled with the majesty
of its mission, speak to you now of the dangers that
<span class='pageno' id='Page_146'>146</span>threaten its peace and prosperity, and the means by which
they may be honorably averted.</p>

<p class='c018'>The unmistakable danger that threatens free government
in America, is the increasing tendency to concentrate
in the Federal government powers and privileges that
should be left with the States, and to create powers that
neither the State nor Federal government should have. Let
it be understood at once that in discussing this question I
seek to revive no dead issue. We know precisely what was
put to the issue of the sword, and what was settled thereby.
The right of a State to leave this Union was denied and the
denial made good forever. But the sovereignty of the States
in the Union was never involved, and the Republic that survived
the storm was, in the words of the Supreme Court,
“an indissoluble Union of indestructible States.” Let us
stand on this decree and turn our faces to the future!</p>

<p class='c018'>It is not strange that there should be a tendency to
centralization in our government. This disposition was the
legacy of the war. Steam and electricity have emphasized
it by bringing the people closer together. The splendor of
a central government dazzles the unthinking—its opulence
tempts the poor and the avaricious—its strength assures the
rich and the timid—its patronage incites the spoilsmen and
its powers inflame the partisan.</p>

<p class='c018'>And so we have paternalism run mad. The merchant
asks the government to control the arteries of trade—the
manufacturer asks that his product be protected—the rich
asks for an army, and the unfortunate for help—this man
for schools and that for subsidy. The partisan proclaims,
amid the clamor, that the source of largess must be the seat
of power, and demands that the ballot-boxes of the States
be hedged by Federal bayonets. The centrifugal force of
our system is weakened, the centripetal force is increased,
and the revolving spheres are veering inward from their
orbits. There are strong men who rejoice in this unbalancing
and deliberately contend that the center is the true
repository of power and source of privilege—men who, were
they charged with the solar system, would shred the planets
<span class='pageno' id='Page_147'>147</span>into the sun, and, exulting in the sudden splendor, little
reck that they had kindled the conflagration that presages
universal nights! Thus the States are dwarfed and the
nation magnified—and to govern a people, who can best
govern themselves, the central authority is made stronger
and more splendid!</p>

<p class='c018'>Concurrent with this political drift is another movement,
less formal perhaps, but not less dangerous—the consolidation
of capital. I hesitate to discuss this phase of
the subject, for of all men I despise most cordially the
demagogue who panders to the prejudice of the poor by
abuse of the rich. But no man can note the encroachment
in this country of what may be called “the money power”
on the rights of the individual, without feeling that the
time is approaching when the issue between plutocracy
and the people will be forced to trial. The world has not
seen, nor has the mind of man conceived of such miraculous
wealth-gathering as are every-day tales to us. Aladdin’s
lamp is dimmed, and Monte Cristo becomes commonplace
when compared to our magicians of finance and
trade. The seeds of a luxury that even now surpasses that
of Rome or Corinth, and has only yet put forth its first
flowers, are sown in this simple republic. What shall the
full fruitage be? I do not denounce the newly rich. For
most part their money came under forms of law. The
irresponsibilities of sudden wealth is in many cases
steadied by that resolute good sense which seems to be an
American heritage, and under-run by careless prodigality or
by constant charity. Our great wealth has brought us profit
and splendor. But the status itself is a menace. A home
that costs $3,000,000 and a breakfast that cost $5000 are
disquieting facts to the millions who live in a hut and dine
on a crust. The fact that a man ten years from poverty
has an income of $20,000,000—and his two associates nearly
as much—from the control and arbitrary pricing of an
article of universal use, falls strangely on the ears of those
who hear it, as they sit empty-handed, while children cry
for bread. The tendency deepens the dangers suggested
<span class='pageno' id='Page_148'>148</span>by the status. What is to be the end of this swift piling
up of wealth? Twenty years ago but few cities had their
millionaires. To-day almost every town has its dozen.
Twenty men can be named who can each buy a sovereign
State at its tax-book value. The youngest nation, America,
is vastly the richest, and in twenty years, in spite of
war, has nearly trebled her wealth. Millions are made on
the turn of a trade, and the toppling mass grows and grows,
while in its shadow starvation and despair stalk among
the people, and swarm with increasing legions against the
citadels of human life.</p>

<p class='c018'>But the abuse of this amazing power of consolidated
wealth is its bitterest result and its pressing danger.
When the agent of a dozen men, who have captured and
control an article of prime necessity, meets the representatives
of a million farmers from whom they have forced
$3,000,000 the year before, with no more moral right than
is behind the highwayman who halts the traveler at his
pistol’s point, and insolently gives them the measure of
this year’s rapacity, and tells them—men who live in the
sweat of their brows, and stand between God and Nature—that
they must submit to the infamy because they are helpless,
then the first fruits of this system are gathered and
have turned to ashes on the lips. When a dozen men get
together in the morning and fix the price of a dozen
articles of common use—with no standard but their arbitrary
will, and no limit but their greed or daring—and
then notify the sovereign people of this free Republic how
much, in the mercy of their masters, they shall pay for the
necessaries of life—then the point of intolerable shame has
been reached.</p>

<p class='c018'>We have read of the robber barons of the Rhine who
from their castles sent a shot across the bow of every passing
craft, and descending as hawks from the crags, tore
and robbed and plundered the voyagers until their greed
was glutted, or the strength of their victims spent. Shall
this shame of Europe against which the world revolted,
shall it be repeated in this free country? And yet, when a
<span class='pageno' id='Page_149'>149</span>syndicate or a trust can arbitrarily add twenty-five per
cent. to the cost of a single article of common use, and
safely gather forced tribute from the people, until from its
surplus it could buy every castle on the Rhine, or requite
every baron’s debauchery from its kitchen account—where
is the difference—save that the castle is changed to a
broker’s office, and the picturesque river to the teeming
streets and the broad fields of this government “of the
people, by the people, and for the people”? I do not
overstate the case. Economists have held that wheat,
grown everywhere, could never be cornered by capital.
And yet one man in Chicago tied the wheat crop in his
handkerchief, and held it until a sewing-woman in my city,
working for ninety cents a week, had to pay him twenty
cents tax on the sack of flour she bore home in her famished
hands. Three men held the cotton crop until the English
spindles were stopped and the lights went out in 3,000,000
English homes. Last summer one man cornered pork until
he had levied a tax of $3 per barrel on every consumer,
and pocketed a profit of millions. The Czar of Russia
would not have dared to do these things. And yet they
are no secrets in this free government of ours! They are
known of all men, and, my countrymen, no argument can
follow them, and no plea excuse them, when they fall on
the men who toiling, yet suffer—who hunger at their work—and
who cannot find food for their wives with which to
feed the infants that hang famishing at their breasts. Mr.
Jefferson foresaw this danger and he sought to avert it.
When Virginia ceded the vast Northwest to the government—before
the Constitution was written—Mr. Jefferson
in the second clause of the articles of cession prohibited
forever the right of primogeniture. Virginia then nobly
said, and Georgia in the cession of her territory repeated:
“In granting this domain to the government and dedicating
it to freedom, we prescribe that there shall be no classes
in the family—no child set up at the expense of the others,
no feudal estates established—but what a man hath shall
be divided equally among his children.”</p>

<p class='c018'><span class='pageno' id='Page_150'>150</span>We see this feudal tendency, swept away by Mr. Jefferson,
revived by the conditions of our time, aided by the
government with its grant of enormous powers and its
amazing class legislation. It has given the corporation
more power than Mr. Jefferson stripped from the individual,
and has set up a creature without soul or conscience
or limit of human life to establish an oligarchy,
unrelieved by human charity and unsteadied by human
responsibility. The syndicate, the trust, the corporation—these
are the eldest sons of the Republic for whom the
feudal right of primogeniture is revived, and who inherit
its estate to the impoverishment of their brothers. Let it
be noted that the alliance between those who would centralize
the government and the consolidated money power
is not only close but essential. The one is the necessity of
the other. Establish the money power and there is universal
clamor for strong government. The weak will
demand it for protection against the people restless under
oppression—the patriotic for protection against the plutocracy
that scourges and robs—the corrupt hoping to
buy of one central body distant from local influences what
they could not buy from the legislatures of the States
sitting at their homes—the oligarchs will demand it—as
the privileged few have always demanded it—for the protection
of their privileges and the perpetuity of their
bounty. Thus, hand in hand, will walk—as they have
always walked—the federalist and the capitalist, the centralist
and the monopolist—the strong government protecting
the money power, and the money power the
political standing army of the government. Hand in hand,
compact and organized, one creating the necessity, the
other meeting it; consolidated wealth and centralizing
government; stripping the many of their rights and
aggrandizing the few; distrusting the people but in touch
with the plutocrats; striking down local self-government
and dwarfing the citizens—and at last confronting the people
in the market, in the courts, at the ballot box—everywhere—with
the infamous challenge: “What are you going
<span class='pageno' id='Page_151'>151</span>to do about it?” And so the government protects and the
barons oppress, and the people suffer and grow strong.
And when the battle for liberty is joined—the centralist
and the plutocrat, entrenched behind the deepening powers
of the government, and the countless ramparts of
money bags, oppose to the vague but earnest onset of the
people the power of the trained phalanx and the conscienceless
strength of the mercenary.</p>

<p class='c018'>Against this tendency who shall protest? Those who
believe that a central government means a strong government,
and a strong government means repression—those
who believe that this vast Republic, with its diverse interests
and its local needs, can better be governed by liberty
and enlightenment diffused among the people than by
powers and privileges congested at the center—those who
believe that the States should do nothing that the people
can do themselves and the government nothing that the
States and the people can do—those who believe that the
wealth of the central government is a crime rather than a
virtue, and that every dollar not needed for its economical
administration should be left with the people of the
States—those who believe that the hearthstone of the home
is the true altar of liberty and the enlightened conscience
of the citizen the best guarantee of government! Those of
you who note the farmer sending his sons to the city that
they may escape the unequal burdens under which he
has labored, thus diminishing the rural population whose
leisure, integrity and deliberation have corrected the passion
and impulse and corruption of the cities—who note
that while the rich are growing richer, and the poor poorer,
we are lessening that great middle class that, ever since it
met the returning crusaders in England with the demand
that the hut of the humble should be as sacred as the castle
of the great, has been the bulwark and glory of every
English-speaking community—who know that this Republic,
which we shall live to see with 150,000,000 people,
stretching from ocean to ocean, and almost from the arctic
to the torrid zone, cannot be governed by any laws that a
<span class='pageno' id='Page_152'>152</span>central despotism could devise or controlled by any armies
it could marshal—you who know these things protest with
all the earnestness of your souls against the policy and the
methods that make them possible.</p>

<p class='c018'>What is the remedy? To exalt the hearthstone—to
strengthen the home—to build up the individual—to magnify
and defend the principle of local self-government.
Not in deprecation of the Federal government, but to its
glory—not to weaken the Republic, but to strengthen it—not
to check the rich blood that flows to its heart, but
to send it full and wholesome from healthy members
rather than from withered and diseased extremities.</p>

<p class='c018'>The man who kindles the fire on the hearthstone of an
honest and righteous home burns the best incense to liberty.
He does not love mankind less who loves his neighbor most.
George Eliot has said:</p>

<p class='c021'>“A human life should be well rooted in some spot of a native land where it
may get the love of tender kinship for the face of the earth, for the sounds and
accents that haunt it, a spot where the definiteness of early memories may be
inwrought with affection, and spread, not by sentimental effort and reflection,
but as a sweet habit of the blest.”</p>

<p class='c023'>The germ of the best patriotism is in the love that a man
has for the home he inhabits, for the soil he tills, for the trees
that gives him shade, and the hills that stand in his pathway.
I teach my son to love Georgia—to love the soil that
he stands on—the body of my old mother—the mountains
that are her springing breasts, the broad acres that hold
her substance, the dimpling valleys in which her beauty
rests, the forests that sing her songs of lullaby and of praise,
and the brooks that run with her rippling laughter. The
love of home—deep rooted and abiding—that blurs the
eyes of the dying soldier with the vision of an old homestead
amid green fields and clustering trees—that follows
the busy man through the clamoring world, persistent
though put aside, and at last draws his tired feet from the
highway and leads him through shady lanes and well-remembered
paths until, amid the scenes of his boyhood,
he gathers up the broken threads of his life and owns the
<span class='pageno' id='Page_153'>153</span>soil his conqueror—this—this lodged in the heart of the
citizen is the saving principle of our government. We note
the barracks of our standing army with its rolling drum
and its fluttering flag as points of strength and protection.
But the citizen standing in the doorway of his home—contented
on his threshold—his family gathered about his
hearthstone—while the evening of a well-spent day closes
in scenes and sounds that are dearest—he shall save the
Republic when the drum tap is futile and the barracks are
exhausted.</p>

<p class='c018'>This love shall not be pent up or provincial. The home
should be consecrated to humanity, and from its roof-tree
should fly the flag of the Republic. Every simple fruit
gathered there—every sacrifice endured, and every victory
won, should bring better joy and inspiration in the knowledge
that it will deepen the glory of our Republic and
widen the harvest of humanity! Be not like the peasant
of France who hates the Paris he cannot comprehend—but
emulate the example of your fathers in the South, who,
holding to the sovereignty of the States, yet gave to the
Republic its chief glory of statesmanship, and under Jackson
at New Orleans, and Taylor and Scott in Mexico, saved
it twice from the storm of war. Inherit without fear or
shame the principle of local self-government by which your
fathers stood! For though entangled with an institution
foreign to this soil, which, thank God, not planted by their
hands, is now swept away, and with a theory bravely
defended but now happily adjusted—that principle holds
the imperishable truth that shall yet save this Republic.
The integrity of the State, its rights and its powers—these,
maintained with firmness, but in loyalty—these shall yet,
by lodging the option of local affairs in each locality, meet
the needs of this vast and complex government, and check
the headlong rush to that despotism that reason could not
defend, nor the armies of the Czar maintain, among a free
and enlightened people. This issue is squarely made! It
is centralized government and the money power on the
one hand—against the integrity of the States and rights of
<span class='pageno' id='Page_154'>154</span>the people on the other. At all hazard, stand with the
people and the threatened States. The choice may not be
easily made. Wise men may hesitate and patriotic men
divide. The culture, the strength, the mightiness of the
rich and strong government—these will tempt and dazzle.
But be not misled. Beneath this splendor is the canker
of a disturbed and oppressed people. It was from the
golden age of Augustus that the Roman empire staggered
to its fall. The integrity of the States and the rights of
the people! Stand there—there is safety—there is the
broad and enduring brotherhood—there, less of glory, but
more of honor! Put patriotism above partisanship—and
wherever the principle that protects the States against the
centralists, and the people against the plutocrats, may lead,
follow without fear or faltering—for there the way of duty
and of wisdom lies!</p>

<p class='c018'>Exalt the citizen. As the State is the unit of government
he is the unit of the State. Teach him that his home
is his castle, and his sovereignty rests beneath his hat.
Make himself self-respecting, self-reliant and responsible.
Let him lean on the State for nothing that his own arm
can do, and on the government for nothing that his State
can do. Let him cultivate independence to the point of
sacrifice, and learn that humble things with unbartered liberty
are better than splendors bought with its price. Let
him neither surrender his individuality to government, nor
merge it with the mob. Let him stand upright and fearless—a
freeman born of freemen—sturdy in his own
strength—dowering his family in the sweat of his brow—loving
to his State—loyal to his Republic—earnest in his
allegiance wherever it rests, but building his altar in the
midst of his household gods and shrining in his own heart
the uttermost temple of its liberty.</p>

<p class='c018'>Go out, determined to magnify the community in which
your lot is cast. Cultivate its small economies. Stand by
its young industries. Commercial dependence is a chain
that galls every day. A factory built at home, a book
published, a shoe or a book made, these are steps in that
<span class='pageno' id='Page_155'>155</span>diffusion of thought and interest that is needed. Teach
your neighbors to withdraw from the vassalage of distant
capitalists, and pay, under any sacrifice, the mortgage on
the home or the land. By simple and prudent lives stay
within your own resources, and establish the freedom of
your community. Make every village and cross-roads as
far as may be sovereign to its own wants. Learn that
thriving country-sides with room for limbs, conscience, and
liberty are better than great cities with congested wealth
and population. Preserve the straight and simple homogeneity
of our people. Welcome emigrants, but see that
they come as friends and neighbors, to mingle their blood
with ours, to build their houses in our fields, and to plant
their Christian faith on our hills, and honoring our constitution
and reverencing our God, to confirm the simple
beliefs in which we have been reared, and which we should
transmit unsullied to our children. Stand by these old-fashioned
beliefs. Science hath revealed no better faith
than that you learned at your mother’s knee—nor has
knowledge made a wiser and a better book than the worn
old Bible that, thumbed by hands long since still, and
blurred with the tears of eyes long since closed, held the
simple annals of your family and the heart and conscience
of your homes.</p>

<p class='c018'>Honor and emulate the virtues and the faith of your
forefathers—who, learned, were never wise above a knowledge
of God and His gospel—who, great, were never
exalted above an humble trust in God and His mercy!</p>

<p class='c018'>Let me sum up what I have sought to say in this
hurried address. Your Republic—on the glory of which
depends all that men hold dear—is menaced with great
dangers. Against these dangers defend her, as you would
defend the most precious concerns of your own life.
Against the dangers of centralizing all political powers,
put the approved and imperishable principle of local self-government.
Between the rich and the poor now drifting
into separate camps, build up the great middle class that,
neither drunk with wealth, nor embittered by poverty,
<span class='pageno' id='Page_156'>156</span>shall lift up the suffering and control the strong. To the
jangling of races and creeds that threaten the courts of
men and the temples of God, oppose the home and the citizen—a
homogeneous and honest people—and the simple
faith that sustained your fathers and mothers in their stainless
lives and led them serene and smiling into the valley
of the shadow.</p>

<p class='c018'>Let it be understood in my parting words to you that I
am no pessimist as to this Republic. I always bet on sunshine
in America. I know that my country has reached
the point of perilous greatness, and that strange forces not
to be measured or comprehended are hurrying her to
heights that dazzle and blind all mortal eyes—but I know
that beyond the uttermost glory is enthroned the Lord
God Almighty, and that when the hour of her trial has
come He will lift up His everlasting gates and bend down
above her in mercy and in love. For with her He has
surely lodged the ark of His covenant with the sons of men.
Emerson wisely said, “Our whole history looks like the
last effort by Divine Providence in behalf of the human
race.” And the Republic will endure. Centralism will be
checked, and liberty saved—plutocracy overthrown and
equality restored. The struggle for human rights never
goes backward among English-speaking peoples. Our
brothers across the sea have fought from despotism to liberty,
and in the wisdom of local self-government have
planted colonies around the world. This very day Mr.
Gladstone, the wisest man that has lived since your Jefferson
died—with the light of another world beating in his
face until he seems to have caught the wisdom of the Infinite
and towers half human and half divine from his eminence—this
man, turning away from the traditions of his
life, begs his countrymen to strip the crown of its last
usurped authority, and lodge it with the people, where it
belongs. The trend of the times is with us. The world
moves steadily from gloom to brightness. And bending
down humbly as Elisha did, and praying that my eyes shall
be made to see, I catch the vision of this Republic—its
<span class='pageno' id='Page_157'>157</span>mighty forces in balance, and its unspeakable glory falling
on all its children—chief among the federation of English-speaking
people—plenty streaming from its borders, and
light from its mountain tops—working out its mission
under God’s approving eye, until the dark continents are
opened—and the highways of earth established, and the
shadows lifted—and the jargon of the nations stilled and
the perplexities of Babel straightened—and under one
language, one liberty, and one God, all the nations of the
world hearkening to the American drum-beat and girding
up their loins, shall march amid the breaking of the
millennial dawn into the paths of righteousness and of
peace!</p>
<div class='pbb'>
 <hr class='pb c007' />
</div>
<div class='chapter'>
  <span class='pageno' id='Page_158'>158</span>
  <h2 class='c012'>THE FARMER AND THE CITIES.</h2>
</div>
<hr class='c013' />
<p class='drop-capa0_25_0_7 c030'>MR. <span class='sc'>Grady’s Speech at Elberton, Georgia, in June</span>, 1889.</p>
<p class='c023'><span class='sc'>Mr. President, Ladies and Gentlemen</span>:—For the
first time in my life I address an audience in the open air.
And as I stand here in this beautiful morning, so shot
through and through with sunshine that the very air is as
molten gold to the touch—under these trees in whose
trunks the rains and suns of years are compacted, and on
whose leaves God has laid His whispering music—here
in His majestic temple, with the brightness of His smile
breaking all about us—standing above the soil instinct
with the touch of His life-giving hand, and full of His
promise and His miracle—and looking up to the clouds
through which His thunders roll, and His lightnings cut
their way, and beyond that to the dazzling glory of the
sun, and yet beyond to the unspeakable splendor of the
universe, flashing and paling until the separate stars are
but as mist in the skies—even to the uplifted jasper gates
through which His everlasting glory streams, my mind
falls back abashed, and I realize how paltry is human
speech, and how idle are the thoughts of men!</p>

<p class='c018'>Another thought oppresses me. In front of me sit several
thousand people. Over there, in smelling distance,
where we can almost hear the lisping of the mop as it
caresses the barbecued lamb or the pottering of the skewered
pig as he leisurely turns from fat to crackling,
<span class='pageno' id='Page_159'>159</span>is being prepared a dinner that I verily believe covers
more provisions than were issued to all the soldiers of
Lee’s army, God bless them, in their last campaign. And
I shudder when I think that I, a single, unarmed, defenseless
man, is all that stands between this crowd and that
dinner. Here then, awed by God’s majesty, and menaced
by man’s appetite, I am tempted to leave this platform
and yield to the boyish impulses that always stir in my
heart amid such scenes, and revert to the days of boyhood
when about the hills of Athens I chased the pacing coon,
or twisted the unwary rabbit, or shot my ramrod at all
manner of birds and beasts—and at night went home to
look up into a pair of gentle eyes and take on my tired
face the benediction of a mother’s kiss and feel on my
weary head a pair of loving hands, now wrinkled and
trembling, but, blessed be God, fairer to me yet than the
hands of mortal women, and stronger yet to lead me than
the hands of mortal man, as they laid a mother’s blessing
there, while bending at her knees I made my best confession
of faith and worshiped at the truest altar I have yet
found in this world. I had rather go out and lay down on
the ground and hug the grass to my breast and mind me of
the time when I builded boyish ambitions on the wooded
hills of Athens, than do aught else to-day. But I recall the
story of Uncle Remus, who when his favorite hero, Brer
Rabbit, was sorely pressed by that arch villain, Brer Fox,
said:</p>

<p class='c018'>“An’ Brer Rabbit den he climb’d a tree.” “But,” said
the little boy, “Uncle Remus, a rabbit can’t climb a tree.”</p>

<p class='c018'>“Doan you min’ dat, honey. Brer Fox pressed dis
rabbit so hard he des bleeged to clim’ a tree.”</p>

<p class='c018'>I am pressed so hard to-day by your commands that I
am just “bleeged” to make a speech, and so I proceed. I
heartily invoke God’s guidance in what I say, that I shall
utter no word to soil this temple of His, and no sentiment
not approved in His wisdom; and as for you, when
the time comes—as it will come—when you prefer barbecued
shote to raw orator, and feel that you can be happier
<span class='pageno' id='Page_160'>160</span>at that table than in this forum, just say the word and I
will be with you heart and soul!</p>

<p class='c018'>I am tempted to yield to the gaiety of this scene, to the
flaunting banners of the trees, the downpouring sunshine,
the garnered plenty over there, this smiling and hospitable
crowd, and, throwing serious affairs aside, to speak to you
to-day as the bird sings—without care and without thought.
I should be false to myself and to you if I did, for there
are serious problems that beset our State and our country
that no man, facing, as I do this morning, a great and intelligent
audience, can in honor or in courage disregard.
I shall attempt to make no brilliant speech—but to counsel
with you in plain and simple words, beseeching your
attention and your sympathy as to the dangers of the
present hour, and our duties and our responsibilities.</p>

<p class='c018'>At Saturday noon in any part of this county you may
note the farmer going from his field, eating his dinner
thoughtfully and then saddling his plow-horse, or starting
afoot and making his way to a neighboring church or schoolhouse.
There he finds from every farm, through every
foot-path, his neighbors gathering to meet him. What is
the object of this meeting? It is not social, it is not frolic,
it is not a pic-nic—the earnest, thoughtful faces, the serious
debate and council, the closed doors and the secret session
forbid this assumption. It is a meeting of men who feel
that in spite of themselves their affairs are going wrong—of
free and equal citizens who feel that they carry unequal
burdens—of toilers who feel that they reap not the just
fruits of their toil—of men who feel that their labor enriches
others while it leaves them poor, and that the sweat
of their bodies, shed freely under God’s command, goes to
clothe the idle and the avaricious in purple and fine linen.
This is a meeting of protest, of resistance. Here the farmer
meets to demand, and organize that he may enforce
his demand, that he shall stand equal with every other
class of citizens—that laws discriminating against him
shall be repealed—that the methods oppressing him shall
be modified or abolished—and that he shall be guaranteed
<span class='pageno' id='Page_161'>161</span>that neither government nor society shall abridge,
by statute or custom, his just and honest proportion of the
wealth he created, but that he shall be permitted to garner
in his barns, and enjoy by his hearthstone, the full and
fair fruits of his labor. If this movement were confined to
Elbert, if this disturbing feeling of discontent were shut
in the limits of your county lines, it would still demand
the attention of the thoughtful and patriotic. But, as it
is in Elbert, so it is in every county in Georgia—as in
Georgia, so it is in every State in the South—as in the
South, so in every agricultural State in the Union. In
every rural neighborhood, from Ohio to Texas, from Michigan
to Georgia, the farmers, riding thoughtful through
field and meadow, seek ten thousand schoolhouses or
churches—the muster grounds of this new army—and there,
recounting their wrongs and renewing their pledges, send
up from neighborhoods to county, from county to State,
and State to Republic, the measure of their strength and
the unyielding quality of their determination. The agricultural
army of the Republic is in motion. The rallying
drumbeat has rolled over field and meadow, and from where
the wheat locks the sunshine in its bearded sheaf, and the
clover carpets the earth, and the cotton whitens beneath
the stars, and the tobacco catches the quick aroma of the
rains—everywhere that patient man stands above the soil,
or bends about the furrow, the farmers are ready in squads
and companies and battalions and legions to be led against
what they hold to be an oppression that honest men would
not deserve, and that brave men would not endure. Let
us not fail to comprehend the magnitude and the meaning
of this movement. It is no trifling cause that brings the
farmers into such determined and widespread organization
as this. It is not the skillful arts of the demagogue
that has brought nearly two million farmers into this
perfect and pledge-bound society—but it is a deep and
abiding conviction that, in political and commercial economy
of the day, he is put at a disadvantage that keeps him
poor while other classes grow rich, and that bars his way
<span class='pageno' id='Page_162'>162</span>to prosperity and independence. General Toombs once
said that the farmer, considered the most conservative type
of citizenship, is really the most revolutionary. That the
farmers of France, flocking to the towns and cities from
the unequal burdens of their farms, brought about the
French Revolution, and that about once in every century
the French peasant raided the towns. Three times the
farmers of England have captured and held London. It
was the farmers of Mecklenburg that made the first American
declaration, and Putnam left his plow standing in the
furrow as he hurried to lead the embattled farmers who
fought at Concord and Lexington. I realize it is impossible
that revolution should be the outcome of our industrial
troubles. The farmer of to-day does not consider that
remedy for his wrongs. I quote history to show that the
farmer, segregated and deliberate, does not move on slight
provocation, but organizes only under deep conviction, and
that when once organized and convinced, he is terribly in
earnest, and is not going to rest until his wrongs are
righted.</p>

<p class='c018'>Now, here we are confronted with the most thorough
and widespread agricultural movement of this or any other
day. It is the duty alike of farmers and those who stand
in other ranks, to get together and consult as to what is
the real status and what is the patriotic duty. Not in
sullenness, but in frankness. Not as opponents, but as
friends—not as enemies, but as brothers begotten of a
common mother, banded in common allegiance, and marching
to a common destiny. It will not do to say that this
organization will pass away, for if the discontent on which
it is based survives it, it had better have lived and forced
its wrongs to final issue. There is no room for divided
hearts in this State, or in this Republic. If we shall
restore Georgia to her former greatness and prosperity—if
we shall solve the problems that beset the South in honor
and safety—if we shall save this Republic from the dangers
that threaten it—it will require the earnest and united
effort of every patriotic citizen, be he farmer, or merchant,
<span class='pageno' id='Page_163'>163</span>or lawyer, or manufacturer. Let us consider then the situation,
and decide what is the duty that lies before us.</p>

<p class='c018'>In discussing this matter briefly, I beg the ladies to give
me their attention. I have always believed that there are
few affairs of life in which woman should not have a part.
Not obtrusive part—for that is unwomanly. The work
falling best to the hand of woman is such work as is done
by the dews of night—that ride not on the boasting wind,
and shine not in the garish sun, but that come when the
wind is stilled and the sun is gone, and night has wrapped
the earth in its sacred hush, and fall from the distillery of
the stars upon the parched and waiting flowers, as a benediction
from God.</p>

<p class='c018'>Let no one doubt the power of this work, though it lack
pomp and circumstance. Is Bismarck the mightiest power
of this earth, who is attended by martial strains when he
walks abroad, and in whose path thrones are scattered as
trophies? Why, the little housewife alone in her chimney-corner,
musing in her happiness with no trophy in her
path save her husband’s loving heart, and no music on
her ear save the chirping of the cricket beneath her hearthstone,
is his superior. For, while he holds the purse-strings
of Germany, she holds the heart-strings of men.
She who rocks the cradle rules the world. Give me then
your attention, note the conflict that is gathering about
us, and take your place with seeming modesty in the ranks
of those who fight for right. It is not an abstract political
theory that is involved in the contest of which I speak.
It is the integrity and independence of your home that is
at stake. The battle is not pitched in a distant State.
Your home is the battle-field, and by your hearthstones
you shall fight for your household gods. With your husband’s
arms so wound around you that you can feel his
anxious heart beating against your cheek—with your sons,
sturdy and loving, holding your old hands in theirs—here
on the threshold of your house, under the trees that sheltered
your babyhood, with the graves of your dead in that
plain enclosure yonder—here men and women, heart to
<span class='pageno' id='Page_164'>164</span>heart, with not a man dismayed, not a woman idle—while
the multiplied wolves of debt and mortgage, and
trust and monopoly, swarm from every thicket; here we
must fight the ultimate battle for the independence of our
people and the happiness of our homes.</p>

<p class='c018'>Now let us look at the facts: First, the notable movement
of the population in America is from the country to
the cities. In 1840—a generation ago, only one-twelfth of
the American people lived in cities of more than 8000
people. In 1850, one-eighth; in 1860, one-sixth; in 1870,
one-fifth; in 1880, one-fourth. In the past half-century
the population of cities has increased more than four times
as rapidly as that of the country. Mind you, when I say
that the city population has increased in one generation
from 8 per cent. to 25 per cent. in population, I mean the
population of cities of more than 8000 people. There is
not such a city in this congressional district. It is the village
and town population, as well as that of the farms,
that goes to swell so enormously the population of the
great cities. Thus we see diminishing with amazing rapidity
that rural population that is the strength and the safety
of the people—slow to anger and thus a safeguard, but terrible
in its wrath, and thus a tremendous corrective power.
No greater calamity could befall any country than the
sacrifice of its town and village and country life. I rejoice
in Atlanta’s growth, and yet I wonder whether it is worth
what it cost when I know that her population has been
drawn largely from rural Georgia, and that back of her
grandeur are thousands of deserted farms and dismantled
homes. As much as I love her—and she is all to me that
home can be to any man—if I had the disposal of 100,000
immigrants at her gates to-morrow, 5000 should enter
there, 75,000 should be located in the shops and factories
in Georgia towns and villages, and 20,000 sent to her
farms. It saddens me to see a bright young fellow come
to my office from village or country, and I shudder when I
think for what a feverish and speculative and uncertain
life he has bartered his rural birthright, and surrendered
<span class='pageno' id='Page_165'>165</span>the deliberation and tranquillity of his life on the farm.
It is just that deliberate life that this country needs, for
the fever of the cities is already affecting its system.
Character, like corn, is dug from the soil. A contented
rural population is not only the measure of our strength,
and an assurance of its peace when there should be peace,
and a resource of courage when peace would be cowardice—but
it is the nursery of the great leaders who have made
this country what it is. Washington was born and lived
in the country. Jefferson was a farmer. Henry Clay rode
his horse to the mill in the slashes. Webster dreamed
amid the solitude of Marshfield. Lincoln was a rail splitter.
Our own Hill walked between the handles of the
plow. Brown peddled barefoot the product of his patch.
Stephens found immortality under the trees of his country
home. Toombs and Cobb and Calhoun were country gentlemen,
and afar from the cities’ maddening strife established
that greatness that is the heritage of their people.
The cities produce very few leaders. Almost every man in
our history formed his character in the leisure and deliberation
of village or country life, and drew his strength
from the drugs of the earth even as a child draws his
from his mother’s breast. In the diminution of this rural
population, virtuous and competent, patriotic and honest,
living beneath its own roof-tree, building its altars by its
own hearthstone and shrining in its own heart its liberty
and its conscience, there is abiding cause for regret. In
the corresponding growth of our cities—already center
spots of danger, with their idle classes, their sharp rich
and poor, their corrupt politics, their consorted thieves,
and their clubs and societies of anarchy and socialism—I
see a pressing and impending danger. Let it be noted that
the professions are crowded, that middlemen are multiplied
beyond reason, that the factories can in six months
supply the demand of twelve—that machinery is constantly
taking the place of men—that labor in every
department bids against itself until it is mercilessly in the
hands of the employer, that the new-comers are largely recruits
<span class='pageno' id='Page_166'>166</span>of the idle and dangerous classes, and we can appreciate
something of the danger that comes with this increasing
movement to strip the villages and the farms and send
an increasing volume into the already overcrowded cities.
This is but one phase of that tendency to centralization
and congestion which is threatening the liberties of this
people and the life of this Republic.</p>

<p class='c018'>Now, let us go one step further. What is the most
notable financial movement in America? It is the mortgaging
of the farm lands of the country—the bringing of
the farmer into bondage to the money-lender. In Illinois
the farms are mortgaged for $200,000,000, in Iowa for
$140,000,000, in Kansas for $160,000,000, and so on through
the Northwest. In Georgia about $20,000,000 of foreign
capital holds in mortgage perhaps one-fourth of Georgia’s
farms, and the work is but started. Every town has its
loan agent—a dozen companies are quartered in Atlanta,
and the work goes briskly on. A mortgage is the bulldog
of obligations—a very mud-turtle for holding on. It
is the heaviest thing of its weight in the world. I had one
once, and sometimes I used to feel, as it rested on my roof,
deadening the rain that fell there, and absorbing the sunshine,
that it would crush through the shingles and the
rafters and overwhelm me with its dull and persistent
weight, and when at last I paid it off, I went out to look
at the shingles to see if it had not flopped back there of its
own accord. Think of it, Iowa strips from her farmers
$14,000,000 of interest every year, and sends it to New
York and Boston to be reloaned on farms in other States,
and to support and establish the dominion of the money-lenders
over the people. Georgia gathers from her languishing
fields $2,000,000 of interest every year, and sends
it away forever. Could her farmers but keep it at home,
one year’s interest would build factories to supply at cost
every yard of bagging and every pound of guano the
farmers need, establish her exchanges and their warehouses,
and have left more than a million dollars for the
improvement of their farms and their homes. And year
<span class='pageno' id='Page_167'>167</span>after year this drain not only continues, but deepens.
What will be the end? Ireland has found it. Her peasants
in their mud cabins, sending every tithe of their earnings
to deepen the purple luxury of London, where their
landlords live, realize how poor is that country whose farms
are owned in mortgage or fee simple by those who live
beyond its borders. If every Irish landlord lived on his
estate, bought of his tenants the product of their farms,
and invested his rents in Irish industries, this Irish question
that is the shame of the world would be settled without
legislation or strife. Georgia can never go to Ireland’s
degradation, but every Georgia farm put under mortgage
to a foreign capitalist is a step in that direction, and every
dollar sent out as interest leaves the State that much
poorer. I do not blame the farmers. It is a miracle that
out of their poverty they have done so well. I simply deplore
the result, and ask you to note in the millions of
acres that annually pass under mortgage to the money-lenders
of the East, and in the thousands of independent
country homes annually surrendered as hostages to their
hands, another evidence of that centralization that is
drinking up the life-blood of this broad Republic.</p>

<p class='c018'>Let us go one step further. All protest as to our industrial
condition is met with the statement that America is
startling the world with its growth and progress. Is this
growth symmetrical—is this progress shared by every
class? Let the tax-books of Georgia answer. This year,
for the first time since 1860, our taxable wealth is equal to
that with which, excluding our slaves, we entered the civil
war—$368,000,000. There is cause for rejoicing in this
wonderful growth from the ashes and desolation of twenty
years ago, but the tax-books show that while the towns
and cities are $60,000,000 richer than they were in 1860,
the farmers are $50,000,000 poorer.</p>

<p class='c018'>Who produced this wealth? In 1865, when our towns
and cities were paralyzed, when not a mine or quarry was
open, hardly a mill or a factory running; when we had
neither money or credit, it was the farmers’ cotton that
<span class='pageno' id='Page_168'>168</span>started the mills of industry and of trade. Since that desolate
year, when, urging his horse down the furrow, plowing
through fields on which he had staggered amid the storm of
battle, he began the rehabilitation of Georgia with no friend
near him save nature that smiled at his kindly touch, and
God that sent him the message of cheer through the rustling
leaves, he has dug from the soil of Georgia more than
$1,000,000,000 worth of product. From this mighty resource
great cities have been builded and countless fortunes
amassed—but amid all the splendor he has remained
the hewer of wood and the drawer of water. He had made
the cities $60,000,000 richer than they were when the war
began, and he finds himself, in the sweat of whose brow
this miracle was wrought, $50,000,000 poorer than he then
was. Perhaps not a farmer in this audience knew this
fact—but I doubt if there is one in the audience who has
not felt in his daily life the disadvantage that in twenty
short years has brought about this stupendous difference.
Let the figures speak for themselves. The farmer—the
first figure to stumble amid the desolate dawn of our new
life and to salute the coming day—hurrying to market
with the harvest of his hasty planting that Georgia might
once more enter the lists of the living States and buy the
wherewithal to still her wants and clothe her nakedness—always
apparently the master of the situation, has he not
been really its slave, when he finds himself at the end of
twenty hard and faithful years $110,000,000 out of balance?</p>

<p class='c018'>Now, let us review the situation a moment. I have
shown you, first, that the notable drift of population is to
the loss of village and country, and the undue and dangerous
growth of the city; second, that the notable movement
of finance is that which is bringing villages and country
under mortgage to the city; and third, that they who handle
the products for sale profit more thereby than those who
create them—the difference in one State in twenty years
reaching the enormous sum of $110,000,000. Are these
healthy tendencies? Do they not demand the earnest and
thoughtful consideration of every patriotic citizen? The
<span class='pageno' id='Page_169'>169</span>problem of the day is to check these three currents that
are already pouring against the bulwarks of our peace and
prosperity. To anchor the farmer to his land and the villager
to his home; to enable him to till the land under
equal conditions and to hold that home in independence;
to save with his hands the just proportion of his labor, that
he may sow in content and reap in justice,—this is what
we need. The danger of the day is centralization, its
salvation diffusion. Cut that word deep in your heart.
This Republic differs from Russia only because the powers
centralized there in one man are here diffused among the
people. Western Ohio is happy and tranquil, while
Chicago is feverish and dangerous, because the people diffused
in the towns and the villages of the one are centralized
and packed in the tenements of the other; but of all
centralization that menaces our peace and threatens our
liberties, is the consolidation of capital—and of all the
diffusion that is needed in this Republic, congesting at so
many points, is the leveling of our colossal fortunes and
the diffusion of our gathered wealth amid the great middle
classes of this people. As this question underruns the
three tendencies we have been discussing, let us consider
it a moment.</p>

<p class='c018'>Few men comprehend the growth of private fortunes in
this country, and the encroachments they have made on
the rest of the people. Take one instance: A man in
Chicago that had a private fortune secured control of all
the wheat in the country, and advanced the price until
flour went up three dollars a barrel. When he collected
$4,000,000 of this forced tribute from the people, he opened
his corner and released the wheat, and the world, forgetting
the famishing children from whose hungry lips he had stolen
the crust, praised him as the king of finance and trade.
Let us analyze this deal. The farmer who raised the wheat
got not one cent of the added profit. The mills that ground
it not one cent. Every dollar went to swell the toppling
fortunes of him who never sowed it to the ground, nor fed
it to the thundering wheels, but who knew it only as the
<span class='pageno' id='Page_170'>170</span>chance instrument of his infamous scheme. Why, our
fathers declared war against England, their mother country,
from whose womb they came, because she levied two cents
a pound on our tea, and yet, without a murmur, we submit
to ten times this tax placed on the bread of our mouths,
and levied by a private citizen for no reason save his greed,
and no right save his might. Were a man to enter an
humble home in England, bind the father helpless, stamp
out the fire on the hearthstone, empty the scanty larder,
and leave the family for three weeks cold and hungry and
helpless, he would be dealt with by the law; and yet four
men in New York cornered the world’s cotton crop and
held it until the English spindles were stopped and 14,000,000
operatives sent idle and empty-handed to their homes,
to divide their last crust with their children, and then sit
down and suffer until the greed of the speculators was filled.
The sugar refineries combined their plants at a cost of
$14,000,000, and so raised the price of sugar that they
made the first year $9,500,000 profit, and since then have
advanced it rapidly until we sweeten our coffee absolutely
in their caprice. When the bagging mills were threatened
with a reduced tariff, they made a trust and openly boasted
that they intended to make one season’s profits pay the
entire cost of their mills—and these precious villains, whom
thus far the lightnings have failed to blast, having carried
out their infamous boast, organized for a deeper steal this
season. And so it goes. There is not a thing we eat or
drink, nor an article we must have for the comfort of our
homes, that may not be thus seized and controlled and
made an instrument for the shameless plundering of the
people. It is a shame—this people patient and cheerful
under the rise or fall of prices that come with the failure
of God’s season’s charge as its compensation—or under the
advance at the farm which enriches the farmer, or under
that competitive demand which bespeaks brisk prosperity—this
people made the prey and the sport of plunderers who
levy tribute through a system that mocks at God’s recurring
rains, knows not the farmer, and locks competition in
<span class='pageno' id='Page_171'>171</span>the grasp of monopoly. And the millions, thus wrung
from the people, loaned back to them at usury, laying the
blight of the mortgage on their homes, and the obligation
of debt on their manhood. Talk about the timidity of
capital. That is a forgotten phrase. In the power and
irresponsibility of this sudden and enormous wealth is bred
an insolence that knows no bounds. “The public be
damned!” was the sentiment of the plutocrats, speaking
through the voice of Vanderbilt’s millions. In cornering
the product and levying the tribute—in locking up abundant
supply until the wheels of industry stop—in oppressing
through trusts, and domineering in the strength of
corporate power, the plutocrats do what no political party
would dare attempt and what no government on this earth
would enforce. The Czar of Russia would not dare hold
up a product until the mill-wheels were idle, or lay an unusual
tax on bread and meat to replenish his coffers, and
yet these things our plutocrats, flagrant and irresponsible,
do day after day until public indignation is indignant and
shame is lost in wonder.</p>

<p class='c018'>And when an outraged people turn to government for
help what do they find? Their government in the hands of
a party that is in sympathy with their oppressors—that
was returned to power with votes purchased with their
money—and whose confessed leaders declared that trusts
are largely private concerns with which the government
had naught to do. Not only is the dominant party the
apologist of the plutocrats and the beneficiary of their
crimes, but it is based on that principle of centralization
through which they came into life and on which alone they
can exist. It holds that sovereignty should be taken from
the States and lodged with the nation—that political powers
and privileges should be wrested from the people and
guarded at the capital. It distrusts the people, and even
now demands that your ballot-boxes shall be hedged about
by its bayonets. It declares that a strong government is
better than a free government, and that national authority,
backed by national armies and treasury, is a better guarantee
<span class='pageno' id='Page_172'>172</span>of peace and prosperity and liberty and enlightenment
diffused among the people. To defend this policy,
that cannot be maintained by argument or sustained by
the love or confidence of the people, it rallies under its flag
the mercenaries of the Republic, the syndicate, the trust,
the monopolist, and the plutocrat, and strengthening them
by grant and protection, rejoices as they grow richer and
the people grow poorer. Confident in the debauching
power of money and the unscrupulous audacity of their
creatures, they catch the spirit of Vanderbilt’s defiance
and call aloud from their ramparts, “the people be
damned!” I charge that this party has bought its way for
twenty years. Its nucleus was the passion that survived
the war—and around this it has gathered the protected
manufacturer, the pensioned soldier, the licensed monopolist,
the privileged corporation, the unchallenged trust—all
whom power can daunt, or money can buy, and with
these in close and constant phalanx it holds the government
against the people. Not a man in all its ranks that
is not influenced by prejudice or bought by privilege.</p>

<p class='c018'>What a spectacle, my countrymen! This free Republic
in the hands of a party that withdraws sovereignty from
the people that its own authority may be made supreme—that
fans the smouldering embers of war, and loosing
among the people the dogs of privilege and monopoly to
hunt, and harrow and rend, that its lines may be made
stronger and its ramparts fortified. And now, it is committed
to a crime that is without precedent or parallel in
the history of any people, and this crime it is obliged by
its own necessity as well as by its pledge to commit as soon
as it gets the full reins of power. This crime is hidden in
the bill known as the service pension bill, which pensions
every man who enlisted for sixty days for the Union army.
Let us examine this pension list. Twelve years ago it
footed $46,000,000. Last year it was $81,000,000. This
year it has already run to over $100,000,000. Of this
amount Georgia pays about $3,500,000 a year. Think of
it. The money that her people have paid, through indirect
<span class='pageno' id='Page_173'>173</span>taxation into the treasury, is given, let us say to Iowa, for
that State just equals Georgia in population. Every year
$3,500,000 wrung from her pockets and sent into Iowa as
pensions for her soldiers. Since 1865, out of her poverty,
Georgia has paid $51,000,000 as pensions to Northern soldiers—one-sixth
of the value of her whole property. And
now it is proposed to enlarge the pension list until it
includes every man who enlisted for sixty days. They will
not fail. The last Congress passed a pension bill that
Commissioner Black—himself a gallant Union general—studied
deliberately, and then told the President that if he
signed it, it would raise the pension list to $200,000,000,
and had it not been for the love of the people that ran in
the veins of Grover Cleveland and the courage of Democracy
which flamed in his heart, that bill would have been
law to-day. A worse bill will be offered. There is a surplus
of $120,000,000 in the treasury. While that remains
it endangers the protective tariff, behind which the trained
captains of the Republican party muster their men. But
let the pension list be lifted to $200,000,000 a year. Then
the surplus is gone and a deficiency created, and the protective
tariff must be not only perpetuated but deepened,
and the vigilance of the spies and collectors increased to
meet the demands of the government. And back of it all
will be mustered the army of a million and a half pensioners,
drawing their booty from the Republican party and
giving it in turn their purchased allegiance and support.</p>

<p class='c018'>My countrymen, a thousand times I have thought of
that historic scene beneath the apple-tree at Appomattox,
of Lee’s 8000 ragged, half-starved immortals, going home
to begin anew amid the ashes of their homes, and the graves
of their dead, the weary struggle for existence, and Grant’s
68,000 splendid soldiers, well fed and equipped, going home
to riot amid the plenty of a grateful and prosperous people,
and I have thought how hard it was that out of our poverty
we should be taxed to pay their pension, and to divide with
this rich people the crust we scraped up from the ashes of
our homes. And I have thought when their maimed and
<span class='pageno' id='Page_174'>174</span>helpless soldiers were sheltered in superb homes, and lapped
in luxury, while our poor cripples limped along the highway
or hid their shame in huts, or broke bitter bread in the
county poor-house, how hard it was that, of all the millions
we send them annually, we can save not one dollar to go to
our old heroes, who deserve so much and get so little. And
yet we made no complaint. We were willing that every
Union soldier made helpless by the war should have his
pension and his home, and thank God, without setting our
crippled soldiers on the curbstone of distant Babylons to
beg, as blind Belisarius did, from the passing stranger. We
have provided them a home in which they can rest in honorable
peace until God has called them hence to a home not
made with hands, eternal in the heavens. We have not
complained that our earnings have gone to pension Union
soldiers—the maimed soldiers of the Union armies. But
the scheme to rob the people that every man who enlisted
for sixty days, or his widow, shall be supported at public
expense is an outrage that must not be submitted to. It
is not patriotism—it is politics. It is not honesty—it is
plunder. The South has played a patient and a waiting
game for twenty years, fearing to protest against what she
knew to be wrong in the fear that she would be misunderstood.
I fear that she has gained little by this course save
the contempt of her enemies. The time has come when she
should stand upright among the States of this Republic and
declare her mind and stand by her convictions. She must
not stand silent while this crowning outrage is perpetrated.
It means that the Republican party will loot the treasury
to recruit its ranks—that $70,000,000 a year shall be taken
from the South to enrich the North, thus building up one
section against another—that the protective tariff shall be
deepened, thus building one class against another, and that
the party of trusts and monopoly shall be kept in power,
the autonomy of the Republic lost, the government centralized,
the oligarchs established, and justice to the people
postponed. But this party will not prevail, even though
its pension bill should pass, and its pretorial God be established
<span class='pageno' id='Page_175'>175</span>in every Northern State. It was Louis XVI. who
peddled the taxing privileges to his friends, and when the
people protested surrounded himself with an army of Swiss
mercenaries. His minister, Neckar, said to him: “Sire, I
beseech you send away these Swiss and trust your people”;
but the king, confident in his strength and phalanx, buckled
it close about him and plundered the people until his head
paid the penalty of his crime. So this party, bartering
privileges and setting up classes, may feel secure as it
closes the ranks of its mercenaries, but some day the great
American heart will burst with righteous wrath, and the
voice of the people, which is the voice of God, will challenge
the traitors, and the great masses will rise in their
might, and breaking down the defenses of the oligarchs,
will hurl them from power and restore this Republic to the
old moorings from which it had been swept by the storm.</p>

<p class='c018'>The government can protect its citizens. It is of the
people, and it shall not perish from the face of the earth.
It can top off these colossal fortunes and, by an income tax,
retard their growth. It can set a limit to personal and
corporate wealth. It can take trusts and syndicates by the
throat. It can shatter monopoly; it can equalize the burden
of taxation; it can distribute its privileges impartially;
it can clothe with credit its land now discredited at its
banks; it can lift the burdens from the farmer’s shoulders,
give him equal strength to bear them—it can trust the
people in whose name this Republic was founded; in whose
courage it was defended; in whose wisdom it has been
administered, and whose stricken love and confidence it can
not survive.</p>

<p class='c018'>But the government, no matter what it does, does not do
all that is needed, nor the most; that is conceded, for all
true reform must begin with the people at their homes. A
few Sundays ago I stood on a hill in Washington. My
heart thrilled as I looked on the towering marble of my
country’s Capitol, and a mist gathered in my eyes as, standing
there, I thought of its tremendous significance and the
powers there assembled, and the responsibilities there
<span class='pageno' id='Page_176'>176</span>centered—its presidents, its congress, its courts, its gathered
treasure, its army, its navy, and its 60,000,000 of citizens.
It seemed to me the best and mightiest sight that the sun
could find in its wheeling course—this majestic home of
a Republic that has taught the world its best lessons of
liberty—and I felt that if wisdom, and justice, and honor
abided therein, the world would stand indebted to this
temple on which my eyes rested, and in which the ark of
my covenant was lodged for its final uplifting and regeneration.</p>

<p class='c018'>A few days later I visited a country home. A modest,
quiet house sheltered by great trees and set in a circle of
field and meadow, gracious with the promise of harvest—barns
and cribs well filled and the old smoke-house odorous
with treasure—the fragrance of pink and hollyhock mingling
with the aroma of garden and orchard, and resonant
with the hum of bees and poultry’s busy clucking—inside
the house, thrift, comfort and that cleanliness that is next
to godliness—the restful beds, the open fireplace, the books
and papers, and the old clock that had held its steadfast
pace amid the frolic of weddings, that had welcomed in
steady measure the newborn babes of the family, and kept
company with the watchers of the sick bed, and had ticked
the solemn requiem of the dead; and the well-worn Bible
that, thumbed by fingers long since stilled, and blurred
with tears of eyes long since closed, held the simple annals
of the family, and the heart and conscience of the home.
Outside stood the master, strong and wholesome and
upright; wearing no man’s collar; with no mortgage on
his roof, and no lien on his ripening harvest; pitching his
crops in his own wisdom, and selling them in his own time
in his chosen market; master of his lands and master of
himself. Near by stood his aged father, happy in the
heart and home of his son. And as they started to the
house the old man’s hands rested on the young man’s
shoulder, touching it with the knighthood of the fourth
commandment, and laying there the unspeakable blessing
of an honored and grateful father. As they drew near the
<span class='pageno' id='Page_177'>177</span>door the old mother appeared; the sunset falling on her
face, softening its wrinkles and its tenderness, lighting up
her patient eyes, and the rich music of her heart trembling
on her lips, as in simple phrase she welcomed her husband
and son to their home. Beyond was the good wife, true of
touch and tender, happy amid her household cares, clean
of heart and conscience, the helpmate and the buckler of
her husband. And the children, strong and sturdy, trooping
down the lane with the lowing herd, or weary of simple
sport, seeking, as truant birds do, the quiet of the old home
nest. And I saw the night descend on that home, falling
gently as from the wings of the unseen dove. And the
stars swarmed in the bending skies—the trees thrilled
with the cricket’s cry—the restless bird called from the
neighboring wood—and the father, a simple man of God,
gathering the family about him, read from the Bible the
old, old story of love and faith, and then went down in
prayer, the baby hidden amid the folds of its mother’s
dress, and closed the record of that simple day by calling
down the benediction of God on the family and the home!</p>

<p class='c018'>And as I gazed the memory of the great Capitol faded
from my brain. Forgotten its treasure and its splendor.
And I said, “Surely here—here in the homes of the people
is lodged the ark of the covenant of my country. Here is
its majesty and its strength. Here the beginning of its
power and the end of its responsibility.” The homes of
the people; let us keep them pure and independent, and
all will be well with the Republic. Here is the lesson our
foes may learn—here is work the humblest and weakest
hands may do. Let us in simple thrift and economy make
our homes independent. Let us in frugal industry make
them self-sustaining. In sacrifice and denial let us keep
them free from debt and obligation. Let us make them
homes of refinement in which we shall teach our daughters
that modesty and patience and gentleness are the charms
of woman. Let us make them temples of liberty, and teach
our sons that an honest conscience is every man’s first
political law. That his sovereignty rests beneath his hat,
<span class='pageno' id='Page_178'>178</span>and that no splendor can rob him and no force justify the
surrender of the simplest right of a free and independent
citizen. And above all, let us honor God in our homes—anchor
them close in His love. Build His altars above our
hearthstones, uphold them in the set and simple faith of
our fathers and crown them with the Bible—that book of
books in which all the ways of life are made straight and
the mystery of death is made plain. The home is the
source of our national life. Back of the national Capitol
and above it stands the home. Back of the President and
above him stands the citizen. What the home is, this and
nothing else will the Capitol be. What the citizen wills,
this and nothing else will the President be.</p>

<p class='c018'>Now, my friends, I am no farmer. I have not sought
to teach you the details of your work, for I know little of
them. I have not commended your splendid local advantages,
for that I shall do elsewhere. I have not discussed
the differences between the farmer and other classes, for I
believe in essential things there is no difference between
them, and that minor differences should be sacrificed to the
greater interest that depends on a united people. I seek
not to divide our people, but to unite them. I should
despise myself if I pandered to the prejudice of either class
to win the applause of the other.</p>

<p class='c018'>But I have noted these great movements that destroy
the equilibrium and threaten the prosperity of my
country, and standing above passion and prejudice or
demagoguery I invoke every true citizen, fighting from his
hearthstone outward, with the prattle of his children on
his ear, and the hand of his wife and mother closely
clasped, to determine here to make his home sustaining
and independent, and to pledge eternal hostility to the
forces that threaten our liberties, and the party that stands
behind it.</p>

<p class='c018'>When I think of the tremendous force of the currents
against which we must fight, of the great political party
that impels that fight, of the countless host of mercenaries
that fight under its flag, of the enormous powers of government
<span class='pageno' id='Page_179'>179</span>privilege and monopoly that back them up, I confess
my heart sinks within me, and I grow faint. But I remember
that the servant of Elisha looked abroad from
Samaria and beheld the hosts that encompassed the city,
and said in agonized fear: “Alas, master, what shall we
do?” and the answer of Elisha was the answer of every
brave man and faithful heart in all ages: “Fear not, for
they that be with us are more than they that be with
them,” and this faith opened the eyes of the servant of
the man of God, and he looked up again, and lo, the air
was filled with chariots of fire, and the mountains were
filled with horsemen, and they compassed the city about
as a mighty and unconquerable host. Let us fight in
such faith, and fear not. The air all about us is filled
with chariots of unseen allies, and the mountains are
thronged with unseen knights that shall fight with us.
Fear not, for they that be with us are more than they that
be with them. Buckle on your armor, gird about your
loins, stand upright and dauntless while I summon you to
the presence of the immortal dead. Your fathers and mine
yet live, though they speak not, and will consecrate this
air with their wheeling chariots, and above them and
beyond them to the Lord God Almighty, King of the
Hosts in whose unhindered splendor we stand this morning.
Look up to them, be of good cheer, and faint not, for
they shall fight with us when we strike for liberty and
truth, and all the world, though it be banded against
us, shall not prevail against them.</p>
<div class='pbb'>
 <hr class='pb c007' />
</div>
<div class='chapter'>
  <span class='pageno' id='Page_180'>180</span>
  <h2 class='c012'>AT THE BOSTON BANQUET.</h2>
</div>
<hr class='c013' />
<p class='drop-capa0_25_0_7 c030'><span class='sc'>IN his Speech at the Annual Banquet of the Boston
Merchants’ Association in December, 1889, Mr.
Grady said:</span></p>
<p class='c023'><span class='sc'>Mr. President</span>: Bidden by your invitation to a discussion
of the race problem—forbidden by occasion to make a
political speech—I appreciate in trying to reconcile orders
with propriety the predicament of the little maid who,
bidden to learn to swim, was yet adjured, “Now, go, my
darling, hang your clothes on a hickory limb, and don’t
go near the water.”</p>

<p class='c018'>The stoutest apostle of the church, they say, is the missionary,
and the missionary, wherever he unfurls his flag,
will never find himself in deeper need of unction and address
than I, bidden to-night to plant the standard of a Southern
Democrat in Boston’s banquet hall, and discuss the problem
of the races in the home of Phillips and of Sumner. But,
Mr. President, if a purpose to speak in perfect frankness
and sincerity; if earnest understanding of the vast interests
involved; if a consecrating sense of what disaster
may follow further misunderstanding and estrangement, if
these may be counted to steady undisciplined speech and
to strengthen an untried arm—then, sir, I find the courage
to proceed.</p>

<p class='c018'>Happy am I that this mission has brought my feet at
last to press New England’s historic soil, and my eyes to
the knowledge of her beauty and her thrift. Here, within
<span class='pageno' id='Page_181'>181</span>touch of Plymouth Rock and Bunker Hill—where Webster
thundered and Longfellow sang, Emerson thought and
Channing preached—here in the cradle of American letters,
and almost of American liberty, I hasten to make the obeisance
that every American owes New England when first he
stands uncovered in her mighty presence. Strange apparition!
This stern and unique figure—carved from the ocean
and the wilderness—its majesty kindling and growing
amid the storms of winters and of wars—until at last the
gloom was broken, its beauty disclosed in the sunshine,
and the heroic workers rested at its base—while startled
kings and emperors gazed and marveled that from the rude
touch of this handful, cast on a bleak and unknown shore,
should have come the embodied genius of human government,
and the perfected model of human liberty! God
bless the memory of those immortal workers—and prosper
the fortunes of their living sons—and perpetuate the
inspiration of their handiwork.</p>

<p class='c018'>Two years ago, sir, I spoke some words in New York
that caught the attention of the North. As I stand here
to reiterate, as I have done everywhere, every word I then
uttered—to declare that the sentiments I then avowed were
universally approved in the South—I realize that the confidence
begotten by that speech is largely responsible for
my presence here to-night. I should dishonor myself if I
betrayed that confidence by uttering one insincere word,
or by withholding one essential element of the truth.
Apropos of this last, let me confess, Mr. President—before
the praise of New England has died on my lips—that I
believe the best product of her present life is the procession
of 17,000 Vermont Democrats that for twenty-two years,
undiminished by death, unrecruited by birth or conversion,
have marched over their rugged hills, cast their Democratic
ballots, and gone back home to pray for their unregenerate
neighbors, and awake to read the record of 26,000 Republican
majority. May the God of the helpless and the heroic
help them—and may their sturdy tribe increase!</p>

<p class='c018'>Far to the south, Mr. President, separated from this
<span class='pageno' id='Page_182'>182</span>section by a line, once defined in irrepressible difference,
once traced in fratricidal blood, and now, thank God, but
a vanishing shadow, lies the fairest and richest domain
of this earth. It is the home of a brave and hospitable
people. There, is centered all that can please or prosper
humankind. A perfect climate, above a fertile soil, yields
to the husbandman every product of the temperate zone.
There, by night the cotton whitens beneath the stars, and
by day the wheat locks the sunshine in its bearded sheaf.
In the same field the clover steals the fragrance of the
wind, and the tobacco catches the quick aroma of the rains.
There, are mountains stored with exhaustless treasures;
forests, vast and primeval, and rivers that, tumbling or
loitering, run wanton to the sea. Of the three essential
items of all industries—cotton, iron and wool—that region
has easy control. In cotton, a fixed monopoly—in iron,
proven supremacy—in timber, the reserve supply of the
Republic. From this assured and permanent advantage,
against which artificial conditions cannot much longer
prevail, has grown an amazing system of industries. Not
maintained by human contrivance of tariff or capital, afar
off from the fullest and cheapest source of supply, but
resting in Divine assurance, within touch of field and mine
and forest—not set amid costly farms from which competition
has driven the farmer in despair, but amid cheap and
sunny lands, rich with agriculture, to which neither season
nor soil has set a limit—this system of industries is mounting
to a splendor that shall dazzle and illumine the world.</p>

<p class='c018'>That, sir, is the picture and the promise of my home—a
land better and fairer than I have told you, and yet
but fit setting, in its material excellence, for the loyal
and gentle quality of its citizenship. Against that, sir, we
have New England, recruiting the Republic from its sturdy
loins, shaking from its overcrowded hives new swarms of
workers and touching this land all over with its energy
and its courage. And yet, while in the Eldorado of which
I have told you, but 15 per cent. of lands are cultivated, its
mines scarcely touched and its population so scant that,
<span class='pageno' id='Page_183'>183</span>were it set equidistant, the sound of the human voice could
not be heard from Virginia to Texas—while on the threshold
of nearly every house in New England stands a son,
seeking with troubled eyes some new land in which to
carry his modest patrimony, the strange fact remains that
in 1880 the South had fewer Northern-born citizens than
she had in 1870—fewer in ’70 than in ’60. Why is this?
Why is it, sir, though the sectional line be now but a mist
that the breath may dispel, fewer men of the North have
crossed it over to the South than when it was crimson
with the best blood of the Republic, or even when the
slaveholder stood guard every inch of its way?</p>

<p class='c018'>There can be but one answer. It is the very problem
we are now to consider. The key that opens that problem
will unlock to the world the fairest half of this Republic,
and free the halted feet of thousands whose eyes are
already kindling with its beauty. Better than this, it will
open the hearts of brothers for thirty years estranged, and
clasp in lasting comradeship a million hands now withheld
in doubt. Nothing, sir, but this problem, and the suspicions
it breeds, hinders a clear understanding and a perfect
union. Nothing else stands between us and such love as
bound Georgia and Massachusetts at Valley Forge and
Yorktown, chastened by the sacrifices at Manassas and
Gettysburg, and illumined with the coming of better work
and a nobler destiny than was ever wrought with the sword
or sought at the cannon’s mouth.</p>

<p class='c018'>If this does not invite your patient hearing to-night—hear
one thing more. My people, your brothers in the
South—brothers in blood, in destiny, in all that is best in
our past and future—are so beset with this problem that
their very existence depends upon its right solution. Nor
are they wholly to blame for its presence. The slave-ships
of the Republic sailed from your ports—the slaves worked
in our fields. You will not defend the traffic, nor I the institution.
But I do hereby declare that in its wise and humane
administration, in lifting the slave to heights of which
he had not dreamed in his savage home, and giving him a
<span class='pageno' id='Page_184'>184</span>happiness he has not yet found in freedom—our fathers
left their sons a saving and excellent heritage. In the
storm of war this institution was lost. I thank God as
heartily as you do that human slavery is gone forever from
the American soil. But the freedman remains. With him
a problem without precedent or parallel. Note its appalling
conditions. Two utterly dissimilar races on the same
soil—with equal political and civil rights—almost equal in
numbers, but terribly unequal in intelligence and responsibility—each
pledged against fusion—one for a century in
servitude to the other, and freed at last by a desolating
war—the experiment sought by neither, but approached
by both with doubt—these are the conditions. Under
these, adverse at every point, we are required to carry these
two races in peace and honor to the end.</p>

<p class='c018'>Never, sir, has such a task been given to mortal stewardship.
Never before in this Republic has the white race
divided on the rights of an alien race. The red man was
cut down as a weed, because he hindered the way of the
American citizen. The yellow man was shut out of this
Republic because he is an alien and inferior. The red man
was owner of the land—the yellow man highly civilized
and assimilable—but they hindered both sections and are
gone! But the black man, affecting but one section, is
clothed with every privilege of government and pinned to
the soil, and my people commanded to make good at any
hazard, and at any cost, his full and equal heirship of
American privilege and prosperity. It matters not that
every other race has been routed or excluded, without
rhyme or reason. It matters not that wherever the whites
and blacks have touched, in any era or in any clime, there
has been irreconcilable violence. It matters not that no
two races, however similar, have lived anywhere at any
time on the same soil with equal rights in peace! In spite
of these things we are commanded to make good this change
of American policy which has not perhaps changed American
prejudice—to make certain here what has elsewhere
been impossible between whites and blacks—and to reverse,
<span class='pageno' id='Page_185'>185</span>under the very worst conditions, the universal verdict of
racial history. And driven, sir, to this superhuman task
with an impatience that brooks no delay—a rigor that
accepts no excuse—and a suspicion that discourages frankness
and sincerity. We do not shrink from this trial. It
is so interwoven with our industrial fabric that we cannot
disentangle it if we would—so bound up in our honorable
obligation to the world, that we would not if we could.
Can we solve it? The God who gave it into our hands,
He alone can know. But this the weakest and wisest of us
do know; we cannot solve it with less than your tolerant
and patient sympathy—with less than the knowledge that
the blood that runs in your veins is our blood—and that
when we have done our best, whether the issue be lost or
won, we shall feel your strong arms about us and hear the
beating of your approving hearts.</p>

<p class='c018'>The resolute, clear-headed, broad-minded men of the
South—the men whose genius made glorious every page of
the first seventy years of American history—whose courage
and fortitude you tested in five years of the fiercest
war—whose energy has made bricks without straw and
spread splendor amid the ashes of their war-wasted
homes—these men wear this problem in their hearts and
their brains, by day and by night. They realize, as you
cannot, what this problem means—what they owe to this
kindly and dependent race—the measure of their debt to
the world in whose despite they defended and maintained
slavery. And though their feet are hindered in its undergrowth,
and their march encumbered with its burdens, they
have lost neither the patience from which comes clearness,
nor the faith from which comes courage. Nor, sir, when
in passionate moments is disclosed to them that vague and
awful shadow, with its lurid abysses and its crimson
stains, into which I pray God they may never go, are they
struck with more of apprehension than is needed to complete
their consecration!</p>

<p class='c018'>Such is the temper of my people. But what of the problem
itself? Mr. President, we need not go one step further
<span class='pageno' id='Page_186'>186</span>unless you concede right here the people I speak for
are as honest, as sensible, and as just as your people, seeking
as earnestly as you would in their place, to rightly
solve the problem that touches them at every vital point.
If you insist that they are ruffians, blindly striving with
bludgeon and shotgun to plunder and oppress a race, then
I shall sacrifice my self-respect and tax your patience in
vain. But admit that they are men of common sense and
common honesty—wisely modifying an environment they
cannot wholly disregard—guiding and controlling as best
they can the vicious and irresponsible of either race—compensating
error with frankness, and retrieving in patience
what they lose in passion—and conscious all the time that
wrong means ruin,—admit this, and we may reach an
understanding to-night.</p>

<p class='c018'>The President of the United States in his late message
to Congress, discussing the plea that the South should be
left to solve this problem, asks: “Are they at work upon
it? What solution do they offer? When will the black
man cast a free ballot? When will he have the civil
rights that are his?” I shall not here protest against the
partisanry that, for the first time in our history in time of
peace, has stamped with the great seal of our government
a stigma upon the people of a great and loyal section,
though I gratefully remember that the great dead soldier
who held the helm of state for the eight stormiest years of
reconstruction never found need for such a step; and
though there is no personal sacrifice I would not make to
remove this cruel and unjust imputation on my people
from the archives of my country! But, sir, backed by a
record on every page of which is progress, I venture to
make earnest and respectful answer to the questions that
are asked. I bespeak your patience, while with vigorous
plainness of speech, seeking your judgment rather than
your applause, I proceed step by step. We give to the
world this year a crop of 7,500,000 bales of cotton, worth
$45,000,000, and its cash equivalent in grain, grasses and
fruit. This enormous crop could not have come from the
<span class='pageno' id='Page_187'>187</span>hands of sullen and discontented labor. It comes from
peaceful fields, in which laughter and gossip rise above
the hum of industry, and contentment runs with the singing
plow.</p>

<p class='c018'>It is claimed that this ignorant labor is defrauded of its
just hire. I present the tax-books of Georgia, which show
that the negro, 25 years ago a slave, has in Georgia alone
$10,000,000 of assessed property, worth twice that much.
Does not that record honor him, and vindicate his neighbors?
What people, penniless, illiterate, has done so well?
For every Afro-American agitator, stirring the strife in
which alone he prospers, I can show you a thousand
negroes, happy in their cabin homes, tilling their own land
by day, and at night taking from the lips of their children
the helpful message their State sends them from the schoolhouse
door. And the schoolhouse itself bears testimony.
In Georgia we added last year $250,000 to the school fund,
making a total of more than $1,000,000—and this in the
face of prejudice not yet conquered—of the fact that the
whites are assessed for $368,000,000, the blacks for $10,000,000,
and yet 49 per cent. of the beneficiaries are black
children—and in the doubt of many wise men if education
helps, or can help, our problem. Charleston, with her
taxable values cut half in two since 1860, pays more in proportion
for public schools than Boston. Although it is
easier to give much out of much than little out of little,
the South with one-seventh of the taxable property of the
country, with relatively larger debt, having received only
one-twelfth as much public land, and having back of its
tax-books none of the half billion of bonds that enrich the
North—and though it pays annually $26,000,000 to your
section as pensions—yet gives nearly one-sixth of the
public-school fund. The South since 1865 has spent $122,000,000
in education, and this year is pledged to $37,000,000
for state and city schools, although the blacks paying one-thirtieth
of the taxes get nearly one-half of the fund.</p>

<p class='c018'>Go into our fields and see whites and blacks working
side by side. On our buildings in the same squad. In our
<span class='pageno' id='Page_188'>188</span>shops at the same forge. Often the blacks crowd the
whites from work, or lower wages by the greater need or
simpler habits, and yet are permitted because we want to
bar them from no avenue in which their feet are fitted to
tread. They could not there be elected orators of the
white universities, as they have been here, but they do
enter there a hundred useful trades that are closed against
them here. We hold it better and wiser to tend the weeds
in the garden than to water the exotic in the window. In
the South, there are negro lawyers, teachers, editors, dentists,
doctors, preachers, multiplying with the increasing
ability of their race to support them. In villages and
towns they have their military companies equipped from
the armories of the State, their churches and societies built
and supported largely by their neighbors. What is the
testimony of the courts? In penal legislation we have
steadily reduced felonies to misdemeanors, and have led
the world in mitigating punishment for crime, that we
might save, as far as possible, this dependent race from its
own weakness. In our penitentiary record 60 per cent. of the
prosecutors are negroes, and in every court the negro criminal
strikes the colored juror, that white men may judge
his case. In the North, one negro in every 1865 is in
jail—in the South only one in 446. In the North the percentage
of negro prisoners is six times as great as native
whites—in the South, only four times as great. If prejudice
wrongs him in southern courts, the record shows it
to be deeper in northern courts.</p>

<p class='c018'>I assert here, and a bar as intelligent and upright as
the bar of Massachusetts will solemnly indorse my assertion,
that in the southern courts, from highest to lowest,
pleading for life, liberty or property, the negro has distinct
advantage because he is a negro, apt to be over-reached,
oppressed—and that this advantage reaches from
the juror in making his verdict to the judge in measuring
his sentence. Now, Mr. President, can it be seriously
maintained that we are terrorizing the people from whose
willing hands come every year $1,000,000,000 of farm
<span class='pageno' id='Page_189'>189</span>crops? Or have robbed a people, who twenty-five years
from unrewarded slavery have amassed in one State
$20,000,000 of property? Or that we intend to oppress the
people we are arming every day? Or deceive them when
we are educating them to the utmost limit of our ability?
Or outlaw them when we work side by side with them?
Or re-enslave them under legal forms when for their benefit
we have even imprudently narrowed the limit of felonies
and mitigated the severity of law? My fellow countryman,
as you yourself may sometimes have to appeal to the
bar of human judgment for justice and for right, give to
my people to-night the fair and unanswerable conclusion of
these incontestible facts.</p>

<p class='c018'>But it is claimed that under this fair seeming there is
disorder and violence. This I admit. And there will be
until there is one ideal community on earth after which
we may pattern. But how widely it is misjudged! It is
hard to measure with exactness whatever touches the
negro. His helplessness, his isolation, his century of servitude,
these dispose us to emphasize and magnify his
wrongs. This disposition, inflamed by prejudice and partisanry,
has led to injustice and delusion. Lawless men
may ravage a county in Iowa and it is accepted as an incident—in
the South a drunken row is declared to be the
fixed habit of the community. Regulators may whip vagabonds
in Indiana by platoons, and it scarcely arrests
attention—a chance collision in the South among relatively
the same classes is gravely accepted as evidence that one
race is destroying the other. We might as well claim that
the Union was ungrateful to the colored soldiers who followed
its flag, because a Grand Army post in Connecticut
closed its doors to a negro veteran, as for you to give racial
significance to every incident in the South, or to accept
exceptional grounds as the rule of our society. I am not
one of those who becloud American honor with the parade
of the outrages of either section, and belie American character
by declaring them to be significant and representative.
I prefer to maintain that they are neither, and stand
<span class='pageno' id='Page_190'>190</span>for nothing but the passion and the sin of our poor fallen
humanity. If society, like a machine, were no stronger
than its weakest part, I should despair of both sections.
But, knowing that society, sentient and responsible in
every fibre, can mend and repair until the whole has the
strength of the best, I despair of neither. These gentlemen
who come with me here, knit into Georgia’s busy life
as they are, never saw, I dare assert, an outrage committed
on a negro! And if they did, not one of you would be
swifter to prevent or punish. It is through them, and the
men who think with them—making nine-tenths of every
southern community—that these two races have been carried
thus far with less of violence than would have been
possible anywhere else on earth. And in their fairness
and courage and steadfastness—more than in all the laws
that can be passed or all the bayonets that can be mustered—is
the hope of our future.</p>

<p class='c018'>When will the black cast a free ballot? When ignorance
anywhere is not dominated by the will of the intelligent;
when the laborer anywhere casts a vote unhindered
by his boss; when the vote of the poor anywhere is not
influenced by the power of the rich; when the strong and
the steadfast do not everywhere control the suffrage of the
weak and shiftless—then and not till then will the ballot of
the negro be free. The white people of the South are
banded, Mr. President, not in prejudice against the
blacks—not in sectional estrangement, not in the hope of
political dominion—but in a deep and abiding necessity.
Here is this vast ignorant and purchasable vote—clannish,
credulous, impulsive and passionate—tempting every art
of the demagogue, but insensible to the appeal of the
statesman. Wrongly started, in that it was led into alienation
from its neighbor and taught to rely on the protection
of an outside force, it cannot be merged and lost in the
two great parties through logical currents, for it lacks
political conviction and even that information on which
conviction must be based. It must remain a faction—strong
enough in every community to control on the slightest
<span class='pageno' id='Page_191'>191</span>division of the whites. Under that division it becomes
the prey of the cunning and unscrupulous of both parties.
Its credulity is imposed on, its patience inflamed, its
cupidity tempted, its impulses misdirected—and even its
superstition made to play its part in a campaign in which
every interest of society is jeopardized and every approach
to the ballot-box debauched. It is against such campaigns
as this—the folly and the bitterness and the danger of
which every southern community has drunk deeply—that
the white people of the South are banded together. Just
as you in Massachusetts would be banded if 300,000 black
men, not one in a hundred able to read his ballot—banded
in race instinct, holding against you the memory of a
century of slavery, taught by your late conquerors to distrust
and oppose you, had already travestied legislation
from your statehouse, and in every species of folly or
villainy had wasted your substance and exhausted your
credit.</p>

<p class='c018'>But admitting the right of the whites to unite against
this tremendous menace, we are challenged with the smallness
of our vote. This has long been flippantly charged to
be evidence, and has now been solemnly and officially
declared to be proof of political turpitude and baseness on
our part. Let us see. Virginia—a State now under fierce
assault for this alleged crime—cast in 1888 75 per cent. of
her vote. Massachusetts, the State in which I speak, 60
per cent. of her vote. Was it suppression in Virginia and
natural causes in Massachusetts? Last month Virginia
cast 69 per cent. of her vote, and Massachusetts, fighting in
every district, cast only 49 per cent. of hers. If Virginia
is condemned because 31 per cent. of her vote was silent,
how shall this State escape in which 51 per cent. was
dumb? Let us enlarge this comparison. The sixteen
southern States in 1888 cast 67 per cent. of their total vote—the
six New England States but 63 per cent. of theirs. By
what fair rule shall the stigma be put upon one section,
while the other escapes? A congressional election in New
York last week, with the polling-place in touch of every
<span class='pageno' id='Page_192'>192</span>voter, brought out only 6000 votes of 28,000—and the lack
of opposition is assigned as the natural cause. In a district
in my State, in which an opposition speech has not
been heard in ten years, and the polling-places are miles
apart—under the unfair reasoning of which my section has
been a constant victim—the small vote is charged to be
proof of forcible suppression. In Virginia an average
majority of 10,000, under hopeless division of the minority,
was raised to 42,000; in Iowa, in the same election, a
majority of 32,000 was wiped out, and an opposition majority
of 8000 was established. The change of 42,000 votes
in Iowa is accepted as political revolution—in Virginia an
increase of 30,000 on a safe majority is declared to be proof
of political fraud. I charge these facts and figures home,
sir, to the heart and conscience of the American people,
who will not assuredly see one section condemned for what
another section is excused!</p>

<p class='c018'>If I can drive them through the prejudice of the partisan,
and have them read and pondered at the fireside of
the citizen, I will rest on the judgment there formed and
the verdict there rendered!</p>

<p class='c018'>It is deplorable, sir, that in both sections a larger percentage
of the vote is not regularly cast, but more inexplicable
that this should be so in New England than in the
South. What invites the negro to the ballot-box? He
knows that, of all men, it has promised him most and
yielded him least. His first appeal to suffrage was the
promise of “forty acres and a mule.” His second, the
threat that Democratic success meant his re-inslavement.
Both have proved false in his experience. He looked for
a home, and he got the freedman’s bank. He fought under
the promise of the loaf, and in victory was denied the
crumbs. Discouraged and deceived, he has realized at last
that his best friends are his neighbors, with whom his lot is
cast, and whose prosperity is bound up in his—and that he
has gained nothing in politics to compensate the loss of
their confidence and sympathy that is at last his best and his
enduring hope. And so, without leaders or organization—and
<span class='pageno' id='Page_193'>193</span>lacking the resolute heroism of my party friends in
Vermont that makes their hopeless march over the hills a
high and inspiring pilgrimage—he shrewdly measures the
occasional agitator, balances his little account with politics,
touches up his mule and jogs down the furrow, letting the
mad world jog as it will!</p>

<p class='c018'>The negro vote can never control in the South, and it
would be well if partisans in the North would understand
this. I have seen the white people of a State set about by
black hosts until their fate seemed sealed. But, sir, some
brave man, banding them together, would rise, as Elisha
rose in beleaguered Samaria, and touching their eyes with
faith, bid them look abroad to see the very air “filled with
the chariots of Israel and the horsemen thereof.” If there
is any human force that cannot be withstood, it is the
power of the banded intelligence and responsibility of a
free community. Against it, numbers and corruption cannot
prevail. It cannot be forbidden in the law or divorced
in force. It is the inalienable right of every free community—and
the just and righteous safeguard against an ignorant
or corrupt suffrage. It is on this, sir, that we rely in
the South. Not the cowardly menace of mask or shotgun;
but the peaceful majesty of intelligence and responsibility,
massed and unified for the protection of its homes and the
preservation of its liberty. That, sir, is our reliance and
our hope, and against it all the powers of the earth shall
not prevail. It was just as certain that Virginia would
come back to the unchallenged control of her white race—that
before the moral and material power of her people once
more unified, opposition would crumble until its last desperate
leader was left alone vainly striving to rally his disordered
hosts—as that night should fade in the kindling
glory of the sun. You may pass force bills, but they
will not avail. You may surrender your own liberties to
Federal election law, you may submit, in fear of a necessity
that does not exist, that the very form of this government
may be changed—this old State that holds in its charter
the boast that “it is a free and independent commonwealth”—it
<span class='pageno' id='Page_194'>194</span>may deliver its election machinery into the
hands of the government it helped to create—but never,
sir, will a single State of this Union, North or South, be
delivered again to the control of an ignorant and inferior
race. We wrested our State government from negro supremacy
when the Federal drumbeat rolled closer to the
ballot-box and Federal bayonets hedged it deeper about
than will ever again be permitted in this free government.
But, sir, though the cannon of this Republic thundered in
every voting district of the South, we still should find in
the mercy of God the means and the courage to prevent its
re-establishment!</p>

<p class='c018'>I regret, sir, that my section, hindered with this problem,
stands in seeming estrangement to the North. If, sir,
any man will point out to me a path down which the white
people of the South divided may walk in peace and honor,
I will take that path though I took it alone—for at the
end, and nowhere else, I fear, is to be found the full prosperity
of my section and the full restoration of this Union.
But, sir, if the negro had not been enfranchised, the South
would have been divided and the Republic united. His
enfranchisement—against which I enter no protest—holds
the South united and compact. What solution, then, can
we offer for the problem? Time alone can disclose it to
us. We simply report progress and ask your patience.
If the problem be solved at all—and I firmly believe it will,
though nowhere else has it been—it will be solved by the
people most deeply bound in interest, most deeply pledged
in honor to its solution. I had rather see my people render
back this question lightly solved than to see them
gather all the spoils over which faction has contended since
Catiline conspired and Cæsar fought. Meantime we treat
the negro fairly, measuring to him justice in the fullness
the strong should give to the weak, and leading him in the
steadfast ways of citizenship that he may no longer be the
prey of the unscrupulous and the sport of the thoughtless.
We open to him every pursuit in which he can prosper, and
seek to broaden his training and capacity. We seek to
<span class='pageno' id='Page_195'>195</span>hold his confidence and friendship, and to pin him to the
soil with ownership, that he may catch in the fire of his
own hearthstone that sense of responsibility the shiftless
can never know. And we gather him into that alliance of
intelligence and responsibility that, though it now runs
close to racial lines, welcomes the responsible and intelligent
of any race. By this course, confirmed in our judgment
and justified in the progress already made, we hope
to progress slowly but surely to the end.</p>

<p class='c018'>The love we feel for that race you cannot measure nor
comprehend. As I attest it here, the spirit of my old black
mammy from her home up there looks down to bless, and
through the tumult of this night steals the sweet music of
her croonings as thirty years ago she held me in her black
arms and led me smiling into sleep. This scene vanishes
as I speak, and I catch a vision of an old Southern home,
with its lofty pillars, and its white pigeons fluttering down
through the golden air. I see women with strained and
anxious faces, and children alert yet helpless. I see night
come down with its dangers and its apprehensions, and in
a big homely room I feel on my tired head the touch of
loving hands—now worn and wrinkled, but fairer to me yet
than the hands of mortal woman, and stronger yet to lead
me than the hands of mortal man—as they lay a mother’s
blessing there while at her knees—the truest altar I yet
have found—I thank God that she is safe in her sanctuary,
because her slaves, sentinel in the silent cabin or guard at
her chamber door, puts a black man’s loyalty between her
and danger.</p>

<p class='c018'>I catch another vision. The crisis of battle—a soldier
struck, staggering, fallen. I see a slave, scuffling through
the smoke, winding his black arms about the fallen form,
reckless of the hurtling death—bending his trusty face to
catch the words that tremble on the stricken lips, so wrestling
meantime with agony that he would lay down his life
in his master’s stead. I see him by the weary bedside,
ministering with uncomplaining patience, praying with all
his humble heart that God will lift his master up, until
<span class='pageno' id='Page_196'>196</span>death comes in mercy and in honor to still the soldier’s
agony and seal the soldier’s life. I see him by the open
grave, mute, motionless, uncovered, suffering for the death
of him who in life fought against his freedom. I see him
when the mound is heaped and the great drama of his life
is closed, turn away and with downcast eyes and uncertain
step start out into new and strange fields, faltering, struggling,
but moving on, until his shambling figure is lost in
the light of this better and brighter day. And from the
grave comes a voice saying: “Follow him! Put your
arms about him in his need, even as he puts his about me.
Be his friend as he was mine.” And out into this new
world—strange to me as to him, dazzling, bewildering
both—I follow! And may God forget my people—when
they forget these!</p>

<p class='c018'>Whatever the future may hold for them—whether they
plod along in the servitude from which they have never
been lifted since the Cyrenian was laid hold upon by
the Roman soldiers and made to bear the cross of the fainting
Christ—whether they find homes again in Africa, and
thus hasten the prophecy of the psalmist who said: “And
suddenly Ethiopia shall hold out her hands unto God”—whether,
forever dislocated and separated, they remain a
weak people beset by stronger, and exist as the Turk,
who lives in the jealousy rather than in the conscience of
Europe—or whether in this miraculous Republic they
break through the caste of twenty centuries and, belying
universal history, reach the full stature of citizenship, and
in peace maintain it—we shall give them uttermost justice
and abiding friendship. And whatever we do, into whatever
seeming estrangement we may be driven, nothing shall
disturb the love we bear this Republic, or mitigate our consecration
to its service. I stand here, Mr. President, to
profess no new loyalty. When General Lee, whose heart
was the temple of our hopes and whose arm was clothed
with our strength, renewed his allegiance to the government
of Appomattox, he spoke from a heart too great to
be false, and he spoke for every honest man from Maryland
<span class='pageno' id='Page_197'>197</span>to Texas. From that day to this, Hamilcar has
nowhere in the South sworn young Hannibal to hatred and
vengeance—but everywhere to loyalty and to love. Witness
the soldier standing at the base of a Confederate monument
above the graves of his comrades, his empty sleeve
tossing in the April wind, adjuring the young men about
him, to serve as honest and loyal citizens the government
against which their fathers fought. This message, delivered
from that sacred presence, has gone home to the
hearts of my fellows! And, sir, I declare here, if physical
courage be always equal to human aspiration, that
they would die, sir, if need be, to restore this Republic
their fathers fought to dissolve!</p>

<p class='c018'>Such, Mr. President, is this problem as we see it; such
is the temper in which we approach it: such the progress
made. What do we ask of you? First, patience; out of
this alone can come perfect work. Second, confidence; in
this alone can you judge fairly. Third, sympathy; in this
you can help us best. Fourth, give us your sons as hostages.
When you plant your capital in millions, send your
sons that they may help know how true are our hearts and
may help to swell the Anglo-Saxon current until it can
carry without danger this black infusion. Fifth, loyalty
to the Republic—for there is sectionalism in loyalty as in
estrangement. This hour little needs the loyalty that is
loyal to one section and yet holds the other in enduring
suspicion and estrangement. Give us the broad and perfect
loyalty that loves and trusts Georgia alike with Massachusetts—that
knows no south, no north, no east, no west;
but endears with equal and patriotic love every foot of our
soil, every State in our Union.</p>

<p class='c018'>A mighty duty, sir, and a mighty inspiration impels
every one of us to-night to lose in patriotic consecration
whatever estranges, whatever divides. We, sir, are Americans—and
we fight for human liberty. The uplifting force
of the American idea is under every throne on earth.
France, Brazil—these are our victories. To redeem the
earth from kingcraft and oppression—this is our mission.
<span class='pageno' id='Page_198'>198</span>And we shall not fail. God has sown in our soil the seed
of his millennial harvest, and he will not lay the sickle to
the ripening crop until his full and perfect day has come.
Our history, sir, has been a constant and expanding
miracle from Plymouth Rock and Jamestown all the way—aye,
even from the hour when, from the voiceless and trackless
ocean, a new world rose to the sight of the inspired
sailor. As we approach the fourth centennial of that stupendous
day—when the old world will come to marvel and
to learn, amid our gathered treasures—let us resolve to
crown the miracles of our past with the spectacle of a
Republic compact, united, indissoluble in the bonds of
love—loving from the lakes to the Gulf—the wounds of
war healed in every heart as on every hill—serene and
resplendent at the summit of human achievement and
earthly glory—blazing out the path, and making clear the
way up which all the nations of the earth must come in
God’s appointed time!</p>
<div class='pbb'>
 <hr class='pb c007' />
</div>
<div class='chapter'>
  <span class='pageno' id='Page_199'>199</span>
  <h2 class='c012'>BEFORE THE BAY STATE CLUB.</h2>
</div>
<hr class='c013' />
<p class='drop-capa0_25_0_7 c030'><span class='sc'>DURING Mr. Grady’s Visit to Boston, in 1889, he
was a Guest of the Bay State Club, before
whom he Delivered the following Speech:</span></p>
<p class='c023'><span class='sc'>Mr. President and Gentlemen</span>: I am confident you
will not expect a speech from me this afternoon, especially
as my voice is in such a condition that I can hardly talk.
I am free to say that it is not a lack of ability to talk, because
I am a talker by inheritance. My father was an
Irishman, my mother was a woman; both talked. I came
by it honestly.</p>

<p class='c018'>I don’t know how I could take up any discussion here
on any topic apart from the incidents of the past two days.
I saw this morning Plymouth Rock. I was pulled up on
top of it and was told to make a speech.</p>

<p class='c018'>It reminded me of an old friend of mind, Judge Dooley,
of Georgia, who was a very provoking fellow and was
always getting challenged to duels, and never fighting
them. He always got out of it by being smarter than the
other fellow. One day he went out to fight a man with one
leg, and he insisted on bringing along a bee gum and sticking
one leg into it so that he would have no more flesh exposed
than his antagonist. On the occasion I am thinking
of, however, he went out to fight with a man who had St.
Vitus’s dance, and the fellow stood before him holding the
pistol cocked and primed, his hand shaking. The judge
<span class='pageno' id='Page_200'>200</span>went quietly and got a forked stick and stuck it up in
front of him.</p>

<p class='c018'>“What’s that for?” said the man.</p>

<p class='c018'>“I want you to shoot with a rest, so that if you hit me
you will bore only one hole. If you shoot that way you
will fill me full of holes with one shot.”</p>

<p class='c018'>I was reminded of that and forced to tell my friends
that I could not think of speaking on top of Plymouth Rock
without a rest.</p>

<p class='c018'>But I said this, and I want to say it here again, for I
never knew how true it was till I had heard myself say
it and had taken the evidence of my voice, as well as my
thoughts—that there is no spot on earth that I had rather
have seen than that. I have a boy who is the pride and
the promise of my life, and God knows I want him to be a
good citizen and a good man, and there is no spot in all
this broad Republic nor in all this world where I had rather
have him stand to learn the lessons of right citizenship, of
individual liberty, of fortitude and heroism and justice,
than the spot on which I stood this morning, reverent and
uncovered.</p>

<p class='c018'>Now, I do not intend to make a political speech,
although when Mr. Cleveland expressed some surprise at
seeing me here, I said: “Why, I am at home now; I was
out visiting last night.” I was visiting mighty clever
folks, but still I was visiting. Now I am at home.</p>

<p class='c018'>It is the glory and the promise of Democracy, it seems to
me, that its success means more than partisanry can
mean. I have been told that what I said helped the Democratic
party in this State. Well, the chief joy that I feel
at that, and that you feel, is that, beyond that and above
it, it helped those larger interests of the Republic, and
those essential interests of humanity that for seventy years
the Democratic party has stood for, being the guarantor
and the defender.</p>

<p class='c018'>Now, Mr. Cleveland last night made—I trust this will
not get into the papers—one of the best Democratic
speeches I ever heard in my life, and yet all around sat
<span class='pageno' id='Page_201'>201</span>Republicans cheering him to the echo. It was just simply
because he pitched his speech on a high key, and because
he said things that no man, no matter how partisan he
was, could gainsay.</p>

<p class='c018'>Now it seems to me we do not care much for political
success in the South—for a simple question of spoils or of
patronage. We wanted to see one Democratic administration
since General Lee surrendered at Appomattox, just to
prove to the people of this world that the South was not
the wrong-headed and impulsive and passionate section
she was represented to be. I heard last night from Mr.
Cleveland, our great leader, as he sat by me, that he held
to be the miracle of modern history the conservatism and
the temperance and the quiet with which the South
accepted his election, and the few office-seekers in comparison
that came from that section to besiege and importune
him.</p>

<p class='c018'>Now it seems to me that the struggle in this country,
the great fight, the roar and din of which we already hear,
is a fight against the consolidation of power, the concentration
of capital, the diminution of local sovereignty and
the dwarfing of the individual citizen. Boston is the home
of the one section of a nationalist party that claims that
the remedy for all our troubles, the way in which Dives,
who sits inside the gate, shall be controlled, and the poor
Lazarus who sits outside shall be lifted up, is for the government
to usurp the functions of the citizen and take
charge of all his affairs. It is the Democratic doctrine that
the citizen is the master and that the best guarantee of this
government is not garnered powers at the capital, but diffused
intelligence and liberty among the people.</p>

<p class='c018'>My friend, General Collins—who, by the way, captured
my whole State and absolutely conjured the ladies—when
he came down there talked about this to us, and he gave
us a train of thought that we have improved to advantage.</p>

<p class='c018'>It is the pride, I believe, of the South, with her simple
faith and her homogeneous people, that we elevate there
the citizen above the party, and the citizen above everything.
<span class='pageno' id='Page_202'>202</span>We teach a man that his best guide at least is his
own conscience, that his sovereignty rests beneath his hat,
that his own right arm and his own stout heart are his best
dependence; that he should rely on his State for nothing
that he can do for himself, and on his government for
nothing that his State can do for him; but that he should
stand upright and self-respecting, dowering his family in
the sweat of his brow, loving to his State, loyal to his
Republic, earnest in his allegiance wherever it rests, but
building at last his altars above his own hearthstone, and
shrining his own liberty in his own heart. That is a sentiment
that I would not have been afraid to avow last night.
And yet it is mighty good democratic doctrine, too.</p>

<p class='c018'>I went to Washington the other day and I stood on the
Capitol hill, and my heart beat quick as I looked at the
towering marble of my country’s Capitol, and a mist gathered
in my eyes as I thought of its tremendous significance,
of the armies and the treasury, and the judges and the
President, and the Congress and the courts, and all that
was gathered there; and I felt that the sun in all its
course could not look down on a better sight than that
majestic home of a Republic that had taught the world its
best lessons of liberty. And I felt that if honor and wisdom
and justice abided therein, the world would at last
owe that great house in which the ark of the covenant of
my country is lodged its final uplifting and its regeneration.</p>

<p class='c018'>But a few days afterwards I went to visit a friend in the
country, a modest man, with a quiet country home. It
was just a simple, unpretentious house, set about with
great trees and encircled in meadow and field rich with the
promise of harvest; the fragrance of the pink and the
hollyhock in the front yard was mingled with the aroma
of the orchard and the garden, and the resonant clucking
of poultry and the hum of bees. Inside was quiet, cleanliness,
thrift and comfort.</p>

<p class='c018'>Outside there stood my friend, the master—a simple,
independent, upright man, with no mortgage on his roof,
<span class='pageno' id='Page_203'>203</span>no lien on his growing crops—master of his land and
master of himself. There was his old father, an aged and
trembling man, but happy in the heart and home of his son.
And, as he started to enter his home, the hand of the old
man went down on the young man’s shoulder, laying
there the unspeakable blessing of an honored and honorable
father, and ennobling it with the knighthood of the
fifth commandment. And as we approached the door the
mother came, a happy smile lighting up her face, while
with the rich music of her heart she bade her husband and
her son welcome to their home. Beyond was the housewife,
busy with her domestic affairs, the loving helpmate
of her husband. Down the lane came the children after
the cows, singing sweetly, as like birds they sought the
quiet of their nest.</p>

<p class='c018'>So the night came down on that house, falling gently
as the wing from an unseen dove. And the old man, while
a startled bird called from the forest and the trees thrilled
with the cricket’s cry, and the stars were falling from the
sky, called the family around him and took the Bible from
the table and called them to their knees. The little baby
hid in the folds of its mother’s dress while he closed the
record of that day by calling down God’s blessing on that
simple home. While I gazed, the vision of the marble
Capitol faded; forgotten were its treasuries and its majesty;
and I said: “Surely here in the homes of the people lodge
at last the strength and the responsibility of this government,
the hope and the promise of this Republic.”</p>

<p class='c018'>My friends, that is the democracy in the South; that is
the democratic doctrine we preach; a doctrine, sir, that is
writ above our hearthstones. We aim to make our homes,
poor as they are, self-respecting and independent. We try
to make them temples of refinement, in which our daughters
may learn that woman’s best charm and strength is her
gentleness and her grace, and temples of liberty in which
our sons may learn that no power can justify and no treasure
repay for the surrender of the slightest right of a free
individual American citizen.</p>

<p class='c018'><span class='pageno' id='Page_204'>204</span>Now you do not know how we love you Democrats.
Had we better print that? Yes, we do, of course we do.
If a man does not love his home folks, who should he love?
We know how gallant a fight you have made here, not
as hard and hopeless as our friends in Vermont, but
still an up-hill fight. You have been doing better, much
better.</p>

<p class='c018'>Now, gentlemen, I have some mighty good Democrats
here. There is one of the fattest and best in the world
sitting right over there [pointing to his partner, Mr.
Howell].</p>

<p class='c018'>You want to know about the South. My friends, we
representative men will tell you about it. I just want to
say that we have had a hard time down there.</p>

<p class='c018'>When my partner came out of the war he didn’t have
any breeches. That is an actual truth. Well, his wife,
one of the best women that ever lived, reared in the lap
of luxury, took her old woolen dress that she had worn
during the war—and it had been a garment of sorrow and
of consecration and of heroism—and cut it up and made a
good pair of breeches. He started with that pair of
breeches and with $5 in gold as his capital, and he scraped
up boards from amid the ashes of his home, and built him
a shanty of which love made a home and which courtesy
made hospitable. And now I believe he has with him three
pairs of breeches and several pairs at home. We have
prospered down there.</p>

<p class='c018'>I attended a funeral once in Pickens county in my State.
A funeral is not usually a cheerful object to me unless I
could select the subject. I think I could, perhaps, without
going a hundred miles from here, find the material for one
or two cheerful funerals. Still, this funeral was peculiarly
sad. It was a poor “one gallus” fellow, whose breeches
struck him under the armpits and hit him at the other end
about the knee—he didn’t believe in <i>decollete</i> clothes.
They buried him in the midst of a marble quarry: they
cut through solid marble to make his grave; and yet a
little tombstone they put above him was from Vermont.
<span class='pageno' id='Page_205'>205</span>They buried him in the heart of a pine forest, and yet the
pine coffin was imported from Cincinnati. They buried
him within touch of an iron mine, and yet the nails in his
coffin and the iron in the shovel that dug his grave were
imported from Pittsburg. They buried him by the side of
the best sheep-grazing country on the earth, and yet the
wool in the coffin bands and the coffin bands themselves
were brought from the North. The South didn’t furnish a
thing on earth for that funeral but the corpse and the hole
in the ground. There they put him away and the clods rattled
down on his coffin, and they buried him in a New York
coat and a Boston pair of shoes and a pair of breeches from
Chicago and a shirt from Cincinnati, leaving him nothing
to carry into the next world with him to remind him of the
country in which he lived, and for which he fought for four
years, but the chill of blood in his veins and the marrow in
his bones.</p>

<p class='c018'>Now we have improved on that. We have got the biggest
marble-cutting establishment on earth within a hundred
yards of that grave. We have got a half-dozen
woolen mills right around it, and iron mines, and iron furnaces,
and iron factories. We are coming to meet you.
We are going to take a noble revenge, as my friend,
Mr. Carnegie, said last night, by invading every inch of
your territory with iron, as you invaded ours twenty-nine
years ago.</p>

<p class='c018'>A voice—I want to know if the tariff built up these
industries down there?</p>

<p class='c018'>Mr. Grady—The tariff? Well, to be perfectly frank
with you, I think it helped some; but you can bet your
bottom dollar that we are Democrats straight through
from the soles of our feet to the top of our heads,
and Mr. Cleveland will not have if he runs again,
which I am inclined to think he ought to do, a stronger
following.</p>

<p class='c018'>Now, I want to say one word about the reception we
had here. It has been a constant revelation of hospitality
and kindness and brotherhood from the whole people of
<span class='pageno' id='Page_206'>206</span>this city to myself and my friends. It has touched us
beyond measure.</p>

<p class='c018'>I was struck with one thing last night. Every speaker
that rose expressed his confidence in the future and lasting
glory of this Republic. There may be men, and there are,
who insist on getting up fratricidal strife, and who infamously
fan the embers of war that they may raise them
again into a blaze. But just as certain as there is a God
in the heavens, when those noisy insects of the hour have
perished in the heat that gave them life, and their pestilent
tongues have ceased, the great clock of this Republic will
strike the slow-moving, tranquil hours, and the watchman
from the street will cry, “All is well with the
Republic; all is well.”</p>

<p class='c018'>We bring to you, from hearts that yearn for your confidence
and for your love, the message of fellowship from our
homes. This message comes from consecrated ground.
The fields in which I played were the battle-fields of this
Republic, hallowed to you with the blood of your soldiers
who died in victory, and doubly sacred to us with the
blood of ours who died undaunted in defeat. All around
my home are set the hills of Kennesaw, all around the
mountains and hills down which the gray flag fluttered to
defeat, and through which American soldiers from either
side charged like demigods; and I do not think I could
bring you a false message from those old hills and those
sacred fields—witnesses twenty years ago in their red desolation
of the deathless valor of American arms and the
quenchless bravery of American hearts, and in their white
peace and tranquillity to-day of the imperishable Union
of the American States and the indestructible brotherhood
of the American people.</p>

<p class='c018'>It is likely that I will not again see Bostonians assembled
together. I therefore want to take this occasion to
thank you, and my excellent friends of last night and those
friends who accompanied us this morning for all that you
have done for us since we have been in your city, and to
say that whenever any of you come South just speak your
<span class='pageno' id='Page_207'>207</span>name, and remember that Boston or Massachusetts is the
watchword, and we will meet you at the gates.</p>

<div class='lg-container-b c031'>
  <div class='linegroup'>
    <div class='group'>
      <div class='line'>The monarch may forget the crown</div>
      <div class='line in2'>That on his head so late hath been;</div>
      <div class='line'>The bridegroom may forget the bride</div>
      <div class='line in2'>Was made his own but yester e’en;</div>
      <div class='line'>The mother may forget the babe</div>
      <div class='line in2'>That smiled so sweetly on her knee;</div>
      <div class='line'>But forget thee will I ne’er, Glencairn,</div>
      <div class='line in2'>And all that thou hast done for me.</div>
    </div>
  </div>
</div>

<div class='pbb'>
 <hr class='pb c007' />
</div>

<div id='p208'  class='figcenter id003'>
<span class='pageno' id='Page_208'>208</span>
<img src='images/p208.jpg' alt='' class='ig001' />
<div class='ic002'>
<p>HENRY W. GRADY’S ATLANTA HOME.</p>
</div>
</div>
<div class='pbb'>
 <hr class='pb c007' />
</div>

<div class='nf-center-c0'>
<div class='nf-center c001'>
    <div><span class='pageno' id='Page_209'>209</span><span class='c029'>WRITINGS.</span></div>
  </div>
</div>

<div class='pbb'>
 <hr class='pb c001' />
</div>
<div class='chapter'>
  <span class='pageno' id='Page_211'>211</span>
  <h2 class='c012'>“SMALL JANE.”</h2>
</div>

<div class='nf-center-c0'>
<div class='nf-center c007'>
    <div><span class='sc'>The Story of a Little Heroine.</span></div>
  </div>
</div>

<hr class='c028' />
<p class='drop-capa0_25_0_7 c017'>SINCE my experience with the case of “Sallie,” I feel a
hesitation in presenting a new heroine to the attention
of the public.</p>

<p class='c018'>You see, I do not mind the real sorrow that I experienced
when my sincere efforts to improve the condition of
this child came to naught. But I was staggered and
sickened by the fact that most of my friends were rejoiced
at her downfall.</p>

<p class='c018'>I do not remember anything that gave more genuine joy
to the town than the relapse of this wretched girl into the
slums from which she had been lifted. It was the occasion
of general hilarity—this falling back of an immortal soul
into Death—this terrible spectacle of a child staggering
blindly from sunlight into shame. I was poked in the ribs
facetiously. A perfect shower of chuckles fell on my
ear. It was the joke of the season—this triumph of the
Devil over the body of a girl. One mad young wag, who,
with a keen nose for a joke, followed her into her haunts
of crime, came back, his honest face convulsed with laughter,
and bearing on his lips a statement from her, to the
literal effect that “I was a d—d fool.”</p>

<p class='c018'>I was staggered, I say, at the enjoyment created by the
downfall of this girl. For myself, I can hardly imagine a
more pitiful sight than her childish figure, as with face
averted and hands raised, blinded by the white light of virtue
and bewildered by her new condition, she slipped back
in despair to her old shame. I may be a “d—d fool,”
but I cannot find the heart to laugh at that.</p>

<p class='c018'><span class='pageno' id='Page_212'>212</span>I don’t know how it is, but I have a mania for looking
into cases of this sort. It is not philanthropy with me;
it is a disease.</p>

<p class='c018'>At the editorial desk, I sit opposite a young man of a
high order of mind.</p>

<p class='c018'>He makes it a point to compass the problems of
nations. I dodge them. He has settled, to his own agreement,
every European problem of the past decade. Those
problems have settled me. He soars—I plod. Once in a
while, when he yearns for a listener, he reaches down for
my scalp, and lifts me up to his altitude, where I shiver
and blink, until his talented fingers relax, and I drop
home. It delights him to adjust his powerful mind to the
contemplation of contending armies,—I swash around with
the swarm that hangs about me.</p>

<p class='c018'>His hero is Bismarck, that phlegmatic miracle that has
yoked impulse to an ox, and having made a chess-board of
Europe, plays a quiet game with the Pope. My hero is a
blear-eyed sot, that having for four years waged a gigantic
battle with drink, and alternated between watery Reform
and positive Tremens, is now playing a vague and losing
game with Spontaneous Combustion. My friend discusses
Bismarck’s projects with a vastness of mind that actually
makes his discourse dim, and I slip off to try my hero’s
temper, and see whether I shall have him wind his intoxicated
arms about my neck and envelop me in an atmosphere
of whisky and reform, or fall recumbent in the gutter,
his weak but honest face upturned to the sky, and
his moist, white hand working vaguely upward from his
placid breast, in token of abject surrender.</p>

<p class='c018'>Bismarck is a bigger man than Bob.</p>

<p class='c018'>But I can’t help thinking that Bob is engaged in the
most thrilling and desperate conflict. Anyhow, I had
rather see his watery eyes grow clear and his paroxysmal
arms grow steadfast, than to see Bismarck wipe out every
potentate in Europe. It’s a grave thing to watch the conflicts
of kings, and see nations embattled rushing against
each other. But there are greater and deeper conflicts
<span class='pageno' id='Page_213'>213</span>waged in our midst every day, when the legions of Despair
swarm against stout hearts, and Hunger and Suffering storm
the citadel of human lives!</p>

<p class='c018'>But I started to tell you of my new heroine.</p>

<p class='c018'>Her name is Jane.</p>

<p class='c018'>She presented herself one morning about three months
ago. A trim, slender figure, the growth of nine years. It
was such a small area of poverty that I felt capable of
attending to it myself. But I remembered that small
beggars usually represent productive but prostrated parents
and a brood of children. The smaller the beggar the larger
the family. I therefore summoned the good little woman
who guides my household affairs.</p>

<p class='c018'>She claims to be an expert in beggars. She has certain
tests that she applies to all comers. Her fundamental rule
is that all applicants are entitled to cold bread on first call.
After this she either grades them up to cake and preserves,
or holds them to scraps. I remember that she kept Col.
Nash on dry biscuit for thirteen months, while other applicants
have gone up to pie in three visits. I never felt any
hesitation in taking her judgment after that, for of all
wheedling mendicants Col. Nash, the alleged scissors-grinder,
takes the lead.</p>

<p class='c018'>But Jane was not a beggar. She carried on her arm a
basket. It was filled with some useless articles that she
wanted to sell. Would the lady look at them? Oh! of
course! They were bits of splints embroidered with gay
worsted. What were they for? Why, she didn’t know.
She just thought somebody would buy them, and she
needed some money so badly.</p>

<p class='c018'>“Who is your mother?”</p>

<p class='c018'>“I haven’t any. She is dead. I have a father, though.”</p>

<p class='c018'>“What does he do?”</p>

<p class='c018'>“He’s sick most of the time. He works when he is
well.”</p>

<p class='c018'>“What’s his name?”</p>

<p class='c018'>“Robert ——!”</p>

<p class='c018'>(Saints! My “Bob!” Sick indeed! The weak rascal!)</p>

<p class='c018'><span class='pageno' id='Page_214'>214</span>Jane was asked in, and I began to investigate. I
learned that this child was literally alone in the world.
She had a sister, a puny two-year-old, and a drunken
father—my flabby friend. They lived in a rickety hovel,
out of which the last chair had been sold to pay rent. The
mother, a year an invalid, had been accustomed to work
little trifles in splints and worsted. She dying, the child
picked up the splints, and worked grotesque baby fancies
in wood and worsted. She had no time for weeping. Her
hunger dried her eyes. The cooing baby by her side,
crying for bread, made her forget the dead mother. So she
fashioned the splints together, and with a brave heart went
out to sell them.</p>

<p class='c018'>Bob reformed at the bedside of his dying wife. Possibly
at that moment the angels that had come to guide the
woman home swept away the mist of the man’s debauch,
and gave him a glimpse of the pure life that lay behind.
Certain it is that his moist, uncertain hands crept vaguely
up the cover till they caught the wasted cheeks of his wife,
and his shaggy head bent down till his quivering lips found
hers. And the poor wife, yielding once more to the love
that had outlived shame and desertion, turned her eyes
from her children and fixed them on her husband. Ah!
how this earthly hope and this earthly love chased even the
serenity of Heaven from her face, and lighted it with tender
rapture! How quickly this drunkard supplanted God in
the dying woman’s soul? “Oh, Bob! my darling!” she
gasped, and raising her face toward him with a masterful
yearning, she died.</p>

<p class='c018'>“Mother didn’t seem to know we were there after father
came,” Jane told me. And I wondered if the child had not
been hurt, that all her months of patient love and watching
had been forgotten in a tempest of love for a vagabond
husband that had wrought nothing but disaster and death.</p>

<p class='c018'>After the funeral, through which he went in a dazed
sort of stupor, Bob got drunk, I don’t know why or how.
He seemed tenderer since then than before. I noticed that
he reformed oftener and got over it quicker. A piece of
<span class='pageno' id='Page_215'>215</span>crape that Jane had fixed about his hat seemed to possess
sacred properties to him. When he touched it and swore
abstinence, he generally held out two or three days. One
night, as he lay in the gutter, a cow, full of respect for his
person, and yet unable to utterly control her hunger,
chewed his hat. Since then he seemed to have lost his
moorings, and drifted about on a currentless drunk.</p>

<p class='c018'>He was always kind to Jane and the little biddie. In
his maudlin way he would caress them, and cry over them,
and reform with them, and promise to work for them.
Even when he ate their last crust of bread, he accompanied
the action with a sort of fumbling pomposity that
robbed it of its horror. He never did it without promising
to go out at once and bring back a sack of flour. Once he
went so high as to promise four sacks. So that the child,
in love like her mother with the old rascal, and like her
mother fresh always in faith, was rather rejoiced than
otherwise when he ate the bread. Did he bring the flour?</p>

<p class='c018'>“Why, how could he? They had to bring him home.
So of course I did not blame him. Poor father!”</p>

<p class='c018'>I must do Bob the justice to say that he never earned a
cent in all these days that he did not intend giving to
Jane. Of course he never did it, but I desire him to have
the credit of his intention. If the Lord held the best of
us strictly to performance and ruled out intention, we
wouldn’t be much better in his sight than Bob is in ours.</p>

<p class='c018'>One day I was sitting behind a window looking at
Jane, who stood in the kitchen door. Her oldish-looking,
chipper little face was turned straight to me. It was a
pretty face. The brown eyes were softened with suffering,
and fear and anxiety had driven all color from her
thin cheeks. I noticed that her mouth was never still.
Though she was alone and silent, her lips quivered and
trembled all the time. At times they would break into a
dumb sob. Then she would draw them firmly together.
Again they would twitch convulsively in the terrible semblance
of a smile. Then in that pretty, feminine way she
would pucker them together.</p>

<p class='c018'><span class='pageno' id='Page_216'>216</span>Long suffering had racked the child until she was all
awry, and her nerves were plunging through her tender
frame like devils.</p>

<p class='c018'>“Jane, were you ever hungry?”</p>

<p class='c018'>“Sir!” and she started painfully, while her starved
heart managed to send a thin coating of scarlet into her
cheeks. She was a proud little body, and never talked of
her sorrows.</p>

<p class='c018'>May the Lord forgive me for repeating the question!</p>

<p class='c018'>“Sometimes, sir, when I couldn’t sell anything. Last
Saturday we had only some bread for dinner. We never
had anything else until Sunday night. I wouldn’t have
minded it then, but Mary cried so for bread that I went
out, and a lady that I knew gave me some things.”</p>

<p class='c018'>Now, think of that. From a crust at Saturday noon,
on nothing till Sunday night. Of all the abundant marketing
of Saturday evening; of all the luxuries of Sunday
breakfast and dinner, not a crumb for this poor child.
While we were dressing our children for their trip to Sunday-school,
or their romp over the hills, this poor child,
gnawed by hunger, deserted by her drunken father, holding
a starving baby, sat crouched in a hovel, given up to
despair and hopelessness. And that, too, within the sound
of the bells that made the church-steeples thrill with
music, and called God’s people to church!</p>

<p class='c018'>A friend who had heard Jane’s story had given me
three dollars for her. I gave it to her, and told her that
as her rent was paid, she could with this lay in some provisions.
She was crying then, but she dried her tears and
hurried off.</p>

<hr class='c032' />

<p class='c018'>“Will you please come here and look?” called a lady
whose call I always obey, about an hour afterward.</p>

<p class='c018'>I went, and there stood Jane, flushed and happy.</p>

<p class='c018'>“I declare I am astonished at this child!” said the
lady.</p>

<p class='c018'>And therewith she displayed Jane’s purchases. A
<span class='pageno' id='Page_217'>217</span>little meal and meat had been sent home. The rest she
had with her. First, there was a goblet of strained honey;
then a bundle of candy “for baby,” a package of tea
“for father,” and a chip straw hat, with three gayly
colored ribbons, “for herself.” And that’s where the
money had gone!</p>

<p class='c018'>“I am just put out with her,” said the arbitress of
my affairs, after Jane had gathered up her treasures
and departed. “To waste her money like that! I can
imagine how the poor, half-starved child couldn’t help
buying the honey-goblet; I should die myself if I didn’t
have something sweet; but how she came to buy that hat
and ribbons I can’t see!”</p>

<p class='c018'>Ah, blue-eyed woman! There’s a yearning in the
feminine soul stronger than hunger. There’s a passion
there that starvation cannot conquer. The hat and ribbons
were bought in response to that craving. The hat,
I’ll bet thee, was bought before the honey,—aye, before
the meal or meat. “Can’t understand it?” Then, my
spouse, I’ll explain: Jane is a woman!</p>

<p class='c018'>I must confess that I was pleased at the misdirection of
Jane’s funds. Have you ever had a child deep in a long-continued
stupor from fever? How delighted you were
then when, tempted by some trifle, he gave signs of eagerness!
So I was rejoiced to see that the long years of suffering
had not crushed hope and emotion out of this girl’s
life.</p>

<p class='c018'>The tea and the candy showed that her affections,
working up to the father and drawn to the baby, were all
right. The honey gave evidence that the fresh impulses
of childhood had not been nipped and chilled. The hat
and ribbons—best and most hopeful purchase of all—proved
that the womanly vanity and love of prettiness
still fluttered in her young soul. Nothing is so charming
and so feminine in woman as the passion for dress.
Laugh at it as we may, I think that men will agree that
there is nothing so pathetic as a young woman out of
whom all hope of fine appearance has been pressed. A
<span class='pageno' id='Page_218'>218</span>gay ribbon is the sign in which woman conquers. I wager
that Eve made a neat, many-colored thing of fig-leaves.</p>

<p class='c018'>But to return to Jane.</p>

<p class='c018'>I know that this desultory sketch should be closed
with something unusual. Jane should die or get married.
But she’s too young for either. And so her life is running
on ever. She plods the streets as she used to do. She has
quit selling the flaming scraps she used to sell, and now
knits her young but resolute brow over crochet work,
which she sells at marvelous prices. Her path is flecked
with more sunshine than ever before, and at Sunday-school
she is as smart a little woman as can be seen. If the
shadow of a staggering figure, that falls so often across
her course, could be lifted, she would have little else to
grieve over. Not that she complains of this—not a bit of
it. “Poor father is sick so much. How can he be
expected to work?” And so she goes on, with her
woman’s nature clinging to him closer than ever; even as
the ivy clings to the old ruin. Hiding his shame from the
world, wrapping him in the plenitude of her faith, and
binding up his shattered resolves with her heart-strings.</p>

<p class='c018'>And as for Bob:</p>

<p class='c018'>I am strongly tempted to tell a lie, and say that he is
either sober or dead. But he is neither. He is the same
shiftless, irresponsible fellow that I have known for three
years. His face is heavier, his eyes are smaller, his nose
redder, his flesh more moist than ever. But in the depth
of his debauch there seems to have been winged some idea
of the excellence of Jane’s life, and the fineness of her
martyrdom. He catches me anywhere he sees me, and,
falling on my shirt-front, weeps copious tears of praise
and pop-skull, while talking of her. He swears by her.</p>

<p class='c018'>By the way, I must do him justice. Yesterday he
came to me very much affected. He was white-lipped,
and trembling, and hungry. He had spent the night in
the gutter, and the policeman who was scattering the disinfecting
lime, either careless or wise beyond his kind, had
powdered him all over. He seemed to be terribly in earnest.
<span class='pageno' id='Page_219'>219</span>He raised his trembling hand to his hat and touched
the place where the crape used to be, and swore that he
intended to reform, for good and all. “S’elp me Jane!”
he said.</p>

<p class='c018'>I have not seen him since. I hope that the iron has at
last entered his soul and will hold him steadfast. Ha!
that sounds like him stumbling up the steps now. Hey!
he has rolled back to the bottom! Here he comes again.
That must be him. “Of course!”</p>
<div class='pbb'>
 <hr class='pb c007' />
</div>
<div class='chapter'>
  <span class='pageno' id='Page_220'>220</span>
  <h2 class='c012'>DOBBS!</h2>
</div>

<div class='nf-center-c0'>
<div class='nf-center c007'>
    <div><span class='sc'>A Thumbnail Sketch of a Martyr.</span></div>
  </div>
</div>

<hr class='c028' />
<p class='drop-capa0_25_0_7 c020'>I&nbsp;AM proud of my acquaintance with Dobbs.</p>

<p class='c018'>He was a hero, whose deeds were not spread upon any
of the books of men, but whose martyrdom I am sure illustrates
a glowing page in God’s great life book.</p>

<p class='c018'>I met him late one night.</p>

<p class='c018'>The paper, with its burden of news and gossip, had just
been put to press, and I strolled out of the hot, clanking
room to catch a sight of the cool morning stars, and a
whiff of the dew-laden breezes of the dawn.</p>

<p class='c018'>Silhouetted against the intercepted stars, I saw a tall
and striking form, standing like a statue on the corner.</p>

<p class='c018'>As I came out of the door the figure approached.</p>

<p class='c018'>“Is this the <i>Herald</i> office, sir?”</p>

<p class='c018'>“Yes, sir. Can I serve you in any way?”</p>

<p class='c018'>“Well—” hesitating for an instant, and then speaking
boldly and sharply, “I wanted to know if you could not
trust me for a few papers?”</p>

<p class='c018'>“I suppose so; walk in to the light.”</p>

<p class='c018'>I shall never forget the impression Dobbs made on me
that night, as we two walked in from the starlight to the
glare of the gas-burners.</p>
<h3 class='c016'>A BLAZE OF HONESTY.</h3>

<p class='c024'>As I have said before, he had a tall and striking figure.
His face was ugly. He was ungraceful, ragged, and uncouth.
Yet there was a splendid glow of honesty that
shone from every feature, and challenged your admiration.
It was not that cheap honesty that suffuses the face of your
average honest man; but a vivid burst of light that, fed by
principle, sent its glow from the heart. It was not the
<span class='pageno' id='Page_221'>221</span>passive honesty that is the portion of men who have no
need to steal, but the triumphant honesty that has grappled
with poverty, with disease, with despair, and conquered
the whole devil’s brood of temptation; the honesty
that has been sorely tried, the honesty of martyrdom; the
honesty of heroism. He was the honestest man I ever
knew.</p>
<h3 class='c016'>THE PATHOS OF INCONGRUITY.</h3>

<p class='c024'>There was one feature of his dress that was pathetic in
its uniqueness. He wore a superb swallow-tail dress-coat;
a gorgeous coat, which was doubtless christened at some
happy wedding (his father’s, I suppose); had walked side
by side with dainty laces; been swept through stately quadrilles,
pressed upon velvet, and to-night came to me upon
a shirtless back, and asked “trust” for a half-dozen newspapers.</p>

<p class='c018'>It had that seedy, threadbare look which makes broadcloth,
after its first season, the most melancholy dress that
sombre ingenuity ever invented. It was scrupulously
brushed and buttoned close up to the chin, whether to hide
the lack of a shirt, I never in the course of six months’
intimate acquaintance had the audacity to inquire. In the
sleeve, on which rosy wrists had, in days gone by, laid in
loving confidence, a shriveled arm hung loosely, and from
its outlet three decrepit fingers driveled. His hat was old,
and fell around his ears.</p>

<p class='c018'>His breeches, of a whitish material, which had the peculiarity
of leaving the office perfectly dirty one evening and
coming back pure and clean the next morning. What
amount of midnight scrubbing this required from my hero
Dobbs, I will not attempt to tell. Neither will I guess how
he became possessed of that wonderful coat. Whether in
the direst days of the poverty which had caught him, his
old mother, pitying her boy’s rags, had fished it up from
the bottom of a trunk where, with mayhaps an orange-wreath
or a bit of white veil, it had lain for years, the last
token of a happy bridal night, and, baptizing it with her
<span class='pageno' id='Page_222'>222</span>tears, had thrown it around his bare shoulders, I cannot
tell. All I know is, that taken in connection with the rest
of his attire, it was startling in its contrast; and that I
honored the brave dignity with which he buttoned this
magnificent coat against his honest rags, and strode out to
meet the jeers of the world and work out a living.</p>
<h3 class='c016'>FIVE DOLLARS A WEEK.</h3>

<p class='c024'>I knew Dobbs for six months! Day after day I saw
him come at three o’clock in the morning. I saw his pale
face, and that coat so audacious in its fineness, go to the
press-room, fold his papers, and hurry out into the
weather. One night I stopped him.</p>

<p class='c018'>“Dobbs,” says I, “how much do you make a week?”</p>

<p class='c018'>“I average five dollars and twenty cents, sir. I have
twenty-seven regular customers. I get the paper at fifteen
cents a week from you, and sell it to them at twenty-five
cents. I make two dollars and seventy cents off of them,
and then I sell about twenty-five extra papers a morning.”</p>

<p class='c018'>“What do you do with your money?”</p>

<p class='c018'>“It takes nearly all of it to support me and mother.”</p>

<p class='c018'>“You don’t mean to tell me that you and your mother
live on five dollars and twenty cents a week?”</p>

<p class='c018'>“Yes, sir, we do, and pay five dollars a month rent out
of that. We live pretty well, too,” with a smile, possibly
induced by the vision of some of those luxuries which were
included under the head of “living pretty well.” I was
crushed!</p>

<p class='c018'><i>Five dollars and twenty-five cents a week!</i> The sum
which I waste per week upon cigars. The paltry amount
which I pay almost any night at the theater. The sum
that I spend any night I may chance to strike a half-dozen
boon companions. This sum, so contemptible to me—wasted
so lightly—I find to be the sum total of the income
of a whole family—the whole support of two human beings.</p>

<p class='c018'>I left Dobbs, humiliated and crushed. I pulled my hat
over my eyes, strolled down to Mercer’s, and bought a
<span class='pageno' id='Page_223'>223</span>twenty-five cent cigar and sat down to think over my duty
in the premises.</p>

<hr class='c032' />

<p class='c018'>... One morning the book-keeper of the <i>Herald</i>, to
whom my admiration for Dobbs was well known (I having
frequently delivered glowing lectures upon his character
from the mailing table to an audience of carriers, clerks,
and printers), approached me and with a devilish smack of
joy in his voice, says:</p>

<p class='c018'>“I am afraid your man Dobbs is a fraud. Some time ago
he persuaded the clerk to give him credit on papers. He
ran up a bill of about seven dollars, and then melted from
our view. We have not seen or heard of him since—expect
he’s gone to trading with the <i>Constitution</i> now, to bilk
them out of a bill.”</p>

<p class='c018'>This looked bad—but somehow or other I still had a firm
faith in my hero. God had written “honesty” too plain
in his face for my confidence in him to be shaken. I knew
that if he had sinned or deceived, that it was starvation or
despair that had driven him to it, and I forgave him even
before I knew he was guilty....</p>

<hr class='c032' />

<p class='c018'>About a week after this happened, a bombazine female—one
of those melancholy women that occasionally arise like
some Banquo’s ghost in my pathway, and always, I scarce
know why, put remorse to twitching at my heart-strings—came
into my sanctum and asked for me.</p>

<p class='c018'>“I am the mother,” says she, in a voice which sorrow (or
snuff) had filled with tears and quavers—“of Mr. Dobbs, a
young man who used to buy papers from you. He left
owing you a little, and asked me to see you about it.”</p>

<p class='c018'>“Left? Where has he gone?”</p>

<p class='c018'>“To heaven, I hope, sir! He is dead!”</p>

<p class='c018'>“Dead?”</p>
<h3 class='c016'>A CONSCIENTIOUS DEBTOR.</h3>

<p class='c024'>“Yes, sir; my poor boy went last Thursday. He were
all I had on earth, but he suffered so it seemed like a mercy
<span class='pageno' id='Page_224'>224</span>to let him go. He were worried to the last about a debt
he was owin’ of you. He said you had been clever to him,
and would think hard ef he didn’t pay you. He wanted
you to come and see him so he could explain as how he
were took down with the rheumatizum, but that were no
one to nuss him while I come for you. He had owin’ to
him when he were took, about three dollars, which he have
an account of in this little book. He told me with his last
breath to cullect this money, and not to use a cent tell I had
paid you, and if I didn’t git enough, to turn you over the
book. I hev took in one dollar and tirty cents, and”—with
the air of one who has fought the good fight—“here
it is!” So saying, she ran her hand into a gash in the
bombazine, which looked like a grievous wound, and pulled
out one of those long cloth purses that always reminded
me of the entrails of some unfortunate dead animal, and
counted out the money. This she handed me with the
book.</p>

<p class='c018'>I ran my eye over the ruggedly kept accounts and found
that each man owed from a dime up to fifty cents.</p>

<p class='c018'>“Why, madam,” says I, “these accounts are not
worth collecting.”</p>

<p class='c018'>“That’s what he was afraid of,” says she, moving toward
a bundle that lay upon the floor; “he told me if you
said so, to give you this, and ask you to sell it if you could,
and make your money. It’s all he had, sir, or me, either,
and he wouldn’t die easy ’til I told him I wud do it! God
knows”—and the tears rolled down her thin and hollow
cheeks—“God knows it were a struggle to promise to give
it up. He wore it, and his father before him. How many
times it has covered ’em both! I had hoped to carry it to
the end with me, and wrap my old body in it when I died.
But it was all we had which was fine, and he wouldn’t rest
’til I told him I wud give it to you. Then he smiled as
pert-like as a child, and kissed me, and says, ‘Now I am
ready to go!’ He were a good boy, sir, as ever lived”—and
she rocked her old body to and fro with her grief.
Need I say that she had offered me the old dress-coat?
<span class='pageno' id='Page_225'>225</span>That sacred garment, blessed with the memory of her son
and his father, and which, rather than give up, she would
willingly pluck either of the withered arms that hung at
her sides from its socket!</p>

<p class='c018'>I dropped my eyes to the account book again—for what
purpose I am not ashamed that the reader may guess.</p>

<p class='c018'>In a few moments I spoke:</p>

<p class='c018'>“Madam, I was mistaken in the value of these accounts;
most of the debtors on this book, I find upon a second look,
are capitalists. The $11 worth of accounts will sell for $12
anywhere. Your son owed me $7. Leave the book with
me; I will pay myself, and here is $5 balance which I hand
to you. Your son was a good boy, and I feel honored that
I can serve his mother.”</p>

<p class='c018'>She folded the old coat up and departed.</p>

<p class='c018'>I kept the book.</p>

<p class='c018'>It was a simple record of Dobbs’s life. Here ran his
expense list—a dreary trickle of “bacon” and “meal”
and “rent,” enlivened only once with “sugar”; a saccharine
suggestion that I am unable to account for, as it
surely did not comport with either of the staples that
formed the basis of his life. Probably, on some grand
occasion, he and his mother ate it in the lump.</p>

<p class='c018'>Here were his accounts, of say fifty cents each, on men
accounted responsible in the world’s eye—accounts for
papers furnished through snow, and sleet, and rain! Some
of them showed signs of having been called for a dozen
times, being frescoed with such notes as “Call Tuesday,”
“Call Wednesday,” “Call Thursday,” etc.</p>

<p class='c018'>On another page was a pathetic list of delusive liniments
and medicines, with which he had attacked his stubborn
disease. Such as, “King of Pane—kored a man in Maryetti
in 2 days, $1.00”; “Magic Linament—kores in 10
minnits, $2.00 a bottel”; and so on through the whole catalogue
of snares which the patent office turns out year after
year. Poor fellow! the only relief he got from his racking
pains was when God laid his healing hand on him.</p>

<p class='c018'>I shall keep the book as long as I live.</p>

<p class='c018'><span class='pageno' id='Page_226'>226</span>In its thumbed and greasy leaves is written the record
of a heroism more lofty and a martyrdom more lustrous
than ever lit the page of book before or since.</p>

<p class='c018'>I think I shall have it printed in duplicate, and
scattered as leaven throughout the lumpy Sunday-school
libraries of the land.</p>
<div class='pbb'>
 <hr class='pb c007' />
</div>
<div class='chapter'>
  <span class='pageno' id='Page_227'>227</span>
  <h2 class='c012'>A CORNER LOT.</h2>
</div>
<hr class='c013' />
<p class='drop-capa0_25_0_7 c017'>“HE has been at that for thirteen years.”</p>

<p class='c018'>And the speaker laughed as he watched an old
man gathering up a bucket of stones and broken bricks.
The old man continued his work until his bucket was filled,
and then started back toward Spring Street, stopping on
the way to resurrect a rusted old hoop that was nearly
buried in the gutter.</p>

<p class='c018'>After walking about three blocks he stopped at the corner
of Spring and James streets, and laying the rusty hoop
carefully upon a great heap of hoops of all kinds and sizes,
he carried the bucket to the back of his lot, a part of
which was considerably lower than the front, and emptied
the bucketful of bricks and stones.</p>

<p class='c018'>He was a very old man—about seventy years old, apparently—in
his shirt-sleeves, and wearing a dingy straw hat.
He was feeble, too, and his steps were slow, but he stopped
only to get a drink of water at the back door, and then
ambled off with the empty bucket.</p>

<p class='c018'>The little frame structure is half store and half residence.
Just inside the door to the store sat a portly old
lady of sixty or thereabouts. “Who is that old man yonder
with that empty bucket?”</p>

<p class='c018'>“Him! Why that’s old man Lewis Powell, and he’s
my husband. I thought everybody knowed him.”</p>

<p class='c018'>“Is that all he does?”</p>

<p class='c018'>“Fill up the lot, you mean? No, no, he puts hoops on
barrels and kegs, and raises calves and such like, but that’s
his main business. He’s been at it now for nigh on to
fourteen years.”</p>

<p class='c018'>“And how much has he filled in?”</p>

<p class='c018'>“Oh, from the sidewalk on back. The lot is fifty by
<span class='pageno' id='Page_228'>228</span>eighty, and it used to be just one big hole. Now here on
Spring Street where the front is, the bank went nearly
straight down ’cause the eye of the sewer was right there.
Then the sewer was open and run in a gully the whole
length of the lot, and just about in the middle of the lot.
Here on James Street, at the side there, it wasn’t so steep.
The front of the old house was about half-way down the
bank, and the pillars at the back was over ten feet high.
The house wasn’t more’n twelve feet that way, either, so
you can tell how steep it was. And right at the back door
the sewer passed.”</p>

<p class='c018'>“How deep was it?”</p>

<p class='c018'>“Well, right here at the front the city men measured to
the sewer once, and it was a little over twenty feet below
the sidewalk. The back of the lot was a little lower. It
was one big hole fifty by eighty, and almost in the bottom
of it was the old house.”</p>

<p class='c018'>“Fourteen years ago.”</p>

<p class='c018'>“Fourteen years ago we bought it from Jack Smith on
time. It wasn’t much, but me and Jenny and Joe and
Stella just buckled down and worked like tigers. The
neighbors made fun of us at first, and even the niggers
thought it was funny. Now, I aint telling you this because
I’m stuck up about it, but it just shows what the
Powell family has done, and it shows what any poor folks
can do if they just stick at it.”</p>

<p class='c018'>“Didn’t the old man help?”</p>

<p class='c018'>“Yes, a little. But we had to live, and then he spent
lots of his time a-fillin’ up, so the brunt of the money part
fell on me and the children. We bought the mudhole, and
he made the mudhole what it is now. Right here where
the mudhole was there is a corner lot, and them what used
to laugh at us would like mighty well to own it now.”</p>

<p class='c018'>And the old lady smiled as though the thought was a
very pleasant one.</p>

<p class='c018'>“Yes, sir,” she continued, “it’s worth a good deal now,
and the first thing you know, when the streets get paved
along here, it will be worth a lot more than it is now.”</p>

<p class='c018'><span class='pageno' id='Page_229'>229</span>“And the old man?”</p>

<p class='c018'>“The old man has worked mighty faithful. Little at
a time he has fetched dirt, and rocks, and bricks, and
trash. Then the city put a pipe there for the sewer, and
he begun at the sidewalk on Spring Street and filled back.
The bank kept getting further and further, and after, I
don’t know how long, we built this little house on the
filled-in part. The old man kept fillin’ back till we’ve got
a pretty big back yard; and there’s only a little part left
to fill back there. You see, he never tore up the old
house—the patchwork palace of ’77—just throwed in
around it and in it till he has almost buried it.”</p>

<p class='c018'>“Why?”</p>

<p class='c018'>“Oh, it’s just a notion of his. He didn’t want to see
the old house tore up, and there it is now, with just the
roof stickin’ out. In a little while it will be one level
yard, fifty by eighty, and a corner lot, too. And by the
time it all gets filled up—well, me and the old man is gettin’
feeble now, and we won’t last much longer. But, now
that we are all out of debt, and just enough left to do to
keep the old man’s hand in, it does me good to think of
that old mudhole, and how we had to save and slave and
pinch to pay for it. And I think the old man likes to
stand there at the corner and look back how level and
smooth it is, and think how it was done, a handful at a
time, through the rain and the snow and the sunshine.
Fourteen years! It was a big job, but we stuck to it, and
I’m restin’ now, for my work is done. The old man don’t
work like he used to, but he says his job aint finished yet,
and he keeps fillin’ up.”</p>

<p class='c018'>“And when his work is done—”</p>

<p class='c018'>“Then he’ll rest, too.”</p>
<div class='pbb'>
 <hr class='pb c007' />
</div>
<div class='chapter'>
  <span class='pageno' id='Page_230'>230</span>
  <h2 class='c012'>THE ATHEISTIC TIDE SWEEPING OVER THE CONTINENT.</h2>
</div>
<hr class='c013' />
<p class='drop-capa0_25_0_7 c030'><span class='sc'>THE Threatened Destruction of the Simple Faith
of the Fathers by the Vain Deceits of Modern
Philosophers.—An Attack Christians Must Meet.</span></p>
<hr class='c013' />

<div class='nf-center-c0'>
  <div class='nf-center'>
    <div><span class='c033'>[WRITTEN FOR THE CONSTITUTION, 1881.]</span></div>
  </div>
</div>

<p class='c018'><span class='sc'>New York</span>, January 26.—The dread of the times, as I
see it, is the growing skepticism in the leading circles of
thought and action throughout the country—a swelling
tide of atheism and unbelief that has already swept over
the outposts of religion.</p>

<p class='c018'>I am not alarmed by the fact that Henry Ward Beecher
shook hands with Ingersoll on a public stand, and has
since swung beyond the limit of orthodoxy, any more than
I am reassured by the fact that Stephen H. Tyng has, by
indorsing the miracles at Lourdes, swung back into the
stronghold of superstition. These are mere personal
expressions that may mean much or little. They may be
classed with the complaint of Dr. Talmage that he found
religion dead in a circuit of 3000 miles of travel last year,
which complaint is balanced by the assertion of Dr. Hall
that the growth of religious sentiment was never so
decisive as at present.</p>

<p class='c018'>I have noted, in the first place, that the latter-day
writers—novelists, scientists and essayists—are arraying
themselves in great force either openly on the side of
skepticism, or are treating religious sentiment with a
readiness of touch and lack of reverence, that is hardly
less dangerous. I need not run over the lists of scientists,
beginning with Tyndall, Huxley and Stephens, that have
raised the banner of negation—nor recount the number of
<span class='pageno' id='Page_231'>231</span>novelists who follow the lead of sweet George Eliot, this
sad and gentle woman, who allied sentiment to positivism
so subtly, and who died with the promise on her lips that
her life would “be gathered like a scroll in the tomb,
unread forever”—who said that she “wanted no future
that broke the ties of the past,” and has gone to meet the
God whose existence she denied. We all know that
within the past twenty years there has been an alarming
increase of atheism among the leading writers in all
branches. But it is the growth of skepticism among the
people that has astonished me.</p>

<p class='c018'>I am not misled by the superb eloquence of Ingersoll
nor the noisy blasphemy of his imitators. I was with five
journalists, and I found that every one of them were
skeptics, two of them in the most emphatic sense. In a
sleeping-car with eight passengers, average people I take
it, I found that three were confirmed atheists, three were
doubtful about it, and two were old-fashioned Christians.
A young friend of mine, a journalist and lecturer, asked
me a few months ago what I thought of his preparing a
lecture that would outdo Ingersoll—his excuse being that
he found Ingersoll so popular. I asked Henry Watterson
once what effect Ingersoll’s lectures had on the Louisville
public. “No more than a theatrical representation,” was
the quick reply. Watterson was wrong. I have never
seen a man who came away from an Ingersoll lecture as
stout of faith and as strong in heart as he was when he
went there.</p>

<p class='c018'>I do not know that this spirit of irreligion and unbelief
has made much inroad on the churches. It is as yet
simply eating away the material upon which the churches
must recruit and perpetuate themselves. There is a large
body of men and women, the bulk probably of our population,
that is between the church and its enemies; not
members of the church or open professors of religion, they
have yet had reverence for the religious beliefs, have
respected the rule of conscience, and believed in the existence
of one Supreme Being. These men and women have
<span class='pageno' id='Page_232'>232</span>been useful to the cause of religion, in that they held all
the outposts about the camp of the church militant, and
protected it with enwrapping conservatism and sympathy.
It is this class of people that are now yielding to the
assaults of the infidel. Having none of the inspiration of
religion, and possessing neither the enthusiasm of converts
nor the faith of veterans, they are easily bewildered and
overcome. It is a careless and unthinking multitude on
which the atheists are working, and the very inertia of a
mob will carry thousands if the drift of the mass once
floats to the ocean. And the man or woman who rides on
the ebbing tide goes never to return. Religious beliefs
once shattered are hardly mended. The church may
reclaim its sinners, but its skeptics, never.</p>

<p class='c018'>It is not surprising that this period of critical investigation
into all creeds and beliefs has come. It is a logical
epoch, come in its appointed time. It is one of the penalties
of progress. We have stripped all the earth of mystery,
and brought all its phenomena under the square and compass,
so that we might have expected science to doubt the
mystery of life itself, and to plant its theodolite for a
measurement of the Eternal, and pitched its crucible for an
analysis of the soul. It was natural that the Greek should
be led to the worship of his physical gods, for the earth
itself was a mystery that he could not divine—a vastness
and vagueness that he could not comprehend. But we have
fathomed its uttermost secret; felt its most secret pulse,
girdled it with steel, harnessed it and trapped it to our
liking. What was mystery is now demonstrated; what
was vague is now apparent. Science has dispelled illusion
after illusion, struck down error after error, made plain all
that was vague on earth, and reduced every mystery to
demonstration. It is little wonder then that, at last having
reduced all the illusions of matter to an equation, and
anchored every theory to a fixed formula, it should assail
the mystery of life itself, and warn the world that science
would yet furnish the key to the problem of the soul. The
obelisk, plucked from the heart of Egypt, rests upon a
<span class='pageno' id='Page_233'>233</span>shore that was as vaguely and infinitely beyond the knowledge
or aspiration of its builders as the shores of a star
that lights the space beyond our vision are to us to-day;
the Chinaman jostles us in the streets, and the centuries
that look through his dreamy eyes have lost all sense of
wonder; ships that were freighted from the heart of Africa
lie in our harbor, and our market-places are vocal with
more tongues than bewildered the builders at Babel; a
letter slips around the earth in ninety days, and the messages
of men flash along the bed of the ocean; we tell the
secrets of the universe as a woman tells her beads, and the
stars whirl serenely through orbits that science has defined;
we even read of the instant when the comet that plunged
in dim illimitable distance, where even the separate stars
are lost in mist and vapor, shall whirl again into the vision
of man, a wanderer that could not shake off the inexorable
supervision of science, even in the chill and measureless
depths of the universe. Fit time is this, then, for science
to make its last and supreme assault—to challenge the last
and supreme mystery—defy the last and supreme force.
And the church may gird itself for the conflict! As the
Pope has said, “It is no longer a rebel that threatens the
church. It is a belligerent!” It is no longer a shading of
creed. It is the upsettal of all creeds that is attempted.</p>

<p class='c018'>It is impossible to conceive the misery and the blindness
that will come in the wake of the spreading atheism. The
ancients witnessed the fall of a hundred creeds, but still
had a hundred left. The vast mystery of life hung above
them, but was lit with religions that were sprinkled as stars
in its depths. From a host of censers was their air made
rich with fragrance, and warmed from a field of altars. No
loss was irreparable. But with us it is different. We have
reached the end. Destroy our one belief and we are left
hopeless, helpless, blind. Our air will be odorless, chill,
colorless. Huxley, the leader of the positivists, himself
confesses—I quote from memory: “Never, in the history
of man, has a calamity so terrific befallen the race, as this
advancing deluge, black with destruction, uprooting our
<span class='pageno' id='Page_234'>234</span>most cherished hopes, engulfing our most precious creed,
and burying our highest life in mindless desolation.” And
yet Mr. Huxley urges on this deluge with furious energy.
The aggressiveness of the atheists is inexplicable to me.
Why they should insist on destroying a system that is pure
and ennobling, when they have nothing to replace it with;
why they should shatter a faith that colors life, only to
leave it colorless; why they should rob life of all that
makes life worth living; why they should take away the
consolation that lifts men and women from the despair of
bereavement and desolation, or the light that guides the
feet of struggling humanity, or the hope that robs even
the grave of its terror,—why they should do all this, and
then stand empty-handed and unresponsive before the
yearning and supplicating people they have stripped of all
that is precious, is more than I can understand. The best
atheist, to my mind, that I ever knew, was one who sent
his children to a convent for their education. “I cannot
lift the blight of unbelief from my own mind,” he said,
“but it shall never fall upon the minds of my children if I
can help it. As for me, I would give all I have on earth for
the old faith that I wore so lightly and threw off so carelessly.”</p>

<p class='c018'>The practical effects of the growth of atheism are too
terrible to contemplate. A vessel on an unknown sea that
has lost its rudder and is tossed in a storm—that’s the
picture. It will not do for Mr. Ingersoll to say that a
purely human code of right and wrong can be established
to which the passions of men can be anchored and from
which they can swing with safety. It will not do for him
to cite his own correct life or the correct lives of the skeptical
scientists, or of leading skeptics, as proof that unbelief
does not bring license. These men are held to decency by
a pride of position and by a sense of special responsibility.
It is the masses that atheism will demoralize and debauch.
It is thousands of simple men and women, who, loosed
of the one restraint that is absolute and imperious,
will drift upon the current of their passions, colliding
<span class='pageno' id='Page_235'>235</span>everywhere, and bringing confusion and ruin. The vastly
greatest influence that religion has exercised, as far as the
world goes, has been the conservative pressure that it has
put upon the bulk of the people, who are outside of the
church. With the pressure barely felt and still less
acknowledged, it has preserved the integrity of society,
kept the dangerous instincts within bounds, repressed savagery,
and held the balance. Conscience has dominated
men who never confessed even to themselves its power, and
the dim, religious memories of childhood, breathing imperceptibly
over long wastes of sin and brutality, have dissolved
clouds of passion in the souls of veterans. Atheism
will not work its full effect on this class of men. Even
after they have murdered conscience by withholding the
breath upon which it lives, its ghost will grope through
the chambers of their brain, menacing and terrible, and to
the last,—</p>

<div class='lg-container-b c031'>
  <div class='linegroup'>
    <div class='group'>
      <div class='line in19'>Creeping on a broken wing</div>
      <div class='line'>Through cells of madness, haunts of horror and fear!</div>
    </div>
  </div>
</div>

<p class='c024'>It is on the young men and women—the generation bred
in the chill atmosphere of unbelief—that atheism will do
its worst. With no traditions in which to guide their
faith, no altar before which they can do reverence, no ideal
to which their eyes can turn, no standard lofty enough to
satisfy, or steadfast enough to assure—with no uplifting
that is not limited, no aspiration that has wings, and no
enthusiasm that is not absurd—with life but a fever that
kindles in the cradle and dies in the grave,—truly atheism
meets youth with a dread prospect, sullen, storm-swept,
hopeless.</p>

<p class='c018'>In the conflict that is coming, the church is impregnable,
because the church is right; because it is founded
on a rock. The scientists boast that they have evolved
everything logically from the first particles of matter; that
from the crystal rock to sentient man is a steady way,
marked by natural gradations. They even say that, if a
new bulk were thrown off from the sun to-morrow it would
spin into the face of the earth, and the same development
<span class='pageno' id='Page_236'>236</span>that has crowned the earth with life would take place in
the new world. And yet Tyndall says: “We have exhausted
physics, and reached its very rim, and yet a mighty
mystery looms up before us.” And this mystery is the
kindling of the atoms of the brain with the vital spark.
There science is baffled, for there is the supreme force that
is veiled eternally from the vision of man.</p>

<p class='c018'>The church is not bound to the technicalities of argument
in this contest. It has the perfect right to say, and
say logically, that something must rest on faith—that there
must be something in the heart or soul before conviction
can be made perfect. Just as we cannot impress with the
ecstasies and transports of earthly love a man who has
never loved, or paint a rainbow to a man who has never
seen. And yet the time has passed when religion can dismiss
the skeptic with a shriek or a sneer. I read one little
book a year ago, gentle, firm, decisive; a book that demonstrated
the necessity and existence of the Supreme Being,
as clearly and as closely as a mathematical proposition was
worked out. But the strength of the church is, after all,
the high-minded consistency of its members; the warmth
and earnestness of its evangelism; the purity and gentleness
of its apostles. If the creeds are put at peace, and
every man who wears the Christian armor will go forth to
plead the cause of the meek and lowly Nazarene, whose
love steals into the heart of man as the balm of flowers into
the pulses of a summer evening—then we shall see the
hosts of doubt and skepticism put to rout.</p>

<p class='c018'>Of course I have no business to write all this. It is the
province of the preachers to talk of these things, and many
no doubt will resent as impertinent even the suggestion of
a worldling. And yet it seems so sure to me that in the
swift and silent marshaling of the hosts of unbelief and
irreligion there is presaged the supremest test that the
faith of Christians has ever undergone, that I felt impelled
to write. There are men, outside of the active workers of
the church, who have all reverence for its institutions and
love for its leaders; whose hearts are stirred now and then
<span class='pageno' id='Page_237'>237</span>by a faith caught at a mother’s knee, or the memory of
some rapt and happy moment; who want to live, if not in
the fold of the chosen, at least in the shadow of the
Christian sentiment, and among the people dominated by
Christian faith; and who hope to die at last, in the same
trust and peace that moved the dying Shakespeare—wisest,
sweetest mind ever clothed in mortal flesh—when he said:
“I commend my soul into the hands of God, my Creator,
hoping and assuredly believing, through the only merits of
Jesus Christ, my Saviour, to be made partaker of life everlasting.”</p>
<div class='pbb'>
 <hr class='pb c007' />
</div>
<div class='chapter'>
  <span class='pageno' id='Page_238'>238</span>
  <h2 class='c012'>ON THE OCEAN WAVE.</h2>
</div>
<hr class='c013' />

<div class='nf-center-c0'>
  <div class='nf-center'>
    <div><span class='sc'>An Amateur’s Experience on a Steamship.</span></div>
  </div>
</div>

<hr class='c028' />
<p class='c030'>A VERY TALL STORY.—THE FIRST IMPRESSIONS.—A SIDE
VIEW OF SEA-SICKNESS.—THE SIGHT OF THE OCEAN.—LAND
AT LAST AND GLAD OF IT.</p>
<hr class='c013' />

<div class='nf-center-c0'>
  <div class='nf-center'>
    <div><span class='c033'>[SPECIAL CORRESPONDENCE OF THE COURIER.]</span></div>
  </div>
</div>

<p class='c018'><span class='sc'>Philadelphia</span>, Feb. 20, 1876.—The ocean is a greatly
exaggerated affair. About four years ago, my friend
Charles I. Graves and myself were sitting on a country
fence, in Floyd County, after the manner of lizards, drinking
in the sunshine, when a wagon containing a small box
wheeled past us. It had hardly got abreast us when my
friend dropped from his comfortable perch as if he were
shot, and rushed to the wagon. Then ensued a remarkable
scene. You have all seen a well-bred country dog meet
a city dog on some green highway. You know with what
hurried circumspection he smells the stranger at all points.
So did my friend approach the little square box on the
wagon. He sniffed at it as if “he would draw his soul
through his nose.” I examined the ugly little box closely.
It was marked</p>

<p class='c034'><span class='sc'>To Mr. Berckmans</span>,</p>
<p class='c035'><span class='sc'>Mont Alto, Near Rome</span>,</p>
<p class='c036'><span class='sc'>Ga., U.S.A.</span></p>

<p class='c018'>It was Rhenish wine shipped from Paris.</p>

<p class='c018'>My friend explained to me, after his rhapsody was over,
that the box having been brought across the ocean in the
hold of a steamer, retained a subtle scent of bilge-water,
that brought the sea with all its dangerous fascination back
<span class='pageno' id='Page_239'>239</span>to him—he having served all his young life before the mast.
He was, at this writing, a plain, staid farmer, content
among his cattle and clover. And yet that sharp, briny,
saline flavor, thrown on the bosom of the still country
breeze, put a restless devil in his breast. It was as if a
born gallant, exiled for a decade to the heart of some desert,
should, near the expiration of his sentence, stumble
upon a cambric handkerchief, redolent with the perfume
of a lady’s boudoir. In less than two years after the sight
or rather the smell of that box my friend had sold his plantation,
convinced his wife, and gone to the ocean again.
Had Dr. Berckmans been content to drink native wine,
Mr. Graves would yet be alternating cotton with clover, in
the peaceful valley of the Etowah.</p>

<p class='c018'>After this strong proof of the fascination that the sea
has for its votaries, I achieved a strong desire to try it for
myself. It renewed in my mature days the wild ambition
that put turmoil into my schoolboy life, after I had read
“Lafitte, or the Pirate of the Gulf.”</p>

<p class='c018'>I have longed for many a day to run a “gore” into
each leg of my pantaloons, roll back my collar, tousle my
hair, fold my cloak about my shoulders, and stand before
the mast in a stiff breeze, and there read Byron with one
eye, and with the other watch the effect of the tableau on
the female passengers.</p>

<p class='c018'>I never had a chance to gratify the desire until lately. I
never saw the ocean until the trip that results in this letter;
I shall never forget the impression it made on me.</p>

<p class='c018'>I had imagined that it would be a moment of ecstasy.
I had believed that my soul, in the glad recognition of
something as infinite, as illimitable as itself, would laugh
with joy, and leap to my lips, and burn in my fingers, and
tingle in my veins. I wisely reserved the first sight until
we had steamed out beyond the land, and then with the
air of one who unchains himself, I raised my head and
looked out to the future. There, as far as the eye could
reach, aye, and way beyond, as if mocking the finiteness of
sight, stretched the blue waters. Ah! how my fine-spun
<span class='pageno' id='Page_240'>240</span>fancies crumbled and came tumbling back on me in dire
confusion! My soul literally shriveled! My very imagination
was cowed and driven to its corner, and I sat there
dumb and trembling!</p>

<p class='c018'>No tenant of a cradle was ever more simple or more trusting
than I became at that moment. I literally rejoiced in
the abrogation of all the pride and manliness that I had
boasted of two hours before. I flung away my self-dependence,
and my soul ran abashed into the hollow of His hand,
even as a frightened child runs to its father’s arms. As I
looked shuddering upon the vast and restless waste of
waters in front of me, I felt as if some person had taken
me to the confines of that time which human calculation
can compass, and holding me on the chill edge of that gulf
called the Eternal, had asked me to translate its meaning,
and pronounce its uttermost boundary.</p>

<p class='c018'>I suppose the truth of the matter is that I was about
scared to death; certain it is that I crouched there for
hours, trembling, and yet gazing out beyond me upon the
lapping waters, from where they parted before our ship to
where they curled up against the half-consenting sky! At
last I arose, shook myself, as if throwing off some nightmare,
and sought the crowd again.</p>

<p class='c018'>I can never forget how dissonant and inopportune the
flippant conversation of the voyagers seemed to me to be
at that time. It was as if some revelers should jest and
shout in a great church. With the awful abyss in front,
and these prattlers to the rear, one had the two extremes.
There was God in the deep and awful stillness ahead, and
the world behind in the chatter and gayety that rang out
“like a man’s cracked laughter heard way down in hell.”</p>

<p class='c018'>The first man’s voice that I heard, as I turned away from
the solemn hush of the Eternal that yawned before us, was
that of a young fellow who remarked to his chum rhapsodically
(evidently alluding to some female acquaintance),
“Why, she had a leg on her like a government mule.”
These words bit into my memory as if they were cut
there by white-hot pincers.</p>
<div>
  <span class='pageno' id='Page_241'>241</span>
  <h3 class='c016'>HOW SEA-SICKNESS WORKS.</h3>
</div>

<p class='c024'>I believe I have said somewhere in this letter that
my soul didn’t leap to my lips when I went out to meet
the ocean. I regret to say that my breakfast did. I do
not know whether any writer has addressed himself to
sea-sickness. I am certain that no writer of sacred or profane
literature can do it sufficient injustice. Walt Whitman
might do it. He’s better on the yawp than any poet
I know. Never tell me again that hell is a lake of fire and
brimstone. Eternal punishment means riding on a rough
sea, in a steamer that don’t roll well, without a copper-bottomed
stomach, and a self-acting stop-valve in the
throat. To have been jostled about in a lake of fire would
have been real cheerful business compared to the unutterable
anguish that I suffered for three days. I do believe
that if I had tied a cannon-ball to a crumb of bread and
swallowed them both, the crumb would have come prancing
to the front again, and brought the cannon-ball with it. It
at last became a sort of dismal joke to send anything down.
But this was not what made it so hard to bear. It was the
abject degradation that it brought upon me. The absolute
prostration of every mental, moral and physical activity,
of every emotion, impulse and ambition; the reduction of
a system that boasted of some nervous power and of excessive
tone, to the condition of a wet dish-clout,—these were
the things that made sea-sickness a misery beyond the
power of words. For three days I lay like an old volcano,
still, desolate and haggard; but with an exceedingly active
crater. I was brought to that condition which Chesterfield
says is the finest pitch to which a gentleman can be brought,
that sublime pitch of indifference that enables him to hear
of the loss of an estate, or a poodle dog, with the same feeling.
Nothing disturbs the man who is sea-sick. He blinks
in the face of disaster, and yawps at death itself. He actually
longs for sensation. To stick him with a pin, or drop
ice down his back, would be a mercy. He spraddles madly
over the ship, flabbing himself like a mollusk over everything
<span class='pageno' id='Page_242'>242</span>he stumbles on, and knows not night or morning.
As far as I was concerned, I was seized with a yawning
that came very near proving fatal. I was taken with a
longing to turn myself wrong-side outwards, and hang myself
on the taffrail. Several times I was on the point of
doing it; but I struggled against it and saved myself.</p>
<h3 class='c016'>THE SIGHTS OF THE SEA.</h3>

<p class='c024'>The “sights” of the sea are not what they are cracked
up to be. Some writer, Lowell, I believe, who was seduced
into going seaward, had a sovereign contempt for everything
connected with the sea. With a charming abandon,
he says, “A whale looks like a brown paper parcel—the
white stripes down his back resembling the pack-thread.”
It is not hard to bring everything down to this standard.</p>

<p class='c018'>The very motion of the waves, the cause of rhymes
unnumbered, becomes terribly monotonous after the first
day or two. The rise and relapse of the tinted water
glistening in the sun, and blooming lilies on the wave-crest,
is a pretty enough sight at first; but before long one longs
to shiver the surface of the deep, and calm its eternal restlessness.
The waves, wriggling up like a woman’s regrets
from nowhere, come dragging themselves over the weary
waste, and, plashing back upon each other, spring off on
another uneasy remonstrance, until the brain of the looker-on
is actually addled. I would have given a great deal to
have had the power to have settled the upheaving waters
for one hour, just as a schoolboy has the power, and the
inclination, too, to break the inexorable calm of a mill-pond
by splashing it with rocks. Nothing tires us like sameness;
sameness, inactivity, is intolerable.</p>

<p class='c018'>We saw some flying-fish. And we saw, what I valued
much more, on board with us a man who knew a man whose
cousin had seen the great sea-serpent. I have a great
respect for a man who knows somebody that has seen the
sea-serpent. He is a link between us and the supernatural
in the ocean. He is a relic, stranded by the shore of science,
of that world of wonders that began with the syrens, was
<span class='pageno' id='Page_243'>243</span>modernized with the mermaids, and that ends in the devil-fish
and sea-serpent. While he lives I want to be near him.
When he dies I want his tooth set on my mantel-piece; it
will be a sort of guarantee, under which I can read the
weird stories of the old, unexplored ocean, that made boyhood
joyous. Give me the sea-serpent as a fact, and I will
swear to the mermaids, bet on the phantom ship, and pin
my faith to the syrens.</p>
<h3 class='c016'>THE LOVERS AND THE PILOT.</h3>

<p class='c024'>The intercourse between the passengers was not pleasant.
We got tired of each other. The fact that none of us could
get on or off, gave us a sort of feeling that we were prisoners;
or, when locked up at night in our berths, that we
were animals traveling in the same menagerie; brought
together by chance, and held together through necessity.</p>

<p class='c018'>There was one couple on board that won my attention.
It was a man, full-grown, handsome and accomplished, but
with the deep furrows in his brow that always come after
a man has wrestled with the world; and the girl not more
than fifteen years of age. The girl had not worn off the
subtle bloom of childhood that gave her grace and glow, as
the dew-chrism of early dawn graces the lily. She was not
beautiful, after the approved models, but there was an
elastic freshness, a bright charm that would have put
beauty to the blush. She was brimming with the splendid
and tender divinity that fills the odorous buds just before
they burst into life’s beauty. She was full of spring. She
carried its balms about with her, its aroma hung about her
skirts, and its auroral light illuminated her very being.
She was April, with all its joys and all its happy tears—its
dear restlessness, and its thrills. I marveled to see how
the man of affairs loved her. It annoyed me to see how
this man, with all his vast concerns, his rugged schemes, his
vaulting ambition, bowed down at the feet of a child. It
was a very miracle of love that centered all the impulses,
aspirations, hopes, and endeavors of this man of the world
in a bright slip of a girl. She understood her power, too;
<span class='pageno' id='Page_244'>244</span>and taking the reins of affairs in her little fingers, carried
herself with a pretty imperiousness. Not always was she
mistress, though. Once in awhile I noticed, when he held
her beneath his words, her eyes softened and fell, and she
sat half absorbed and trembling, thrilling under an ecstasy
that stirred her soul to its very depths, and yet left her
unconscious of what it meant or from what it came. I
watched this couple with a strange interest, and my heart
went out to the child. But beyond this there was nothing
interesting on shipboard. The people were all tame. They
seemed to have been planted on the ship, and grown there.
They were all indigenous; and hence, when the pilot—a
breezy fellow, by the way—jumped on board just outside of
New York, he brought with him the charm of a rare exotic,
and actually acquired a sort of game flavor, by being a
stranger.</p>
<h3 class='c016'>SOME CONCLUSIONS NOT JUMPED AT.</h3>

<p class='c024'>Altogether, a trip on the ocean is a very great bore. It
does not compare to the cozy and bustling comforts of an
inland trip, especially if one have the benefits of a Pullman.</p>

<p class='c018'>The ocean is meant to be looked at and enjoyed—from
the shore, or through books. You may see more of it by
going on board a ship. It is pretty apt to see more of you,
though, than you do of it. There are many moments during
the first day or two, when, leaning over the taffrail,
you yawp into its face, that it can see clear through to your
boots. That’s the way it was with</p>
<div class='c011'><span class='sc'>John, Jr.</span></div>
<div class='pbb'>
 <hr class='pb c007' />
</div>
<div class='chapter'>
  <span class='pageno' id='Page_245'>245</span>
  <h2 class='c012'>TWO MEN WHO HAVE THRILLED THE STATE.</h2>
</div>

<p class='c037'>AN ACCIDENTAL MEETING ON THE STREET, IN WHICH TWO
GREAT MEN ARE RECOGNIZED AS THE TYPES OF TWO
CLASHING THEORIES—TOOMBS’S SUCCESSES—BROWN’S
JUDGMENT.</p>
<p class='drop-capa0_25_0_7 c020'>THE other day I saw two men meet on the street, bow
cordially, and pass. I was struck by the contrast
between them—by the difference in their walk, appearance
and manner. This suggested that the contrast in their lives,
in their lineage and their methods, was even greater than
their physical make-up. And then, forgetting for the moment
that a gubernatorial campaign of great fierceness was
raging, I fell to wondering if there had ever been two masterful
men whose paths lay near each other, and whose performance
was so nearly equal, who had been born in such dissimilar
conditions, and moved by such dissimilar motives.
Joe Brown and Bob Toombs! Both illustrious and great—both
powerful and strong—and yet at every point, and
from every view, the perfect opposites of each other.</p>

<p class='c018'>Through two centuries have two strains of blood, two
conflicting lines of thought, two separate theories of social,
religious and political life, been working out the two types
of men, which have in our day flowered into the perfection
of contrast—vivid, thorough pervasive. For seven generations
the ancestors of Joe Brown have been aggressive
rebels; for a longer time the Toombs have been dauntless
and intolerant followers of the king and kingliness. At
the siege of Londonderry—the most remarkable fasting
match beyond Tanner—Margaret and James Brown, grandparents
of the James Brown who came to America and was
grandparent of Joe Brown, were within the walls starving
<span class='pageno' id='Page_246'>246</span>and fighting for William and Mary; and I have no doubt
there were hard-riding Toombs outside the walls charging
in the name of the peevish and unhappy James. Certain it
is that forty years before, the direct ancestors of General
Toombs on the Toombs estate were hiding good King
Charles in the oak at Boscabel, where, I have no doubt, the
father and uncles of the Londonderry Brown, with cropped
hair and severe mien, were proguing about the place with
their pikes, searching every bush, in the name of Cromwell
and the psalm-singers. From these initial points sprang
the two strains of blood—the one affluent, impetuous, prodigal,
the other slow, resolute, forceful. From these ancestors
came the two men—the one superb, ruddy, fashioned
with incomparable grace and fulness; the other pale,
thoughtful, angular, stripped down to bone and sinew.
From these opposing theories came the two types—the one
patrician, imperious, swift in action and brooking no stay;
the other democratic, sagacious, jealous of rights and submitting
to no imposition. The one for the king; the other
for the people. It does not matter that the elder Toombs
was a rebel in Virginia against the fat George, for that
revolt was kingly of itself, and the Virginian cavaliers went
into it with love-locks flying and care cast to the winds,
feeling little of the patient spirit of James Brown, who, by
his Carolina fireside, fashioned his remonstrance slowly,
and at last put his life upon the issue.</p>

<p class='c018'>Governor Brown and General Toombs started under circumstances
in accordance with the suggestions of the foregoing.
General Toombs’s father had a fine estate, given
him by the State of Georgia, and his son had a fine education
and started in life in liberal trim. Governor Brown
had nothing, and for years hauled wood to Dahlonega;
and sold vegetables from a basket to the hotel and what
others would buy. Young Toombs made money rapidly,
his practice for the first five years amounting to much over
$50,000. He conquered by the grace of his genius, and
went easily from triumph to triumph. Young Brown
moved ahead laboriously but steadily. He made only
<span class='pageno' id='Page_247'>247</span>about $1200 his first year, and then pushed his practice to
$2000 or $3000. He made no brilliant reputation, but never
lost a client, and added to his income and practice. His
progress was the result of hard labor and continuous work.
He lived moderately and his habits were simple. General
Toombs has lived in princely style all his life, and has
always been fond of wine and cards. Both men are rich,
and both are well preserved for their time of life. General
Toombs is seventy-one and Governor Brown fifty-nine.
Each had a lucky stroke early in life, and in both cases
it was in a land investment. General Toombs bought
immense tracts of Texas land, of which he has sold perhaps
$100,000 profit and still holds enough to yield double
or treble that much more. Governor Brown, when very
young, paid $450 for a piece of land, and afterward sold
a half interest in a copper mine thereon for $25,000.
This he invested in farms, and thus laid the basis of his
fortune.</p>

<p class='c018'>The first time these men met was in Milledgeville, in
1851 or ’52, when Governor Brown was a young Democratic
State Senator and General Toombs was a Whig Congressman—then
the idol of his party and the most eloquent man
in Georgia. They were then just such men physically as
one who had never seen them would imagine from reading
their lives. General Toombs was, as Governor Brown
has told me, “the handsomest man he ever saw.” His
physique was superb, his grand head fit for a crown, his
presence that of a king, overflowing with vitality, his
majestic face illumined with his divine genius. Governor
Brown was then pallid, uncomely—his awkward frame
packed closely with nerve and sinew, and fed with a
temperate flow of blood. They met next at Marietta, where
Toombs had a fiery debate with that rare master of discussion,
the late Robert Cowart. Governor Brown was
deeply impressed with the power and genius of that wonderful
man, but General Toombs thought but little of the
awkward young mountaineer. For later, when in Texas,
hearing that Joe Brown was nominated for Governor, he
<span class='pageno' id='Page_248'>248</span>did not even remember his name, and had to ask a Georgia-Texan
“who the devil it was.”</p>

<p class='c018'>But the next time he met him he remembered it. Of
course we all remember when the “Know-Nothings” took
possession of the Whig party, and Toombs and Stephens
seceded. Stephens having a campaign right on him, and
being pressed to locate himself, said he was neither Whig
nor Democrat, but “was toting his own skillet,” thus
introducing that homely but expressive phrase into our
political history. Toombs was in the Senate and had time
for reflection. It ended by his marching into the Democratic
camp. Shortly afterward he was astounded at seeing
the standard of his party, upon the success of which his
seat in the Senate depended, put in the hands of Joe Brown,
a new campaigner, while the opposition was led by Ben
Hill, then as now an audacious and eloquent speaker, incomparable
on the stump. Hill and Brown had had a meeting
at Athens, I believe, and it was reported that Brown
had been worsted. Howell Cobb wrote Toombs that he
must take the canvass in hand at once, at least until Brown
could learn how to manage himself. Toombs wrote to
Brown to come to his home at Washington, which he did.
General Toombs told me that he was not hopeful when he
met the new candidate, but after talking to him awhile,
found that he had wonderful judgment and sagacity.
After coquetting with Mr. Hill a while, they started on a
tour together, going to south Georgia. General Toombs
has talked to me often about this experience. He says that
after two or three speeches Governor Brown was as fully
equipped as if he had been in public for forty years, and he
was amazed at the directness with which he would get to
the hearts of the masses. He talked in simple style, using
the homeliest phrases, but his words went home every
time. There was a sympathy between the speaker and the
people that not even the eloquence of Toombs could emphasize,
or the matchless skill of Mr. Hill disturb. In Brown
the people saw one of themselves, lifted above them by his
superior ability, and his unerring sagacity, but talking to
<span class='pageno' id='Page_249'>249</span>them common sense in a sensible way. General Toombs
soon saw that the new candidate was more than able to
take care of himself, and left him to make his tour alone—impressed
with the fact that a new element had been introduced
into our politics and that a new leader had arisen.</p>

<p class='c018'>It is hard to say which has been the more successful of
the two men. Neither has ever been beaten before the
people. General Toombs has won his victories with the
more ease. He has gone to power as a king goes to his
throne, and no one has gainsaid him. Governor Brown
has had to fight his way through. It has been a struggle
all the time, and he has had to summon every resource to
carry his point. Each has made unsurpassed records in
his departments. As Senator, General Toombs was not
only invincible, he was glorious. As Governor, was not
only invincible, he was wise. General Toombs’s campaigns
have been unstudied and careless, and were won by his
presence, his eloquence, his greatness. His canvass was
always an ovation, his only caucusing was done on the hustings.
With Governor Brown it was different. He planned
his campaigns and then went faithfully through them.
His victories were none the less sure, because his canvass
was more laborious. His nomination as Governor, while
unexpected, was not accidental. It was the inevitable outcome
of his young life, disciplined so marvelously, so full
of thought, sagacity and judgment. If he had not been
nominated Governor then, his time would have come at last,
just as sure as cause produces result. His record as Governor
proves that he was prepared for the test—just as his
brilliant record in the Senate proves that he is fitted for
any sphere to which he might be called.</p>

<p class='c018'>To sum it up: Toombs is the embodiment of genius, and
Brown is the embodiment of common sense. One is brilliant,
the other unerring; one is eloquent, the other sagacious.
Toombs moves by inspiration; Brown is governed by
judgment. The first is superb; the latter is sage. Despite
the fact that Governor Brown is by instinct and by
inheritance a rebel, he is prudent, conservative, and has a
<span class='pageno' id='Page_250'>250</span>turn for building things up. General Toombs, despite
his love for kingliness and all that implies, has an almost
savage instinct for overturning systems and tearing things
down. It must not be understood that I depreciate General
Toombs’s wisdom. Genius often flies as true to its mark
as judgment can go. The wisest speech, and the ablest ever
made by an American, in my opinion, is Mr. Toombs’s
speech on slavery, delivered in Boston about ten years
before the war. In that speech he showed a prescience
almost divine, and clad in the light of thirty years of confirmation,
it is simply marvelous. His leadership of the
southern Whigs in the House during the contest of 1850 was
a masterpiece of brilliancy, and even his Hamilcar speech,
delivered after the most exasperating insults, was sublime
in its lofty eloquence and courage. Safer as a leader,
Governor Brown is more sagacious on material points—truer
to the practical purposes of government: but no man
but Toombs could have represented Georgia as he did for
the decade preceding 1860.</p>

<p class='c018'>Messrs. Brown and Toombs have disagreed since the war.
That Governor Brown may have been wiser in “reconstruction”
than Mr. Toombs, many wise men believe, and
events may have proved. In that matter my heart was
with Mr. Toombs, and I have never seen reason to recall it.
That Governor Brown was honest and patriotic in his
advice, my knowledge of the man would not permit me to
doubt. The trouble between these gentlemen came very
near resulting in a duel. While I join with all good men
that this duel was arrested, I confess that I have been wicked
enough to speculate on its probable result—had it occurred.
In the first place, General Toombs made no preparation for
the duel. He went along in his careless and kingly way,
trusting, presumably, to luck and quick shot. Governor
Brown, on the contrary, made the most careful and deliberate
preparation. He made his will, put his estate in
order, withdrew from the church, and then clipped all the
trees in his orchard practicing with the pistol. Had the
duel come off—which fortunately it did not—General
<span class='pageno' id='Page_251'>251</span>Toombs would have fired with his usual magnificence and
his usual disregard of rule. I do not mean to imply that
he would not have hit Governor Brown; on the contrary,
he might have perforated him in a dozen places at once.
But one thing is sure—Governor Brown would have clasped
his long white fingers around the pistol butt, adjusted it to
his gray eye, and sent his bullet within the eighth of an
inch of the place he had selected. I should not be surprised
if he drew a diagram of General Toombs, and marked off
with square and compass the exact spot he wanted to hit.</p>

<p class='c018'>General Toombs has always been loose and prodigal in
his money matters. Governor Brown has been precise and
economical all his life, and gives $50,000 to a Baptist
college—not a larger amount probably than General Toombs
has dispensed casually, but how much more compact and
useful! This may be a good fact to stop on, as it furnishes
a point of view from which the two lives may be logically
surveyed. Two great lives they are, illustrious and distinguished—utterly
dissimilar. Georgia could have spared
neither and is jealous of both. I could write of them
for hours, but the people are up and the flags are flying,
and the journalist has no time for moralizing or leisurely
speculation.</p>
<div class='pbb'>
 <hr class='pb c007' />
</div>
<div class='chapter'>
  <span class='pageno' id='Page_252'>252</span>
  <h2 class='c012'>“<em class='gesperrt'>BOB</em>.”</h2>
</div>

<div class='nf-center-c0'>
<div class='nf-center c007'>
    <div><span class='sc'>How an Old Man “Come Home.”</span></div>
  </div>
</div>

<hr class='c028' />

<div class='nf-center-c0'>
  <div class='nf-center'>
    <div><span class='sc'>A Story Without a Moral, Picked Out of a Busy Life.</span></div>
  </div>
</div>

<hr class='c028' />

<div class='nf-center-c0'>
  <div class='nf-center'>
    <div><span class='c033'>[WRITTEN FOR THE SUNDAY GAZETTE.]</span></div>
  </div>
</div>

<p class='drop-capa0_25_0_7 c017'>“YOU are the no-countest, laziest, meanest dog that
ever wore breeches! Never let me see you again!”</p>

<p class='c018'>Thus Mrs. Tag to Mr. Tag, her husband; she standing
in the door, her arms akimbo, and, cat-like, spitting the
words at him.</p>

<p class='c018'>Mr. Tag made no reply. He did not even put up his
hands in evasion. He stood dazed and bewildered, as one
who hesitates in a sudden shower, and then turning, pulled
his old hat down over his shoulders, as if she was throwing
rocks at him instead of words, and shambled off in silence,
quickening his retreat by a pitiful little jerk, every time
she launched a new volley at him.</p>

<p class='c018'>This she did as often as her brains could forge them and
her tongue send them. She stood there, the very picture
of fury. And at length, with disgust on every feature, she
turned, sprawled a weevilly little child that was clinging
to her skirts, and went into the house.</p>

<p class='c018'>As for Mr. Tag, he hurried on, never once looking back
until he had reached a hill, against which the sun was setting.
He then slowed up a little, lifted the flap of his hat
cautiously, as if to be sure he was out of ear-shot—then
stopped. He pulled off his hat, shook it to and fro—unconsciously,
I think—in his hand as one who comes out of the
storm. He looked about him a while, as if undetermined,
and then browsed about vaguely in the sunset, until his
bent, shambling figure seemed melting into the golden glory
that enveloped it; and his round, chubby head was tipped
with light.</p>

<p class='c018'><span class='pageno' id='Page_253'>253</span>I thought probably he wanted to see me, so I climbed
up the hill. He seemed to approve of my coming, and
walked down in the shade to meet me.</p>

<p class='c018'>“Ann was sorter rough to me, wan’t she?” he said,
with a chuckle of deprecation.</p>

<p class='c018'>I assented quietly to the lack of smoothness in Ann’s
remarks.</p>

<p class='c018'>“You aint know’d me long,” he said, with a sudden
flicker of earnestness; “and you’ve knowed the worst part
of me. You’ve knowed the trouble and the fag-end. You
warn’t in at the good part of my life!”</p>

<p class='c018'>I should think not, poor fellow. Ever since I had
known him he had been the same shabby, good-for-nothing
that he is now. He had grown a bit more serious of late,
and his long face—it was abnormally long between the eyes
and the chin—had whitened somewhat, but otherwise he
was about the same shabby, ragged, half-starved old fellow
I had known for a year or so. Yes, Bob, I had clearly
known the worst of you!</p>

<p class='c018'>“I was a better man once; not a better man, either, as
I know of, but I had luck. When me and Ann married,
there warn’t a happier couple nowhere. I remember just
as well when I courted her. She didn’t think about me
then as she does now. We had a buggy to ourselves, and
we turned down a shady road. I fetched it on soon after
we left the crowd, and she was about as well pleased as
me. It seemed like that road was the road to heaven, and
we was so happy that we wasn’t in no hurry to get to the
end of it. Ann was handsome then. Oh yes, she was!”—as
I winced at this,—“and at first as good a wife to me as
ever a man had.</p>

<p class='c018'>“It may a-been me that started the trouble. I was
unfortnit in everything I touched. My fingers slipped off
o’ everything and everything slipped off o’ them. I could
get no grip on nothin’. I worked hard, but something
harder agin me. Ann was ambitious and uppish, and I
used to think when I come home at night, most tired to
death, she was gettin’ to despise me. She’d snap me up
<span class='pageno' id='Page_254'>254</span>and abuse me till actually I was afraid to come home. I
never misused her or give her a back word. I thought
maybe she wasn’t to blame, and that what she said about
me was true. Things kept a-gitten worse, and we sold off
pretty much what we had. Five years ago a big surprise
came to us. It was a baby—a boy—him!” nodding toward
the hut. “It was a surprise to both of us. We’d been
married fourteen years. It made Ann harder on me than
ever. She never let me rest; it was all the time hard words
and hard looks. I never raised even a look against her, o’
course. I thought she was right about me. He never had
a cross word with me. Him and me knowed each other from
the start. We had a langwidge of our own. Ther wasn’t no
words in it—just looks and grunts. I never could git
‘nough, nuther could he. He know’d more an’ me. Ther
was a kinder way-off look in his eyes that was solemn and
deep, I tell you. At last Ann got to breaking me up.
Whenever she catch me with him she’d drive me off. I’d
always hurry off, ’cause I never wanted him to hear her
’spressin herself ’bout me. ’Peared like he understood
every word of it. Mos’t two years ago, and I ain’t had one
since. I couldn’t git one. Ann commenced takin’ in washing,
and one day she said I shouldn’t hang around no more
a-eatin’ him and her out of house and home. That was
more’n a year ago, and I seen him since to talk to him.
Every time I go about she hustles me about like she did to-day.
I never make no fuss. She’s right about me, I
reckon. I am powerful no ’count. But he has stirred
things in me I ain’t felt movin’ for many a year!”</p>

<p class='c018'>“What’s his name, Bob?”</p>

<p class='c018'>“Got none. She never would let me talk to her ’bout
it, and I ain’t got no right to name him. I ast her once
how it would do to call him little Bob, and she said I better
git him sumpin’ to eat; he couldn’t eat a name, nor
dress in it neither; which was true. But he’s got my old
face on him, and my look. I know that, and he knows it
too.”</p>

<p class='c018'>“Did you ever drink, Bob?”</p>

<p class='c018'><span class='pageno' id='Page_255'>255</span>“Me? You know I didn’t. I did get drunk once. The
boys give me the wine. They say liquor makes a man savage,
and makes him beat his wife. It didn’t take me that
way. I was the happiest fellow you ever see. I felt light
and free. My blood was warm, and just jumped along—and
beat Ann? why, all the old love come back to me, as I
went to’ards home, feelin’ big as a king. I made as how
I’d go up to Ann and put arm aroun’ her neck in the old
way, and tell her if she’d only encourage me a little, I’d
get about for her and him and make ’em both rich. I
couldn’t hardly wait to get home, I was so full of it. She
was just settin’ down a pail of water when I come in. I
made for her, gentle like, and had just got my arms to her
neck, when she drawed back, with a few words like them
this evening, and dosed the pail of water full in my face.
As I scrambled out o’ the door, sorter blind like, I struck
the edge o’ the gulley there, rolled down head over heels,
and fotch up squar’ at the bottom, as sober a man as ever
you see!”</p>

<hr class='c032' />

<p class='c018'>I met Bob a few days after that in a state of effusive
delight. He would not disclose himself at first. He followed
me through several blocks, and at length, diving
into an alley, beckoned me cautiously to him. He took
off his old hat, always with him a preliminary to conversation,
and glancing cautiously around, said in a hoarse
whisper:</p>

<p class='c018'>“Had a pic-nic to-day.”</p>

<p class='c018'>“A pic-nic! Who?”</p>

<p class='c018'>“Me and him!”</p>

<p class='c018'>And his wrinkled, weather-beaten old face was broken
by smiles and chuckles, that struggled to the surface, as
porpoises do, and then shrunk back into the depths from
whence they came.</p>

<p class='c018'>“You don’t know Phenice—the neighbor’s gal as
nusses him sometimes? Well, I seed her out with him,
to-day, and I tolled her off kinder, till she got beyant the
hill, and then I give her a quarter I had got, and purposed
<span class='pageno' id='Page_256'>256</span>as how she should gi’ me a little time with him. She
sciddled off to town to git her quarter spent, and I took
him and made for the woods, to meet her thar agin,
by sun!”</p>

<p class='c018'>“He’s a deep one, I tell you!” he said, drawing a
breath of admiration; “as deep a one as I ever see. He’d
never been in the woods before, but he jest knowed it all!
You orter seed him when a jay-bird come and sot on a
high limb, and flung him some sass, and tried to sorter to
make free with him. The look that boy give him couldn’t
a’ been beat by nobody. The jay tried to hold up to it
and chaffered a little, but he finally had to skip, the wust
beat bird you ever saw!”</p>

<p class='c018'>And so the old fellow went on, telling me about that
wonderful pic-nic; how he had gathered flowers for the
baby, and made little bouquets, which the baby received
with a critical air, as if he had spent his life in a florist’s
shop, and being a connoisseur in flowers, couldn’t afford
to become enthusiastic over pied daisies; how a gray
squirrel scampering down a near tree had startled him out
of his wits, while the baby, seated still nearer the disturbance
than he, remained a marvel of stolidity and presence
of mind; how the baby was finally coaxed out of his wise
reserve by a group of yellow butterflies pulsating in the
golden sunshine, and by the flashing of the silvery brook
that ran beneath them; how all the birds in the county
seemed to have entered into a conspiracy to upset that
baby’s dignity; and how they would assail him with
pert bursts of song and rapid curvetings about his head,
while Bob sat off at a distance, “and let ’em fight it out,
not helping one side or t’other,” always to see the chatterers
retire in good-humored defeat before the serene
impassibility of the youngster; how the only drawback to
the pic-nic was that there was not a thing to eat, and
besides its being in violation of all pic-nic precedent, there
was danger of the little one getting very hungry; and
how, in the evening—what would have been after dinner if
they’d had any dinner—the baby, who was sitting opposite
<span class='pageno' id='Page_257'>257</span>Bob on the grass, suddenly assumed an air of deeper
solemnity, even than he had worn before, and gazed at
Bob with a dense and inscrutable gaze, until he was
actually embarrassed by the searching and fixed character
of this look; and how the round, grave head suddenly
keeled to one side as if it were so heavy with ideas that it
could not be held upright any longer; and how then, suddenly,
and without a sign or hint of warning, this self-possessed
baby tumbled over in the grass, shot his little
toes upward, and, before Bob could reach him, was dead
asleep! And Bob told me then, with the glittering tears
gathering in his eyes and rolling down his old cheeks, how
he had picked the baby up and cuddled him close to his
old bosom, and listened to his soft breathing, and stroked
his chubby face, and almost guessed the wise dreams that
were flitting through his round fuzzy head,—hugged him
so close, and pressed him to his bosom with such hungry,
tender love, that he felt as if he had him “layin’ agin’ my
naked heart, and warmin’ it up, and stirrin’ all its strings
with his little fingers!”</p>

<p class='c018'>It was late that night when I went home—after one
o’clock; a fearful night, too. The rain was pouring in torrents
and the wind howled like mad. Taking a near
cut home, I passed by the hut where Bob’s wife lived.
Through the drifting rain, I saw a dark figure against the
side of the house. Stepping closer, I saw that it was Bob,
mounted on a barrel, flattened out against the planks, his
old felt hat down about his ears, and the rain pouring from
it in streams—his face glued to the window.</p>

<p class='c018'>Poor old follow! there he was! oblivious to the storm,
to hunger and everything else—clinging like some homeless
night-bird, drifting and helpless, to the outside of his
own home; gazing in stealthily at the bed where the little
one slept, and warming his old heart up with the memory of
that wondrous pic-nic—of the solemn contest with the impertinent
jay-bird, and the grave rapture over the butterflies
that swung lazily about in their rift of sunshine.</p>

<p class='c018'><span class='pageno' id='Page_258'>258</span>One morning, many months after the pic-nic, Bob came
to me sideways. His right arm hung limp and inert by his
side, and his right leg dragged helplessly after the left.
The yielding muscles of the neck had stiffened and drawn
his head awry. He stumbled clumsily to where I was
standing, and received my look of surprise shamefacedly.</p>

<p class='c018'>“I’ve had a stroke,” he said. “Paralysis? It’s most
used me up. I reckon I’ll never be able to do anything for
him! It came on me sudden,” he said, as if to say that if
it had given him any sort of notice, he could have dodged it.</p>

<p class='c018'>After that Bob went on from worse to worse. His face,
all save that fixed in the rigid grasp of the paralysis,
became tremulous, pitiful and uncertain. He had lost all
the chirrupy good-humor of the other days, and became
shy and silent. There was a wistfulness and yearning in
his face that would have made your heart ache; a hungry
passion had struggled from the depth of his soul, and
peered out of his blue eyes, and tugged at the corners of
his mouth. There was, too, a pitiful, scary look about him.
He had the air of one who is pursued. At the slightest
sigh he would pluck at his lame leg sharply, and shamble
off, turning full around at intervals to see if he was followed.
I learned that his wife had become even harder on
him since his trouble, and that he was even more than ever
afraid of her.</p>

<p class='c018'>He had never had another “pic-nic.” He had snatched
a furtive interview with the baby, under protection of the
occasional nurse, from each of which he came to me with a
new idea of the “deepness” of that infant. “He’s too
much for me, that baby is!” he would say. “If I just
had his sense!” He was rapidly getting shabbier, and
thinner and more woe-begone. He became a slink. He
hid about in the day-time, avoiding everybody, and seeming
to carry off his love and his passion, as a dog with a
bone, seeking an alley. At night he would be seen hanging
like a guilty thief about the hut in which his treasure
was hid.</p>

<p class='c018'>“I’ve a mind,” he said one morning, “to go home. I
<span class='pageno' id='Page_259'>259</span>don’t think she” (he had quit calling her “Ann” now)
“could drive me out now. All I’d want would be to just
sit in a corner o’ the house and be with him. That’s all.”</p>

<p class='c018'>“Bob,” I said to him one morning, “you rascal, you
are starving!”</p>

<p class='c018'>He couldn’t deny it. He tried to put it off, but he
couldn’t. His face told on him.</p>

<p class='c018'>“Have you had anything to eat to-day?”</p>

<p class='c018'>“No, sir.”</p>

<p class='c018'>“Nor yesterday?”</p>

<p class='c018'>“No, sir.”</p>

<p class='c018'>I gave him a half-dollar. A wolfish glare of hunger
shot into his eyes as he saw the money. He clutched it
with a spasm of haste and started off. I watched his side-long
walk down the street, and then went to work, satisfied
that he would go off and pack himself full.</p>

<p class='c018'>It was hardly an hour before he came back, his face
brighter than I had seen it in months. He carried a bundle
in his live hand. He laid it on my desk, and then fell
back on his dead leg while I opened it. I found in the
bundle a red tin horse, attached to a blue tin wagon, on
which was seated a green tin driver. I looked up in blank
astonishment.</p>

<p class='c018'>“For him!” he said simply. And then he broke down.
He turned slowly on his live leg as an axis and leaned
against the wall.</p>

<p class='c018'>“Could you send it to him?” he said at last. “If she
knew I sent it, she mightn’t let him have it. He’s never
had nothin’ o’ this kind, and I thought it might pearten
him up.”</p>

<p class='c018'>“Bob, is this the money I gave you?”</p>

<p class='c018'>“Yes, sir.”</p>

<p class='c018'>“And you were starving when you left here?”</p>

<p class='c018'>“Oh, I got some bread!”</p>

<hr class='c032' />

<p class='c018'>I suppose every man, woman and child remembers that
terrible night three years ago when we had lightning while
the snow was on the ground. The flashes plowed great
<span class='pageno' id='Page_260'>260</span>yellow seams through the gray of the day, and at night a
freezing storm of sleet and rain came.</p>

<p class='c018'>It was a terrible night. I staggered home through it to
where a big fire, and blue eyes and black, and slippers, and
roasting apples were awaiting me. I thought of Bob—my
old night-owl, with a heart in him, and wondered whether
he was keeping his silent, but uncomplaining vigil about
the little hut on the hillside. I even went so far as to
speculate on this point with a certain blue-eyed youngster
on my knee, to whom Bob’s life was a romance and a
wonder.</p>

<p class='c018'>Bless me! and all the time I was pitying him, I didn’t
know that he had “gone home” and was all right.</p>

<p class='c018'>His wife slept uneasily that night, as she has since said.
She rolled in her sleep a long time, and at last got up and
went to the window and looked out. She shuddered at the
sound of the whizzing sleet and pitiless hum of the rain on
the roof. Then she stumbled sleepily back to her couch,
and dreamed of a long shady lane, and a golden-green
afternoon in May, and a bright-faced young fellow that
looked into her heart, and held her face in his soft fingers.
How this dream became tangled in her thoughts that night
of all nights, she never could tell. But there it was gleaming
like a thread of gold through the dismal warp and woof
of her life.</p>

<p class='c018'>It was full day when she awoke. As she turned lazily
upon her side she started up in affright. There was a man,
dripping wet, silent, kneeling by her bedside. An old felt
hat lay upon the floor. The man’s head was bowed deep
down over the bed and his hands were bundled tenderly
about one of the baby’s fists that had been thrown above
its head.</p>

<p class='c018'>The worn, weatherbeaten figure was familiar to her.
But there was something that stopped her, as she started
forward angrily. She stood posed like a statue for a
moment, then bent down, curiously and tenderly, and with
trembling fingers pulled the cover back from the bed, and
looked up into the man’s face steadily. Then she put her
<span class='pageno' id='Page_261'>261</span>fingers on his hand furtively and shrinkingly. And then
a strange look crept into her face—the dream of the night
came to her like a flash—and she sank back upon the floor,
and dropped her head between her knees.</p>

<p class='c018'>Ah, yes, Bob had “come home.”</p>

<p class='c018'>And the poor fellow had come to stay. Not even his
place in the corner would he want now! No place about
the scanty board! Just to stay—that was all; not to offend
by his laziness, or to annoy with his ugly, shambling figure,
and his no-count ways. Just “come home to stay!”</p>

<p class='c018'>And there the baby slept quietly, all unconscious of the
shadow and the mystery that hung above his wise little
head—unconscious of the shabby old watcher, and the
woman on the floor, dreaming, perhaps, of the swinging
butterflies and the chaffing birds and the brook flashing in
the sunshine. And there was old Bob—brave, at last,
through love—“come home.”</p>

<p class='c018'>Out of the storm like a night-bird! In the door
stealthily like a thief! Groping his way to the bedside
through the dark like a murderer! But there was no
danger in him—no ill-omen about him. It was only old
Bob, come home, “come home to stay!”</p>

<p class='c018'>He had clasped the little hand he loved so well in his
rough palm and cuddled it close, as if he hoped to hold it
always—fondled it in his hands, as if he hoped to ride his
own life on the spring-tide that gathered in its rosy palm,
or to catch that young life in the ebbing billows that wasted
from his cold fingers. But no; the baby was “too much
for him!” And the young heart, all unconscious and all
perverse, sent the rich blood through the little arm, down
the slender wrist, and into the dimpled fist, where it pulsed
and throbbed uneasily, as it broke against the chill, stark
presence of Death!</p>
<div class='pbb'>
 <hr class='pb c007' />
</div>
<div class='chapter'>
  <span class='pageno' id='Page_262'>262</span>
  <h2 class='c012'>COTTON AND ITS KINGDOM.<a id='r1' /><a href='#f1' class='c038'><sup>[1]</sup></a></h2>
</div>

<div class='fn'>

<div class='footnote c007' id='f1'>
<p class='c017'><span class='label'><a href='#r1'>1</a>.&nbsp;&nbsp;</span>Reprinted from Harper’s Magazine, Oct., 1881.</p>
</div>

</div>
<p class='drop-capa0_25_0_7 c017'>IT has long been the fortune of the South to deal with
special problems—slavery, secession, reconstruction.
For fifty years has the settlement of these questions engaged
her people, and challenged the attention of the world. As
these issues are set aside finally, after stubborn and bloody
conflict, during which she maintained her position with
courage, and abided results with fortitude, she finds herself
confronted with a new problem quite as important as
either of those that have been disposed of. In the cultivation
and handling, under the new order of things, of the
world’s great staple, cotton, she is grappling with a matter
that involves essentially her own welfare, and is of the
greatest interest to the general public. To the slaveholder
the growing of cotton was straight and easy, as the product
of his land was supplemented by the increase of his slaves,
and he prospered in spite of himself. To the Southern
farmer of <i>post-bellum</i> days, impoverished, unsettled, and
thrown upon free labor, working feverishly with untried
conditions, poorly informed as to the result of experiments
made by his neighbors, and too impatient to wait upon his
own experience, it is quite a different affair. After sixteen
years of trial, everything is yet indeterminate. And
whether this staple is cultivated in the South as a profit or
a passion, and whether it shall bring the South to independence
or to beggary, are matters yet to be settled.
Whether its culture shall result in a host of croppers without
money or credit, appealing to the granaries of the
West against famine, paying toll to usurers at home, and
mortgaging their crops to speculators abroad even before
it is planted—a planting oligarchy of money-lenders, who
have usurped the land through foreclosure, and hold by
<span class='pageno' id='Page_263'>263</span>the ever-growing margin between a grasping lender and an
enforced borrower—or a prosperous self-respecting race of
small farmers, cultivating their own lands, living upon
their own resources, controlling their crops until they are
sold, and independent alike of usurers and provision
brokers—which of these shall be the outcome of cotton
culture the future must determine. It is certain only in
the present that the vigor of the cotton producers and the
pace at which they are moving are rapidly forcing a settlement
of these questions, and that the result of the experiments
now swiftly working out in the South will especially
concern a large part of the human race, from the farmer
who plods down the cotton row, cutting through his doubts
with a hoe, to the spinner in Manchester who anxiously
balances the totals of the world’s crop.</p>

<p class='c018'>It may be well to remark at the outset that the production
of cotton in the South is practically without limit. It
was 1830 before the American crop reached 1,000,000
bales, and the highest point ever reached in the days of
slavery was a trifle above 4,500,000 bales. The crop of
1880-81 is about 2,000,000 in excess of this, and there are
those who believe that a crop of 8,000,000 bales is among
the certainties of the next few years. The heavy increase
in the cotton crop is due entirely to the increase of cotton
acreage brought about by the use of fertilizers. Millions
of acres of land, formerly thought to be beyond the possible
limit of the cotton belt, have been made the best of
cotton lands by being artificially enriched. In North Carolina
alone the limit of cotton production has been moved
twenty miles northward and twenty miles westward, and
the half of Georgia on which no cotton was grown twenty
years ago now produces fully half the crop of the State.
The “area of low production” as the Atlantic States are
brought to the front by artificial stimulation is moving
westward, and is now central in Alabama and Florida.
But the increase in acreage, large as it is, will be but a
small factor in the increase of production, compared to the
intensifying of the cultivation of the land now in use. Under
<span class='pageno' id='Page_264'>264</span>the present loose system of planting, the average yield is
hardly better than one bale to three acres. This could be
easily increased to a bale an acre. In Georgia five bales
have been raised on one acre, and a yield of three bales to
the acre is credited to several localities. President Morehead,
of the Mississippi Valley Cotton Planters’ Association,
says that the entire cotton crop of the present year
might have been easily raised in fourteen counties along
the Mississippi River. It will be seen, therefore, that the
capacity of the South to produce cotton is practically limitless,
and when we consider the enormous demand for cotton
goods now opening up from new climes and peoples, we may
conclude that the near future will see crops compared to
which the crop of the past year, worth $300,000,000, will
seem small.</p>

<p class='c018'>Who will be the producers of these vast crops of the
future? Will they be land-owners or tenants—planters or
farmers? The answer to this inquiry will be made by the
average Southerners without hesitation. “Small farms,”
he will say, “well tended by actual owners, will be the
rule in the South. The day of a land-holding oligarchy
has passed forever.” Let us see about this.</p>

<p class='c018'>The history of agriculture—slow and stubborn industry
that it is—will hardly show stronger changes than have
taken place in the rural communities of the South in the
past fifteen years. Immediately after the war between the
States there was a period of unprecedented disaster. The
surrender of the Confederate armies found the plantations
of the South stripped of houses, fences, stock, and implements.
The planters were without means or prospects,
and uncertain as to what should be done. The belief that
extensive cotton culture had perished with slavery had put
the price of the staple up to thirty cents. Lured by the
dazzling price, which gave them credit as well as hope, the
owners of the plantations prepared for vast operations.
They refitted their quarters, repaired their fences, summoned
hundreds of negro croppers at high prices, and
invested lavishly their borrowed capital in what they felt
<span class='pageno' id='Page_265'>265</span>sure was a veritable bonanza. The few years that followed
are full of sickening failure. Planters who had been
princes in wealth and possessions suddenly found themselves
irretrievably in debt and reduced to beggary.
Under the stimulation of high prices the crops grew, until
there was a tumble from thirty to ten cents per pound.
Unable to meet their engagements with their factors, who,
suddenly awakening to the peril of the situation, refused
to make further advances or grant extensions, the planters
had no recourse but to throw their lands on the market.
But so terrible had been their experience—many losing
$100,000 in a single season—that no buyers were found for
the plantations on which they had been wrecked. The
result of this panic to sell and disinclination to buy was a
toppling of land values. Plantations that had brought
from $100,000 to $150,000 before the war, and even since,
were sold at $6000 to $10,000, or hung on the hands of
the planter and his factor at any price whatever. The ruin
seemed to be universal and complete, and the old plantation
system, it then seemed, had perished utterly and forever.
While no definite reason was given for the failure—free
labor and the credit system being the causes usually and
loosely assigned—it went without contradiction that the
system of planting under which the South had amassed its
riches and lived in luxury was inexorably doomed.</p>

<p class='c018'>Following this lavish and disastrous period came the
era of small farms. Led into the market by the low prices
to which the best lands had fallen, came a host of small
buyers, to accommodate whom the plantations were subdivided,
and offered in lots to suit purchasers. Never perhaps
was there a rural movement, accomplished without
revolution or exodus, that equalled in extent and swiftness
the partition of the plantations of the ex-slave-holders into
small farms. As remarkable as was the eagerness of the
negroes—who bought in Georgia alone 6850 farms in three
years—the earth-hunger of the poorer class of the whites,
who had been unable under the slave-holding oligarchy to
own land, was even more striking. In Mississippi there
<span class='pageno' id='Page_266'>266</span>were in 1867 but 412 farms of less than ten acres, and in
1870, 11,003; only 2314 of over ten and less than twenty
acres, and 1870, 8981; only 16,024 between twenty and one
hundred acres, and in 1870, 38,015. There was thus in this
one State a gain of nearly forty thousand small farms of
less than one hundred acres in about three years. In
Georgia the number of small farms sliced off of the big
plantations from 1868 to 1873 was 32,824. In Liberty
County there were in 1866 only three farms of less than ten
acres; in 1870 there were 616, and 749 farms between ten
and twenty acres. This splitting of the old plantations
into farms went on with equal rapidity all over the South,
and was hailed with lively expressions of satisfaction. A
population pinned down to the soil on which it lived, made
conservative and prudent by land-ownership, forced to
abandon the lavish method of the old time as it had nothing
to spare, and to cultivate closely and intelligently as it
had no acres to waste, living on cost as it had no credit,
and raising its own supplies as it could not afford to buy—this
the South boasted it had in 1873, and this many
believe it has to-day. The small farmer—who was to
retrieve the disasters of the South, and wipe out the last
vestige of the planting aristocracy, between which and the
people there was always a lack of sympathy, by keeping
his own acres under his own supervision, and using hired
labor only as a supplement to his own—is still held to be
the typical cotton-raiser.</p>

<p class='c018'>But the observer who cares to look beneath the surface
will detect signs of a reverse current. He will discover
that there is beyond question a sure though gradual
rebunching of the small farms into large estates, and a
tendency toward the re-establishment of a land-holding oligarchy.
Here and there through all the Cotton States, and
almost in every county, are reappearing the planter princes
of the old time, still lords of acres, though not of slaves.
There is in Mississippi one planter who raises annually
12,000 bales of cotton on twelve consolidated plantations,
aggregating perhaps 50,000 acres. The Capeheart estate
<span class='pageno' id='Page_267'>267</span>on Albemarle Sound, originally of several thousand acres,
had $52,000 worth of land added last year. In the Mississippi
Valley, where, more than anywhere else, is preserved
the distinctive cotton plantation, this re-absorbing of separate
farms into one ownership is going on rapidly. Mr.
F. C. Morehead, an authority on these lands, says that not
one-third of them are owned by the men who held them at
the close of the war, and that they are passing, one after
the other, into the hands of the commission merchants. It
is doubtful if there is a neighborhood in all the South in
which casual inquiry will not bring to the front from ten
to a dozen men who have added farm after farm to their
possessions for the past several years, and now own from
six to twenty places. It must not be supposed that these
farms are bunched together and run after the old plantation
style. On the contrary, they are cut into even smaller
farms, and rented to small croppers. The question involved
is not whether or not the old plantation methods shall be
revived. It is the much more serious problem as to whether
the lands divided forever into small farms shall be owned
by the many or by the few, whether we shall have in the
South a peasantry like that of France, or a tenantry like
that of Ireland.</p>

<p class='c018'>By getting at the cause of this threatened re-absorption
of the small farmer into the system from which he so
eagerly and bravely sought release, we shall best understand
the movement. It is primarily credit—a false credit
based on usury and oppression, strained to a point where
it breeds distrust and provokes a percentage to compensate
for risk, and strained, not for the purchase of land, which
is a security as long as the debt is unpaid, but for provisions
and fertilizers, which are valueless to either secure the
lender or assist the borrower to pay. With the failure of
the large planters and their withdrawal from business,
banks, trust companies, and capitalists withdraw their
money from agricultural loans. The new breed of farmers
held too little land and were too small dealers to command
credit or justify investigation. And yet they were obliged
<span class='pageno' id='Page_268'>268</span>to have money with which to start their work. Commission
merchants therefore borrowed the money from the
banks, and loaned it to village brokers or store-keepers,
who in turn loaned it to farmers in their neighborhood,
usually in the form of advancing supplies. It thus came
to the farmer after it had been through three principals,
each of whom demanded a heavy percentage for the risk he
assumed. In every case the farmer gave a lien or mortgage
upon his crop of land. In this lien he waived exemptions
and defense, and it amounted in effect to a deed.
Having once given such a paper to his merchant, his credit
was of course gone, and he had to depend upon the man
who held the mortgage for his supplies. To that man he
must carry his crop when it was gathered, pay him commission
for handling it, and accept the settlement that he
offered. To give an idea of the oppressiveness of this system
it is only necessary to quote the Commissioner of
Agriculture of Georgia, who by patient investigation discovered
that the Georgia farmers paid prices for supplies
that averaged fifty-four per cent. interest on all they
bought. For instance, corn that sold for eighty-nine cents
a bushel cash was sold on time secured by a lien at a dollar
and twelve cents. In Mississippi the percentage is even
more terrible, as the crop lien laws are in force there, and
the crop goes into the hands of the merchant, who charges
commission on the estimated number of bales, whether a
half crop or a full one is raised. Even this maladjustment
of credits would not impoverish the farmer if he did not
yield to the infatuation for cotton-planting, and fail to
plant anything but cotton.</p>

<p class='c018'>Those who have the nerve to give up part of their land
and labor to the raising of their own supplies and stock have
but little need of credit, and consequently seldom get into
the hands of the usurers. But cotton is the money crop,
and offers such flattering inducements that everything
yields to that. It is not unusual to see farmers come to the
cities to buy butter, melons, meal, and vegetables. They
rely almost entirely upon their merchants for meat and
<span class='pageno' id='Page_269'>269</span>bread, hay, forage, and stock. In one county in Georgia
last year, from the small dépôts, $80,000 worth of meat and
bread was shipped to farmers. The official estimate of the
National Cotton Planters’ Association, at its session of
1881, was that the Cotton States lacked 42,252,244 bushels
of wheat, 166,684,279 bushels of corn, 77,762,108 bushels of
oats, or 286,698,632 bushels of grain, of raising what it consumed.
When to this is added 4,011,150 tons of hay at
thirty dollars a ton, and $32,000,000 paid for fertilizers, we
find that the value of the cotton crop is very largely consumed
in paying for the material with which it was made.
On this enormous amount the cotton farmer has to pay the
usurous percentage charged by his merchant broker, which
is never less than thirty per cent., and frequently runs up
to seventy per cent. We can appreciate, when we consider
this, the statement of the man who said, “The commission
merchants of the South are gradually becoming farmers,
and the farmers, having learned the trick, will become
merchants.”</p>

<p class='c018'>The remedy for this deplorable tendency is first the
establishment of a proper system of credit. The great
West was in much worse condition than the South some
years ago. The farms were mortgaged, and were being sold
under mortgages, under a system not half so oppressive as
that under which the Southern farmer labors. Boston capital,
seeking lucrative investment, soon began to pour toward
the West, in charge of loan companies, and was put out at
eight per cent., and the redemption of that section was
speedily worked out. A similar movement is now started
in the South. An English company, with headquarters
at New Orleans, loaned over $600,000 its first year at eight
per cent., with perfect security. The farmers who borrowed
this money were of course immensely relieved, and
the testimony is that they are rapidly working out. In
Atlanta, Georgia, a company is established with $2,000,000
of Boston and New York capital, which it is loaning on
farm lands at seven per cent. In the first three months of
its work it loaned $120,000, and it has now appointed local
<span class='pageno' id='Page_270'>270</span>agents in thirty counties in the State, and advertises that
it wishes to lend $50,000 in each county. The managers
say that they can command practically unlimited capital
for safe risks at seven per cent. Companies working on
the same plan have been established elsewhere in the South,
and it is said that there will be no lack of capital for safe
risks on rural lands in a few years.</p>

<p class='c018'>The first reform, however, that must be made is in the
system of farming. The South must prepare to raise her
own provisions, compost her fertilizers, cure her own hay,
and breed her own stock. Leaving credit and usury out of
the question, no man can pay seventy-five cents a bushel
for corn, thirty dollars a ton for hay, twenty dollars a
barrel for pork, sixty cents for oats, and raise cotton for
eight cents a pound. The farmers who prosper at the
South are the “corn-raisers,” <i>i.e.</i>, the men who raise their
own supplies, and make cotton their surplus crop. A
gentleman who recorded 320 mortgages last year testified
that not one was placed on the farm of a man who raised
his own bread and meat. The shrewd farmers who always
have a bit of money on hand with which to buy any good
place that is to be sold under mortgage are the “corn-raisers,”
and the moment they get possession they rule out
the all-cotton plan, and plant corn and the grasses. That
the plan of farming only needs revision to make the South
rich beyond measure is proven by constant example. A
corn-raiser bought a place of 370 acres for $1700. He at
once put six tenants on it, and limited their cotton acreage
to one-third of what they had under cultivation. Each one
of the six made more clear money than the former owner
had made, and the rents for the first year were $1126. The
man who bought this farm lives in Oglethorpe, Georgia,
and has fifteen farms all run on the same plan.</p>

<p class='c018'>The details of the management of what may be the
typical planting neighborhood of the South in the future
are furnished me by the manager of the Capeheart estate in
North Carolina. This estate is divided into farms of fifty
acres each, and rented to tenants. These tenants are
<span class='pageno' id='Page_271'>271</span>bound to plant fifteen acres in cotton, twelve in corn, eight
in small crops, and let fifteen lie in grass. They pay one-third
of the crop as rent, or one-half if the proprietor
furnishes horses and mules. They have comfortable quarters,
and are entitled to the use of surplus herring and the
dressings of the herring caught in the fisheries annexed to
the place. In the center of the estate is a general store
managed by the proprietor, at which the tenants have such
a line of credit as they are entitled to, of course paying a
pretty percentage of profit on the goods they buy. They
are universally prosperous, and in some cases, where by
skill and industry they have secured 100 acres, are laying
up money. The profits to Dr. Capeheart are large, and
show the margin there is in buying land that is loosely
farmed, and putting it under intelligent supervision. Of
the $52,000 worth of land added to his estates last year, at
a valuation of twenty-five dollars per acre, he will realize
in rental nine dollars per acre for every acre cultivated, and
calculates that in five years at the most the rentals of the
land will have paid back what he gave for it.</p>

<p class='c018'>Amid all this transition from land-owner to tenant there
is, besides the corn-raiser, one other steadfast figure, undisturbed
by change of relation or condition, holding tenaciously
to what it has, though little inclined to push for
more. This is Cuffee, the darky farmer. There is no more
interesting study in our agriculture than this same dusky,
good-natured fellow—humble, patient, shrewd—as he drives
into town with his mixed team and his one bag of cotton,
on which, drawn by a sympathetic sense of ownership, his
whole family is clustered. Living simply and frugally,
supplementing his humble meal with a ’possum caught in
the night hunt, or a rabbit shot with the old army musket
that he captured from some deserted battle-field, and allowing
no idlers in the family save the youngsters who “tend
de free school,” he defies alike the usurer and the land-shark.
In the State of Georgia he owns 680,000 acres of
land, cut up into farms that barely average ten acres each,
and in the Cotton States he owns 2,680,800 acres, similarly
<span class='pageno' id='Page_272'>272</span>divided. From this possession it is impossible to drive
him, and to this possession he adds gradually as the seasons
go by. He is not ambitious, however, to own large tracts
of land, preferring the few acres that he has constantly
under his eye, and to every foot of which he feels a rude
attachment.</p>

<p class='c018'>The relations of the negro to cotton are peculiar.
Although he spends the most of his life in the cotton field,
and this staple is the main crop with which he is concerned,
it does not enter into his social life, catch his sentiment,
or furnish the occasion for any of his pleasures. None of
his homely festivals hinge upon the culture or handling of
the great staple. He has his corn-shuckings, his log-rollings,
his quilting bees, his threshing jousts, and indeed
every special work about the farm is made to yield its element
of frolic, except the making of cotton. None of those
tuneful melodies with which he beguiles his work or gladdens
his play-time acknowledge cotton as a subject or an
incident. None of the folklore with which the moonlight
nights are whiled away or the fire-lit cabins sanctified, and
which finds its home in the corn patch or the meadows, has
aught to do with the cotton field. I have never heard a
negro song in which the cotton field is made the incidental
theme or the subject of allusion, except in a broken perversion
of that incomparable ballad, “The Mocking-Bird,”
in which the name of the heroine, the tender sentiment,
and the tune, which is a favorite one with the negroes, are
preserved. This song, with the flower of Southern girlhood
that points the regretful tenderness changed into a
dusky maiden idealized by early death, with the “mocking-bird
singing o’er her grave,” and sung in snatches
almost without words or coherence, is popular with the
field hands in many parts of the South.</p>

<p class='c018'>But when we have discussed the questions involved in
the planting and culture of the cotton crop, as serious as
they are, we have had to do with the least important phase
of our subject. The crop of 7,000,000 bales, when ready
for the market, is worth in round numbers $300,000,000.
<span class='pageno' id='Page_273'>273</span>The same crop when manufactured is worth over $900,000,000.
Will the South be content to see the whole of
this added value realized by outsiders? If not, how much
of the work necessary to create this value will she do within
her own borders? She has abundant water-powers, that
are never locked a day by ice or lowered by drought, that
may be had for a mere song; cheap labor, cheap lands, an
unequaled climate, cheap fuel, and the conditions of cheap
living. Can these be utilized to any general extent?</p>

<p class='c018'>It may be premised that there are questions of the
utmost importance to the South outside of the manufacture
of the lint, which is usually held to cover the whole question
of cotton manufacture. There is no particle of the
cotton plant that may not be handled to advantage. Mr.
Edward Atkinson is authority for the statement that if a
plant similar to cotton, but having no lint, could be grown
in the North, it would be one of the most profitable of
crops. And yet it is true that up to a late date the seed
of the cotton has been wholly wasted, and even now the
stalk is thrown away as useless. A crop of 7,000,000 bales
will yield 3,500,000 tons of cotton seed. Every ounce of this
seed is valuable, and in the past few years it has been so
handled as to add very heavily to the value of the crop.
The first value of the seed is as a fertilizer. It has been
discovered of late that the seed that had been formerly
allowed to accumulate about the gin-houses in vast piles
and rot as waste material, when put upon the fields would
add twenty-five to thirty-three per cent. to the crop, and
was equal to many of the fertilizers that sell in the market
for $25 per ton. In 1869 a mill was established in New
Orleans for the purpose of pressing the oil from the cotton
seed, and manufacturing the bulk into stock food. Its
success was so pronounced that there are now fifty-nine
seed-oil mills in the South, costing over $6,000,000, and
working up $5,500,000 worth of seed annually. The product
of the seed used sells for $9,600,000, so that the mills
create a value of $4,500,000 annually. They used only one-seventh
of the seed produced in the South. A ton of seed
<span class='pageno' id='Page_274'>274</span>which can be worked for $5.50 a ton, and cost originally
$8 to $10, making an average cost when worked of $15, is
estimated to produce thirty-five gallons of oil worth $11.50,
seed-cake worth $5.50, and lint worth $1.50—a total of
$18.50, or profit of $3.50, per ton. The oil is of excellent
quality, and is used in the making of soaps, stearine, white
oils, and when highly refined is a table oil of such flavor
and appearance as will deceive the best judges. A quality
has been lately discovered in it that makes it valuable as a
dye-stuff. It is shipped largely to Europe, 130,000 barrels
having been exported last year, chiefly to Antwerp. It is
put up carefully, and re-shipped to this country as olive-oil
to such an extent that prohibitory duties have been put
on it by the Italian government, and it is ruled out of that
country. Before it is placed in the oil mill the cotton seed
is hulled. The hulls are valuable, and may be used for
tanning, made into pulp for paper stock, or used as fuel,
and the ashes sold to the soap-makers for the potash they
contain. The mass of kernels left after the hulls have been
removed and the oil pressed out is made into seed-cake, a
most desirable food for stock, which is exported largely to
Europe. It is also worked into a fertilizer that yields
under analysis $37.50 in value per ton, and can be sold for
$22 a ton. It is a notable fact that the ton of seed-cake is
even more valuable as a stock food after the $11.50 worth
of oil has been taken from it than before, and quite as valuable
as a fertilizer. In the four hundred pounds of lint
in a bale of cotton there are but four pounds of chemical
elements taken from the soil; in the oil there is little more;
but in the seed-cake and hulls there are forty pounds of
potash and phosphate of lime. But admirable as is the
disposition of the cotton seed for manufacture, ample as is
the margin of profit, and rapid as has been the growth in
the industry, there exists the same disorganization that is
noticeable in the handling of the whole cotton question.
Although less than one-seventh of the seed raised is needed
by the mills, they are unable to get enough to keep them
running. The cotton is ginned in such awkward distribution,
<span class='pageno' id='Page_275'>275</span>and in such small quantity at any one locality, that
it cannot be gathered promptly or cheaply enough for the
oil mills. Of the 3,500,000 tons of seed, 500,000 tons only
are worked up, and perhaps as much more used for seed.
This leaves 2,500,000 tons not worked, and in which is lost
nearly $30,000,000 worth of oil. For whether this two and
a half million tons is used as a fertilizer or fed to the stock,
it would lose none of its value for either purpose if the
thirty-five gallons of oil, worth $11.50, were extracted from
each ton of it.</p>

<p class='c018'>Even when the South has passed beyond the proper
handling of cotton seed, she has very important ground to
cover before she arrives at what is generally known as cotton
manufacturing. “The manufacture of this staple,”
says a very eminent authority, “is a unit, beginning at the
field where the cotton is picked, and ending at the factory
from which the cloth is sent to the merchant.” How little
this essential truth has been appreciated is apparent from
the fact that, until the last census, ginning, pressing, and
baling have been classed with the “production” of cotton,
and its manufacture held to consist solely of spinning and
weaving. Yet there is not a process to which the lint is
submitted after it is thrown from the negro’s “pocket”
that does not act directly on the quality of the cloth that
is finally produced, and on the cheapness and efficiency
with which the cloth is made. The separation of the fibre
from the seed, the disposition made of the fluffy lint before
it is compressed, the compression itself, and the baling of
the compressed cotton—these are all delicate operations,
involving the integrity of the fibre, the cost of getting it
ready for the spindle, and the ease with which it may be
spun. Indeed, Mr. Hammond, of South Carolina, a most
accomplished writer, contends that the gin-house is the
pivotal point around which the whole manufacture of cotton
revolves. There is no question that with one-tenth of the
money invested in improved gins, cleaners, and pressers
that would be required for factories, and with incomparably
less risk, the South could make one-half the profit, pound
<span class='pageno' id='Page_276'>276</span>for pound, that is made in the mills of New England. Mr.
F. C. Morehead, already alluded to in this article, says:
“A farmer who produces 500 bales of cotton—200,000
pounds—can, by the expenditure of $1500 on improved gins
and cleaners, add one cent per pound to the value of his
crop, or $2000. If he added only one-half of one cent, he
would get in the first year over fifty per cent. return of his
outlay.” Mr. Edward Atkinson—to close this list of
authorities—says that the cotton crop is deteriorated ten
per cent. at least by being improperly handled from the
field to the factory. It is, of course, equally true that a
reform in this department of the manufacture of cotton
would add ten per cent. to the value of the crop—say
$30,000,000—and that, too, without cost to the consumer.
Much of the work now done in the mills of New England is
occasioned by the errors committed in ginning and packing.
Not only would the great part of the dust, sand, and grit
that get into cotton from careless handling about the gin-house
be kept out if it were properly protected, but that
which is in the fibre naturally could be cleaned out more
efficiently and with one-third the labor and cost, if it were
taken before it has been compressed and baled. Beyond
this, the excessive beating and tearing of the fibre necessary
to clean it after the sand has been packed in, weaken
and impair it, and the sand injures the costly and delicate
machinery of the mills.</p>

<p class='c018'>The capital available to the farmers of any neighborhood
in the South is entirely adequate to make thorough
reform in this most important, safest, and most profitable
department of the manufacture of cotton. A gin-house
constructed on the best plan, supplied with the new roller
gins lately invented in England, that guarantee to surpass
in quantity of cotton ginned as well as quality of lint our
rude and imperfect saw gins, having automatic feeders to
pass the picking to the gin, and an apron to receive the
lint as it comes from the gin and carry it to the beater, or
cleaner, where all the motes and dust can be taken from
the freshly ginned fibre and then, instead of rolling this
<span class='pageno' id='Page_277'>277</span>fleecy mass on a dirty floor, where it would catch every
particle of dust and grit, to carry it direct to a Dedrick
press that would compress forty pounds within a cubic
foot, and reduce the little bale of one hundred and twenty
pounds to the consistency of elm-wood, and as little liable
to soak water or catch dirt—an establishment of this sort
would add one cent per pound to every pound of cotton put
through it, and would be worth more as an example than a
dozen cotton factories. Annexed to this gin-house should
be a huller to take the hulls from the seed and to this
huller the seed should be taken as it comes from the gins.
Once hulled, the hulls should be fed to the stock, restored
to the soil, or sold, and the kernels sent to the nearest oil
mill, the oil sold, and the meal fed to sheep or stock, or
used as a fertilizer. These improvements, costing little,
and within the skill of ordinary laborers, would bring as
good a profit as could be realized by a factory involving
enormous outlay, great risk, and the utmost skill of management.
The importance of reform here will be seen when
we state that there is half as much capital—say $70,000,000—invested
in machinery for baling, pressing, and ginning
cotton as there is invested in the United States in
machinery for weaving and spinning it. So great has been
the progress in invention, and so sluggish the cotton farmer
to reform either his methods or his machinery, that experts
agree that the ginning, pressing, and baling of the crop
could be done with one-half or possibly one-third of the
labor and cost of the present, and done so much better that
the product would be worth ten per cent. more than it now
commands, if the best machinery were bought, and the
best methods employed.</p>

<p class='c018'>The urgency and the magnitude of the reforms needed
in the field and about the gin-house have not deterred the
South from aspiring to spin and weave at least the bulk
of the cotton crop. Indeed, there is nothing that so appeals
to Southern pride as to urge the possibility that in time
the manufacture of this crop as well as the crop itself shall
be a monopoly of the cotton belt. As the South grows
<span class='pageno' id='Page_278'>278</span>richer and the conditions of competition are nearer equal,
there will be a tendency to place new machinery intended
for the manufacture of cotton near the field in which the
staple is growing; but the extent to which this tendency
will control, or the time in which it will become controlling,
is beyond the scope of this article. We shall rather
deal with things as they are, or are likely to be in the very
near future. We note, then, that in the past ten years the
South has more than doubled the amount of cotton manufactured
within her borders. In 1870, there were used
45,032,866 pounds of cotton; in 1880, 101,937,256 pounds.
In 1870, there were 11,602 looms and 416,983 spindles running;
in 1880, 15,222 looms and 714,078 spindles. This
array of figures hardly indicates fairly the progress that
the South will make in the next ten years, for the reason
that the factories in which these spindles are turned are
experiments in most of the localities in which they are
placed. It is the invariable rule that when a factory is
built in any city or country it is easier to raise the capital
for a subsequent enterprise than for the first one. At
Augusta, Georgia, for instance, where the manufacture of
cloth has been demonstrated a success, the progress is
remarkable. In the past two years two new mills, the
Enterprise and Sibly, with 30,000 spindles each, have been
established; and a third, the King, has been organized,
with a capital of $1,000,000 and 30,000 spindles. The capital
for these mills was furnished about one-fourth in
Augusta, and the balance in the North. With these mills
running, Augusta will have 170,000 spindles, and will have
added about 70,000 spindles to the last census returns. In
South Carolina the same rapid growth is resulting from the
establishment of one or two successful mills; and in Columbus,
Georgia, the influence of one successful mill, the
Eagle and Phœnix, has raised the local consumption of
cotton from 1927 bales in 1870 to 19,000 bales in 1880. In
Atlanta, Georgia, the first mill had hardly been finished
before the second was started; a third is projected; and
two companies have secured charters for the building of a
<span class='pageno' id='Page_279'>279</span>forty-mile canal to furnish water-power and factory fronts
to capital in and about the city. These things are mentioned
simply to show that the growth of cotton manufacture
in the South is sympathetic, and that each factory
established is an argument for others. There is no investment
that has proved so uniformly successful in the South
as that put into cotton factories. An Augusta factory just
advertises eight per cent. semi-annual dividend; the Eagle
and Phœnix, of Columbus, earned twenty-five per cent.
last year; the Augusta factory for eleven years made an
average of eighteen per cent. per annum. The net earnings
of the Langley Mills was $480,000 for its first eight years
on a capital of $400,000, or an average of fifteen per cent.
a year. The earnings of sixty Southern mills, large and
small, selected at random, for three years, averaged fourteen
per cent. per annum.</p>

<p class='c018'>Indeed, an experience varied and extended enough to
give it authority teaches that there is absolutely no reason
why the South should not profitably quadruple its capacity
for the manufacture of cotton every year in the next five
years except the lack of capital. The lack of skilled labor
has proved to be a chimerical fear, as the mills bring enough
of skilled labor to any community in which they are established
to speedily educate up a native force. It may be
true that for the most delicate work the South will for a
while lack the efficient labor of New England that has been
trained for generations, but it is equally true that no factory
in the South has ever been stopped a week for the
lack of suitable labor. The operatives can live cheaper
than at the North, and can be had for lower wages. As
sensible a man as Mr. Edward Atkinson claimed lately that
in the cotton country proper a person could not keep at
continuous in-door labor during the summer. The answer
to this is that during the present summer, the hottest ever
known, not a Southern mill has stopped for one day or
hour on account of the heat, and this, too, when scores of
establishments through the Western and Northern cities
were closed. One of the strongest points of advantage the
<span class='pageno' id='Page_280'>280</span>South has is that for no extreme of climate, acting on the
machinery, the operatives, or the water-supply, is any of
her mills forced to suspend work at any season. Beyond
this, Southern water-powers can be purchased low, and the
land adjacent at a song; there are no commissions to pay
on the purchase of cotton, no freight on its transportation,
and it is submitted to the picker before it has undergone
serious compression. Mr. W. H. Young, of Columbus,
perhaps the best Southern authority, estimates that the
Columbus mills have an advantage of nine-tenths of a cent
per pound over their Northern competitors, and this in a
mill of 1600 looms will amount to nine per cent. on the
entire capital, or $120,099. The Southern mills, without
exception, pulled through the years of depression that
followed the panic of 1873, paying regular dividends of
from six per cent. to fifteen, and, it may be said, have
thoroughly won the confidence of investors North and
South. The one thing that has retarded the growth of
manufacturing in the Cotton States, the lack of capital, is
being overcome with astonishing rapidity. Within the past
two years considerably over $100,000,000 of Northern capital
has been subscribed, in lots of $1,000,000 and upward, for
the purchase and development of Southern railroads and
mining properties; the total will probably run to $120,000,000.
There is now being expended in the building of
new railroads from Atlanta, Georgia, as headquarters,
$17,800,000, not one dollar of which was subscribed by
Georgians or by the State of Georgia. The men who
invest these vast amounts in the South are interested
in the general development of the section into which
they have gone with their enterprise, and they readily
double any local subscription for any legitimate local
improvement. By the sale of these railroad properties to
Northern syndicates at advanced prices the local stockholders
have realized heavily in cash, and this surplus is
seeking manufacturing investment. The prospect is that
the next ten years will witness a growth in this direction
beyond what even the most sanguine predict.</p>

<p class='c018'><span class='pageno' id='Page_281'>281</span>The International Cotton Exposition, opening October 5,
of the present year, in Atlanta, must have a tremendous
influence in improving the culture, handling, and manufacture
of the great staple of the South. The Southern
people do not lack the desire to keep abreast with improvement
and invention, but on the contrary have shown precipitate
eagerness in reaching out for the best and newest.
Before the war, when the Southern planter had a little surplus
money he bought a slave. Since the war, he buys a
piece of machinery. The trouble has been that he was
forced to buy without any guide as to the value of what he
bought, or its adaptability to the purposes for which he
intended it. The consequence is that the farms are littered
with ill-adapted and inferior implements and machines,
representing twice the investment that, intelligently placed,
would provide an equipment that with half the labor would
do better work. It is the purpose of the exposition to
bring the farmers face to face with the very best machinery
that invention and experience have produced. The buildings
themselves will be models each of its kind, and will
represent the judgment of experts as to cheapness, durability,
safety and general excellence. The past and
present will be contrasted in the exhibition. The old loom
on which the rude fabrics of our forefathers were woven
by hands gentle and loving will be put against the more
elaborate looms of to-day. The spinning wheel of the past,
that filled all the country-side with its drowsy music, as
the dusky spinner advanced and retreated, with not ungraceful
courtesy and a swinging sidewise shuffle, will find
its sweet voice lost in the hum of modern spindles. The
cycle of gins and ginning will be there completed, invention
coming back, after a half-century of trial with the brutal
saw, to a perfected variation of the patient and gentle
roller with which the precious fleece was pulled from the
seed years upon years ago. There are the most wonderful
machines promised, including a half-dozen that claim to
have solved the problem—supposed to be past finding out—of
picking cotton by machinery. Large fields flank the
<span class='pageno' id='Page_282'>282</span>buildings, and on these are tested the various kinds of cotton
seed, fed by the various kinds of fertilizers, each put in
fair competition with the others.</p>

<p class='c018'>One of the most important special inventions at the
exposition will be the Clement attachment—a contrivance
for spinning the cotton as it comes from the gin. The
invention is simply the marriage of the gin to the spindle.
These are joined by two large cards that take the fibre from
the gin, straighten it out, and pass it directly to the spinning
boards, where it is made into the best of yarns. The
announcement of this invention two years ago created very
great excitement. If it proved a success, the whole system
of cotton manufacture was changed. If the cotton
could be spun directly from the gin, all the expense of
baling would be eliminated, and four or five expensive
steps in the process of cotton from field to cloth would be
rendered unnecessary. Better than all, the South argued,
the Clement attachment brought the heaviest part of manufacturing
to the cotton field, from which it could never
be divorced. By the simple joining of the spindles to the
gin, the cotton, worth only eight or nine cents as baled
lint, in which shape it had been shipped North, became
worth sixteen to eighteen cents as yarns. The home value
of the crop was thus to be doubled, and by such process as
New England could never capture. Several of the attachments
were put to work, and were visited by thousands.
They produced an excellent quality of yarns, and made a
clear profit of two cents per pound on the cotton treated.
The investment required was small, and it was held that
$5000 would certainly bring a net annual profit of $2200.
Many of these little mills are still running, and profitably;
but difficulties between the owner and his agents, and a
general suspicion raised by his declining to put the machine
on its merits before certain agricultural associations, prevented
its general adoption. That this attachment, or
some machine of similar character for spinning the
cotton into yarns near the field where it is grown, will be
generally adopted through the South in the near future, I
<span class='pageno' id='Page_283'>283</span>have not a particle of doubt; that the exposition with its
particular exhibits on this point will hasten the day, there
is every reason to hope. There are many yarn mills already
scattered through the South, but none of them promise the
results that will be achieved when the spindles are wedded
to the gin, and the same motive power drives both, carrying
the cotton without delay or compression from seed to
thread.</p>

<p class='c018'>Such, then, in brief and casual review, is King Cotton,
his subjects, and his realm. Vast as his concerns and possessions
may appear at present, they are but the hint of
what the future will develop. The best authority puts the
amount of cotton goods manufactured in America at about
fourteen pounds per head of population, of which twelve
pounds per capita are retained for home consumption,
leaving only a small margin for export. On the Continent
there is but one country, probably—Switzerland—that
manufactures more cotton goods than it consumes; and
the Continent demands from Great Britain an amount of
cotton cloth that, added to its own supply, exhausts nearly
one-half the product of the English mills. It is hardly
probable that, under the sharp competition of American
mills, the capacity of either England or the Continent for
producing ordinary cotton cloths will be greatly increased.
But, with the yield of the English and Continental mills
at least measurably defined and now rapidly absorbed,
there is an enormous demand for machine-made cotton
fabrics springing from new and virtually exhaustless
sources. The continents of Asia, Africa, South America,
Australia, and the countries lying between the two American
continents, contain more than 800,000,000 people,
according to general authority. This immense population
is clothed in cotton almost exclusively, and almost as
exclusively in hand-made fabrics. That the cheap and
superior products of the modern factory will displace
these hand-made goods as rapidly as they can be delivered
upon competing terms, cannot be doubted. To supply
China alone with cotton fabrics made by machine, deducting
<span class='pageno' id='Page_284'>284</span>the 35,000,000 people or thereabout already supplied,
and estimating the demand of the remainder at five pounds
per capita, would require 3,000,000 additional bales of
cotton and 30,000,000 additional spindles. The goods
needed for this demand will be the lower grades of cottons,
for the manufacture of which the South is especially
adapted, and in which there is serious reason to believe
she has demonstrated she has advantages over New
England. The demand from Mexico, Central and South
America, will grow into immense proportions as cotton and
its products cheapen under increased supply, and improved
methods of culture and manufacture. The South will be
called upon to furnish the cotton to meet the calls of the
peoples enumerated. That she can easily do so has been
made plain by previous estimate, but it may be added that
hardly three per cent. of the cotton area is now devoted to
cotton, and that on one-tenth of a single Cotton State—Texas—double
the present crop might be raised. Whether
or not she will do this profitably, and without destroying
the happiness and prosperity of her former population, and
building up a land-holding oligarchy, depends on a reform
in her system of credit and her system of planting. The
first is being effected by the introduction of capital that
recognizes farming lands as a safe risk worthy of a low
percentage of interest; the latter must depend on the
intelligence of her people, the force of a few bright examples,
and the wisdom of her leaders. She will be called
upon to supply a large proportion of the manufactured
goods for this new and limitless demand. It has already
been shown that she has felicitous conditions for this
work.</p>
<div class='pbb'>
 <hr class='pb c007' />
</div>
<div class='chapter'>
  <span class='pageno' id='Page_285'>285</span>
  <h2 class='c012'>IN PLAIN BLACK AND WHITE.<a id='r2' /><a href='#f2' class='c038'><sup>[2]</sup></a></h2>
</div>

<div class='fn'>

<div class='footnote c007' id='f2'>
<p class='c017'><span class='label'><a href='#r2'>2</a>.&nbsp;&nbsp;</span>Reprinted from The Century, April, 1885.</p>
</div>

</div>
<hr class='c028' />

<div class='nf-center-c0'>
  <div class='nf-center'>
    <div>A REPLY TO MR. CABLE.</div>
  </div>
</div>

<p class='drop-capa0_25_0_7 c017'>IT is strange that during the discussion of the negro question,
which has been wide and pertinent, no one has
stood up to speak the mind of the South. In this discussion
there has been much of truth and more of error—something
of perverseness, but more of misapprehension—not a
little of injustice, but perhaps less of mean intention.</p>

<p class='c018'>Amid it all, the South has been silent.</p>

<p class='c018'>There has been, perhaps, good reason for this silence.
The problem under debate is a tremendous one. Its right
solution means peace, prosperity, and happiness to the
South. A mistake, even in the temper in which it is
approached or the theory upon which its solution is
attempted, would mean detriment, that at best would be
serious, and might easily be worse. Hence the South has
pondered over this problem, earnestly seeking with all her
might the honest and the safe way out of its entanglements,
and saying little because there was but little to which she
felt safe in committing herself. Indeed, there was another
reason why she did not feel called upon to obtrude her
opinions. The people of the North, proceeding by the right
of victorious arms, had themselves undertaken to settle the
negro question. From the Emancipation Proclamation to
the Civil Rights Bill they hurried with little let or hindrance,
holding the negro in the meanwhile under a sort of
tutelage, from part in which his former masters were practically
excluded. Under this state of things the South had
little to do but watch and learn.</p>

<p class='c018'>We have now passed fifteen years of experiment. Certain
broad principles have been established as wise and just.</p>

<p class='c018'><span class='pageno' id='Page_286'>286</span>The South has something to say which she can say with
confidence. There is no longer impropriety in her speaking
or lack of weight in her words. The people of the United
States have, by their suffrages, remitted to the Southern
people, temporarily at least, control of the race question.
The decision of the Supreme Court on the Civil Rights Bill
leaves practically to their adjustment important issues that
were, until that decision was rendered, covered by straight
and severe enactment. These things deepen the responsibility
of the South, increase its concern, and confront it
with a problem to which it must address itself promptly
and frankly. Where it has been silent, it now should
speak. The interest of every American in the honorable
and equitable settlement of this question is second only to
the interest of those specially—and fortunately, we believe—charged
with its adjustment. “What will you do with
it?” is a question any man may now ask the South, and to
which the South should make frank and full reply.</p>

<p class='c018'>It is important that this reply shall be plain and straightforward.
Above all things it must carry the genuine convictions
of the people it represents. On this subject and at
this time the South cannot afford to be misunderstood.
Upon the clear and general apprehension of her position
and of her motives and purpose everything depends. She
cannot let pass unchallenged a single utterance that, spoken
in her name, misstates her case or her intention. It is to
protest against just such injustice that this article is
written.</p>

<p class='c018'>In a lately printed article, Mr. George W. Cable, writing
in the name of the Southern people, confesses judgment
on points that they still defend, and commits them to a line
of thought from which they must forever dissent. In this
article, as in his works, the singular tenderness and beauty
of which have justly made him famous, Mr. Cable is sentimental
rather than practical. But the reader, enchained
by the picturesque style and misled by the engaging candor
with which the author admits the shortcomings of “We
of the South,” and the kindling enthusiasm with which he
<span class='pageno' id='Page_287'>287</span>tells how “We of the South” must make reparation, is apt
to assume that it is really the soul of the South that breathes
through Mr. Cable’s repentant sentences. It is not my purpose
to discuss Mr. Cable’s relations to the people for whom
he claims to speak. Born in the South, of Northern parents,
he appears to have had little sympathy with his Southern
environment, as in 1882 he wrote, “To be in New England
would be enough for me. I was there once,—a year ago,—and
it seemed as if I had never been home till then.” It
will be suggested that a man so out of harmony with his
neighbors as to say, even after he had fought side by side
with them on the battle-field, that he never felt at home
until he had left them, cannot speak understandingly of
their views on so vital a subject as that under discussion.
But it is with his statement rather than his personality that
we have to deal. Does he truly represent the South? We
reply that he does not! There may be here and there in
the South a dreaming theorist who subscribes to Mr. Cable’s
teachings. We have seen no signs of one. Among the
thoughtful men of the South,—the men who felt that all
brave men might quit fighting when General Lee surrendered,—who,
enshrining in their hearts the heroic memories
of the cause they had lost, in good faith accepted the arbitrament
of the sword to which they had appealed,—who
bestirred themselves cheerfully amid the ruins of their
homes, and set about the work of rehabilitation,—who have
patched and mended and builded anew, and fashioned out
of pitiful resource a larger prosperity than they ever knew
before,—who have set their homes on the old red hills, and
staked their honor and prosperity and the peace and well-being
of the children who shall come after them on the clear
and equitable solution of every social, industrial, or political
problem that concerns the South,—among these men,
who control and will continue to control, I do know, there
is general protest against Mr. Cable’s statement of the case,
and universal protest against his suggestions for the future.
The mind of these men I shall attempt to speak, maintaining
my right to speak for them with the pledge that, having
<span class='pageno' id='Page_288'>288</span>exceptional means for knowing their views on this subject,
and having spared no pains to keep fully informed
thereof, I shall write down nothing in their name on which
I have found even a fractional difference of opinion.</p>

<p class='c018'>A careful reading of Mr. Cable’s article discloses the
following argument: The Southern people have deliberately
and persistently evaded the laws forced on them for
the protection of the freedman; this evasion has been the
result of prejudices born of and surviving the institution of
slavery, the only way to remove which is to break down
every distinction between the races; and now the best
thought of the South, alarmed at the withdrawal of the
political machinery that forced the passage of the protective
laws, which withdrawal tempts further and more intolerable
evasions, is moving to forbid all further assortment
of the races and insist on their intermingling in all places
and in all relations. The first part of this argument is a
matter of record, and, from the Southern stand-point,
mainly a matter of reputation. It can bide its time. The
suggestion held in its conclusion is so impossible, so mischievous,
and, in certain aspects, so monstrous, that it must
be met at once.</p>

<p class='c018'>It is hard to think about the negro with exactness.
His helplessness, his generations of enslavement, his unique
position among the peoples of the earth, his distinctive
color, his simple, lovable traits,—all these combine to hasten
opinion into conviction where he is the subject of discussion.
Three times has this tendency brought about epochal results
in his history. First, it abolished slavery. For this all
men are thankful, even those who, because of the personal
injustice and violence of the means by which it was brought
about, opposed its accomplishment. Second, it made him
a voter. This, done more in a sense of reparation than in
judgment, is as final as the other. The North demanded
it; the South expected it; all acquiesced in it, and, wise
or unwise, it will stand. Third, it fixed by enactment his
social and civil rights. And here for the first time the
revolution faltered. Up to this point the way had been
<span class='pageno' id='Page_289'>289</span>plain, the light clear, and the march at quick-step. Here
the line halted. The way was lost; there was hesitation,
division, and uncertainty. Knowing not which way to
turn, and enveloped in doubt, the revolutionists heard the
retreat sounded by the Supreme Court with small reluctance,
and, to use Mr. Cable’s words, “bewildered by complication,
vexed by many a blunder,” retired from the field.
See, then, the progress of this work. The first step, right
by universal agreement, would stand if the law that made
it were withdrawn. The second step, though irrevocable,
raises doubts as to its wisdom. The third, wrong in purpose,
has failed in execution. It stands denounced as null
by the highest court, as inoperative by general confession,
and as unwise by popular verdict. Let us take advantage
of this halt in the too rapid revolution, and see exactly
where we stand and what is best for us to do. The situation
is critical. The next moment may formulate the work
of the next twenty years. The tremendous forces of the
revolution, unspent and still terrible, are but held in arrest.
Launch them mistakenly, chaos may come. Wrong-headedness
may be as fatal now as wrong-heartedness. Clear
views, clear statement, and clear understanding are the
demands of the hour. Given these, the common sense and
courage of the American people will make the rest easy.</p>

<p class='c018'>Let it be understood in the beginning, then, that the
South will never adopt Mr. Cable’s suggestion of the social
intermingling of the races. It can never be driven into
accepting it. So far from there being a growing sentiment
in the South in favor of the indiscriminate mixing of the
races, the intelligence of both races is moving farther from
that proposition day by day. It is more impossible (if I
may shade a superlative) now than it was ten years ago; it
will be less possible ten years hence. Neither race wants
it. The interest, as the inclination, of both races is against
it. Here the issue with Mr. Cable is made up. He denounces
any assortment of the races as unjust, and demands
that white and black shall intermingle everywhere. The
South replies that the assortment of the races is wise and
<span class='pageno' id='Page_290'>290</span>proper, and stands on the platform of equal accommodation
for each race, but separate.</p>

<p class='c018'>The difference is an essential one. Deplore or defend it
as we may, an antagonism is bred between the races when
they are forced into mixed assemblages. This sinks out of
sight, if not out of existence, when each race moves in its
own sphere. Mr. Cable admits this feeling, but doubts
that it is instinctive. In my opinion it is instinctive—deeper
than prejudice or pride, and bred in the bone and
blood. It would make itself felt even in sections where
popular prejudice runs counter to its manifestation. If in
any town in Wisconsin or Vermont there was equal population
of whites and blacks, and schools, churches, hotels,
and theaters were in common, this instinct would assuredly
develop; the races would separate, and each race would
hasten the separation. Let me give an example that
touches this supposition closely. Bishop Gilbert Haven, of
the Methodist Episcopal Church, many years ago came to
the South earnestly, and honestly, we may believe, devoted
to breaking up the assortment of the races. He was backed
by powerful influences in the North. He was welcomed by
resident Northerners in the South (then in control of
Southern affairs) as an able and eloquent exponent of their
views. His first experiment toward mixing the races was
made in the church—surely the most propitious field.
Here the fraternal influence of religion emphasized his
appeals for the brotherhood of the races. What was the
result? After the first month his church was decimated.
The Northern whites and the Southern blacks left it in
squads. The dividing influences were mutual. The stout
bishop contended with prayer and argument and threat
against the inevitable, but finally succumbed. Two separate
churches were established, and each race worshiped to
itself. There had been no collision, no harsh words, no
discussion even. Each race simply obeyed its instinct,
that spoke above the appeal of the bishop and dominated
the divine influences that pulsed from pew to pew. Time
and again did the bishop force the experiment. Time and
<span class='pageno' id='Page_291'>291</span>again he failed. At last he was driven to the confession
that but one thing could effect what he had tried so hard to
bring about, and that was miscegenation. A few years of
experiment would force Mr. Cable to the same conclusion.</p>

<p class='c018'>The same experiment was tried on a larger scale by the
Methodist Episcopal Church (North) when it established
its churches in the South after the war. It essayed to
bring the races together, and in its conferences and its
churches there was no color line. Prejudice certainly did
not operate to make a division here. On the contrary, the
whites and blacks of this church were knit together by
prejudice, pride, sentiment, political and even social policy.
Underneath all this was a race instinct, obeying which,
silently, they drifted swiftly apart. While white Methodists
of the church North and of the church South, distant
from each other in all but the kinship of race and worship,
were struggling to effect once more a union of the churches
that had been torn apart by a quarrel over slavery, so that
in every white conference and every white church on all
this continent white Methodists could stand in restored
brotherhood, the Methodist Church (North) agreed, without
serious protest, to a separation of its Southern branch
into two conferences of whites and of blacks, and into separate
congregations where the proportion of either race
was considerable. Was it without reason—it certainly was
not through prejudice—that this Church, while seeking
anew fusion with its late enemies, consented to separate
from its new friends?</p>

<p class='c018'>It was the race instinct that spoke there. It spoke not
with prejudice, but against it. It spoke there as it speaks
always and everywhere—as it has spoken for two thousand
years. And it spoke to the reason of each race. Millaud, in
voting in the French Convention for the beheading of Louis
XVI., said: “If death did not exist, it would be necessary
to-day to invent it.” So of this instinct. It is the pledge of
the integrity of each race, and of peace between the races.
Without it, there might be a breaking down of all lines of
division and a thorough intermingling of whites and blacks.
<span class='pageno' id='Page_292'>292</span>This once accomplished, the lower and the weaker elements
of the races would begin to fuse and the process of amalgamation
would have begun. This would mean the disorganization
of society. An internecine war would be precipitated.
The whites, at any cost and at any hazard,
would maintain the clear integrity and dominance of the
Anglo-Saxon blood. They understand perfectly that the
debasement of their own race would not profit the humble
and sincere race with which their lot is cast, and that the
hybrid would not gain what either race lost. Even if the
vigor and the volume of the Anglo-Saxon blood would enable
it to absorb the African current, and after many generations
recover its own strength and purity, not all the
powers of earth could control the unspeakable horrors that
would wait upon the slow process of clarification. Easier
far it would be to take the population of central New
York, intermingle with it an equal percentage of Indians,
and force amalgamation between the two. Let us review
the argument. If Mr. Cable is correct in assuming that
there is no instinct that keeps the two races separate in the
South, then there is no reason for doubting that if intermingled
they would fuse. Mere prejudice would not long
survive perfect equality and social intermingling; and the
prejudice once gone, intermarrying would begin. Then, if
there is a race instinct in either race that resents intimate
association with the other, it would be unwise to force such
association when there are easy and just alternatives. If
there is no such instinct, the mixing of the races would
mean amalgamation, to which the whites will never submit,
and to which neither race should submit. So that in either
case, whether the race feeling is instinct or prejudice, we
come to but one conclusion: The white and black races in
the South must walk apart. Concurrent their courses may
go—ought to go—will go—but separate. If instinct did
not make this plain in a flash, reason would spell it out
letter by letter.</p>

<p class='c018'>Now, let us see. We hold that there is an instinct, ineradicable
and positive, that will keep the races apart, that
<span class='pageno' id='Page_293'>293</span>would keep the races apart if the problem were transferred
to Illinois or to Maine, and that will resist every effort of
appeal, argument, or force to bring them together. We
add in perfect frankness, however, that if no such instinct
existed, or if the South had reasonable doubt of its existence,
it would, by every means in its power, so strengthen
the race prejudice that it would do the work and hold the
stubbornness and strength of instinct. The question that
confronts us at this point is: Admitted this instinct, that
gathers each race to itself. Then, do you believe it possible
to carry forward on the same soil and under the same
laws two races equally free, practically equal in numbers,
and yet entirely distinct and separate? This is a momentous
question. It involves a problem that, all things considered,
is without a precedent or parallel. Can the South
carry this problem in honor and in peace to an equitable
solution? We reply that for ten years the South has been
doing this very thing, and with at least apparent success.
No impartial and observant man can say that in the
present aspect of things there is cause for alarm, or
even for doubt. In the experience of the past few
years there is assuredly reason for encouragement.
There may be those who discern danger in the distant
future. We do not. Beyond the apprehensions
which must for a long time attend a matter so serious, we
see nothing but cause for congratulation. In the common
sense and the sincerity of the negro, no less than in the intelligence
and earnestness of the whites, we find the problem
simplifying. So far from the future bringing trouble,
we feel confident that another decade or so, confirming
the experience of the past ten years, will furnish the solution
to be accepted of all men.</p>

<p class='c018'>Let us examine briefly what the South has been doing,
and study the attitude of the races toward each other.
Let us do this, not so much to vindicate the past as to clear
the way for the future. Let us see what the situation
teaches. There must be in the experience of fifteen years
something definite and suggestive. We begin with the
<span class='pageno' id='Page_294'>294</span>schools and school management, as the basis of the
rest.</p>

<p class='c018'>Every Southern State has a common-school system, and
in every State separate schools are provided for the races.
Almost every city of more than five thousand inhabitants
has a public-school system, and in every city the schools for
whites and blacks are separate. There is no exception to
this rule that I can find. In many cases the law creating
this system requires that separate schools shall be provided
for the races. This plan works admirably. There is no
friction in the administration of the schools, and no suspicion
as to the ultimate tendency of the system. The road
to school is clear, and both races walk therein with confidence.
The whites, assured that the school will not be made
the hot-bed of false and pernicious ideas, or the scene of
unwise associations, support the system cordially, and insist
on perfect equality in grade and efficiency. The blacks,
asking no more than this, fill the schools with alert and
eager children. So far from feeling debased by the separate-school
system, they insist that the separation shall be
carried further, and the few white teachers yet presiding
over negro schools supplanted by negro teachers. The
appropriations for public schools are increased year after
year, and free education grows constantly in strength and
popularity. Cities that were afraid to commit themselves
to free-schools while mixed schools were a possibility commenced
building school-houses as soon as separate schools
were assured. In 1870 the late Benjamin H. Hill found his
matchless eloquence unable to carry the suggestion of negro
education into popular tolerance. Ten years later nearly
one million black children attended free-schools, supported
by general taxation. Though the whites pay nineteen-twentieths
of the tax, they insist that the blacks shall share
its advantages equally. The schools for each race are
opened on the same day and closed on the same day.
Neither is run a single day at the expense of the other.
The negroes are satisfied with the situation. I am aware
that some of the Northern teachers of negro high-schools
<span class='pageno' id='Page_295'>295</span>and universities will controvert this. Touching their
opinion, I have only to say that it can hardly be considered
fair or conservative. Under the forcing influence of social
ostracism, they have reasoned impatiently and have been
helped to conclusions by quick sympathies or resentments.
Driven back upon themselves and hedged in by suspicion
or hostility, their service has become a sort of martyrdom,
which has swiftly stimulated opinion into conviction and
conviction into fanaticism. I read in a late issue of <i>Zion’s
Herald</i> a letter from one of these teachers, who declined,
on the conductor’s request, to leave the car in which she
was riding, and which was set apart exclusively for negroes.
The conductor, therefore, presumed she was a quadroon,
and stated his presumption in answer to the inquiry of a
young negro man who was with her. She says of this:</p>

<p class='c021'>“Truly, a glad thrill went through my heart—a thrill of pride.
This great autocrat had pronounced me as not only in sympathy, but
also one in blood, with the truest, tenderest, and noblest race that
dwells on earth.”</p>

<p class='c023'>If this quotation, which is now before me, over the
writer’s name, suggests that she and those of her colleagues
who agree with her have narrowed within their narrowing
environment, and acquired artificial enthusiasm under their
unnatural conditions, so that they must be unsafe as advisers
and unfair as witnesses, the sole purpose for which it
is introduced will have been served. This suggestion does
not reach all Northern teachers of negro schools. Some
have taken broader counsels, awakened wider sympathies,
and, as a natural result, hold more moderate views. The
influence of the extremer faction is steadily diminishing.
Set apart, as small and curious communities are set here
and there in populous States, stubborn and stiff for a while,
but overwhelmed at last and lost in the mingling currents,
these dissenting spots will be ere long blotted out and forgotten.
The educational problem, which is their special
care, has already been settled, and the settlement accepted
with a heartiness that precludes the possibility of its disturbance.
From the stand-point of either race the experiment
<span class='pageno' id='Page_296'>296</span>of distinct but equal schools for the white and black
children of the South has demonstrated its wisdom, its
policy, and its justice, if any experiment ever made plain
its wisdom in the hands of finite man.</p>

<p class='c018'>I quote on this subject Gustavus J. Orr, one of the
wisest and best of men, and lately elected, by spontaneous
movement, president of the National Educational Association.
He says: “The race question in the schools is
already settled. We give the negroes equal advantages,
but separate schools. This plan meets the reason and satisfies
the instinct of both races. Under it we have spent
over five million dollars in Georgia, and the system grows
in strength constantly.” I asked if the negroes wanted
mixed schools. His reply was prompt: “They do not. I
have questioned them carefully on this point, and they
make but one reply: “They want their children in their own
schools and under their own teachers.” I asked what
would be the effect of mixed schools. “I could not maintain
the Georgia system one year. Both races would protest
against it. My record as a public-school man is known.
I have devoted my life to the work of education. But I
am so sure of the evils that would come from mixed schools
that, even if they were possible, I would see the whole
educational system swept away before I would see them
established. There is an instinct that gathers each race
about itself. It is as strong in the blacks as in the whites,
though it has not asserted itself so strongly. It is making
itself manifest, since the blacks are organizing a social system
of their own. It has long controlled them in their
churches, and it is now doing so in their schools.”</p>

<p class='c018'>In churches, as in schools, the separation is perfect.
The negroes, in all denominations in which their membership
is an appreciable percentage of the whole, have their
own churches, congregations, pastors, conferences, bishops,
and their own missionaries. There is not the slightest
antagonism between them and the white churches of the
same denomination. On the contrary, there is sympathetic
interest and the utmost friendliness. The separation
<span class='pageno' id='Page_297'>297</span>is recognized as not only instinctive but wise. There is no
disposition to disturb it, and least of all on the part of the
negro. The church is with him the center of social life,
and there he wants to find his own people and no others.
Let me quote just here a few sentences from a speech
delivered by a genuine black negro at the General Conference
of the Methodist Episcopal Church (South), in Atlanta,
Georgia, in 1880. He is himself a pastor of the African
Methodist Church, and came as a fraternal delegate. This
extract from a speech, largely extempore, is a fair specimen
of negro eloquence, as it is a fair evidence of the feeling of
that people toward their white neighbors. He said:</p>

<p class='c021'>“Mr. Chairman, Bishops, and Brethren in Christ: Let me here
state a circumstance which has just now occurred. When in the
vestry, there we were consulting your committee, among whom is
your illustrious Christian Governor, the Honorable A. H. Colquitt
[applause], feeling an unusual thirst, and expecting in a few moments
to appear before you, thoughtlessly I asked him if there was water to
drink. He, looking about the room, answered, ‘There is none; I will
get you some.’ I insisted not; but presently it was brought by a
brother minister, and handed me by the Governor. I said: ‘Governor,
you must allow me to deny myself this distinguished favor, as it recalls
so vividly the episode of the warrior king of Israel, when, with parched
lips, he cried from the rocky cave of Adullam, ‘Oh! that one would
give me drink of water of the well of Bethlehem that is at the gate.’
And when three of his valiant captains broke through the host of the
enemy, and returned to him with the water for which his soul was
longing, regarding it as the water of life, he would not drink it, but
poured it out to the Lord.’ [Applause.] So may this transcendent
emblem of purity and love, from the hand of your most honored
co-laborer and friend of the human race, ever remain as a memorial
unto the Lord of the friendship existing between the Methodist Episcopal
Church South and the African Methodist Episcopal Church upon
this the first exchange of formal fraternal greeting. [Applause.]</p>

<p class='c022'>“In the name of the African Methodist Episcopal Church,—and
I declare the true sentiments of thousands,—I say, that for your Church
and your race we cherish the kindliest feelings that ever found a lodgment
in the human breast. [Applause.] Of this you need not be told.
Let speak your former missionaries among us, who now hold seats
upon this floor, and whose hearts have so often burned within them as
they have seen the word sown by them in such humble soil burst forth
into abundant prosperity. Ask the hundred thousand of your laymen
<span class='pageno' id='Page_298'>298</span>who still survive the dead, how we conducted ourselves as tillers of the
soil, as servants about the dwelling, and as common worshipers in the
temple of God! Ask your battle-scarred veterans, who left their all to
the mercy of relentless circumstances, and went, in answer to the
clarion call of the trumpet, to the gigantic and unnatural strife of the
second revolution! Ask them who looked at their interests at home
[great cheering]; who raised their earthworks upon the field; who
buried the young hero so far away from his home, or returned his
ashes to the stricken hearts which hung breathless upon the hour;
who protected their wives and little ones from the ravages of wild
beasts, and the worse ravages of famine! And the answer is returned
from a million heaving bosoms, as a monument of everlasting remembrance
to the benevolence of the colored race in America. [Immense
applause.] And these are they who greet you to-day, through their
chief organization, the African Methodist Episcopal Church in the
United States of America. [Loud and continued applause.]</p>

<p class='c022'>“And now, though the yoke which bound the master and the slave
together in such close and mutual responsibility has been shivered by
the rude shock of war, we find ourselves still standing by your side as
natural allies against an unfriendly world.” [Applause.]</p>

<p class='c023'>In their social institutions, as in their churches and
schools, the negroes have obeyed their instinct and kept
apart from the whites. They have their own social and
benevolent societies, their own military companies, their
own orders of Masons and Odd Fellows. They rally about
these organizations with the greatest enthusiasm and support
them with the greatest liberality. If it were proposed
to merge them with white organizations of the same character,
with equal rights guaranteed in all, the negroes
would interpose the stoutest objection. Their tastes, associations,
and inclinations—their instincts—lead them to
gather their race about social centers of its own. I am
tempted into trying to explain here what I have never yet
seen a stranger to the South able to understand. The feeling
that, by mutual action, separates whites and blacks
when they are thrown together in social intercourse is not
a repellent influence in the harsh sense of that word. It is
centripetal rather than centrifugal. It is attractive about
separate centers rather than expulsive from a common center.
There is no antagonism, for example, between white
<span class='pageno' id='Page_299'>299</span>and black military companies. On occasions they parade
in the same street, and have none of the feeling that exists
between Orangemen and Catholics. Of course the good
sense of each race and the mutual recognition of the possible
dangers of the situation have much to do with maintaining
the good-will between the distinct races. The fact
that in his own church or society the negro has more freedom,
more chance for leadership and for individual development,
than he could have in association with the whites,
has more to do with it. But beyond all this is the fact
that, in the segregation of the races, blacks as well as
whites obey a natural instinct, which, always granting that
they get equal justice and equal advantages, they obey
without the slightest ill-nature or without any sense of
disgrace. They meet the white people in all the avenues
of business. They work side by side with the white bricklayer
or carpenter in perfect accord and friendliness.
When the trowel or the hammer is laid aside, the laborers
part, each going his own way. Any attempt to carry the
comradeship of the day into private life would be sternly
resisted by both parties in interest.</p>

<p class='c018'>We have seen that in churches, schools, and social organizations
the whites and blacks are moving along separately
but harmoniously, and that the “assortment of the races,”
which has been described as shameful and unjust, is in
most part made by the instinct of each race, and commands
the hearty assent of both. Let us now consider the question
of public carriers. On this point the South has been
sharply criticised, and not always without reason. It is
manifestly wrong to make a negro pay as much for a railroad
ticket as a white man pays, and then force him to
accept inferior accommodations. It is equally wrong to
force a decent negro into an indecent car, when there is
room for him or for her elsewhere. Public sentiment in
the South has long recognized this, and has persistently
demanded that the railroad managers should provide
cars for the negroes equal in every respect to those
set apart for the whites, and that these cars should
<span class='pageno' id='Page_300'>300</span>be kept clean and orderly. In Georgia a State law
requires all public roads or carriers to provide equal accommodation
for each race, and failure to do so is made a
penal offense. In Tennessee a negro woman lately gained
damages by proving that she had been forced to take
inferior accommodation on a train. The railroads have,
with few exceptions, come up to the requirements of the
law. Where they fail, they quickly feel the weight of
public opinion, and shock the sense of public justice. This
very discussion, I am bound to say, will lessen such failures
in the future. On four roads, in my knowledge, even
better has been done than the law requires. The car set
apart for the negroes is made exclusive. No whites are
permitted to occupy it. A white man who strays into this
car is politely told that it is reserved for the negroes. He
has the information repeated two or three times, smiles,
and retreats. This rule works admirably and will win general
favor. There are a few roads that make no separate
provision for the races, but announce that any passenger
can ride on any car. Here the “assortment” of the races
is done away with, and here it is that most of the outrages
of which we hear occur. On these roads the negro has no
place set apart for him. As a rule, he is shy about asserting
himself, and he usually finds himself in the meanest
corners of the train. If he forces himself into the ladies’
car, he is apt to provoke a collision. It is on just one of
these trains where the assortment of the passengers is left
to chance that a respectable negro woman is apt to
be forced to ride in a car crowded with negro convicts.
Such a thing would be impossible where the issue is fairly
met, and a car, clean, orderly, and exclusive, is provided
for each race. The case could not be met by grading the
tickets and the accommodations. Such a plan would bring
together in the second or third class car just the element of
both races between whom prejudice runs highest, and from
whom the least of tact or restraint might be expected. On
the railroads, as elsewhere, the solution of the race problem
is, equal advantages for the same money,—equal in
comfort, safety, and exclusiveness,—but separate.</p>

<p class='c018'><span class='pageno' id='Page_301'>301</span>There remains but one thing further to consider—the
negro in the jury-box. It is assumed generally that the
negro has no representation in the courts. This is a false
assumption. In the United States courts he usually makes
more than half the jury. As to the State courts, I can
speak particularly as to Georgia. I assume that she does not
materially differ from the other States. In Georgia the law
requires that commissioners shall prepare the jury-list for
each county by selection from the upright, intelligent, and
experienced citizens of the county. This provision was put
into the Constitution by the negro convention of reconstruction
days. Under its terms no reasonable man would
have expected to see the list made up of equal percentage
of the races. Indeed, the fewest number of negroes were
qualified under the law. Consequently, but few appeared
on the lists. The number, as was to be expected, is steadily
increasing. In Fulton County there are seventy-four
negroes whose names are on the lists, and the commissioners,
I am informed, have about doubled this number for
the present year. These negroes make good jurymen, and
are rarely struck by attorneys, no matter what the client
or cause may be. About the worst that can be charged
against the jury system in Georgia is that the commissioners
have made jurors of negroes only when they had qualified
themselves to intelligently discharge a juror’s duties.
In few quarters of the South, however, is the negro unable
to get full and exact justice in the courts, whether the jury
be white or black. Immediately after the war, when there
was general alarm and irritation, there may have been
undue severity in sentences and extreme rigor of prosecution.
But the charge that the people of the South have, in
their deliberate and later moments prostituted justice to
the oppression of this dependent people, is as false as it is
infamous. There is abundant belief that the very helplessness
of the negro in court has touched the heart and conscience
of many a jury, when the facts should have held them
impervious. In the city in which this is written, a negro,
at midnight, on an unfrequented street, murdered a popular
<span class='pageno' id='Page_302'>302</span>young fellow, over whose grave a monument was placed
by popular subscription. The only witnesses of the killing
were the friends of the murdered boy. Had the murderer
been a white man, it is believed he would have been convicted.
He was acquitted by the white jury, and has since
been convicted of a murderous assault on a person of his
own color. Similarly, a young white man, belonging to
one of the leading families of the State, was hanged for the
murder of a negro. Insanity was pleaded in his defense,
and so plausibly that it is believed he would have escaped
had his victim been a white man.</p>

<p class='c018'>I quote on this point Mr. Benjamin H. Hill, who has
been prosecuting attorney of the Atlanta, Ga., circuit for
twelve years. He says: “In cities and towns the negro
gets equal and exact justice before the courts. It is possible
that, in remote counties, where the question is one of a
fight between a white man and a negro, there may be a lingering
prejudice that causes occasional injustice. The
judge, however, may be relied on to correct this. As to
negro jurors, I have never known a negro to allow his
lawyer to accept a negro juror. For the State I have
accepted a black juror fifty times, to have him rejected by
the opposing lawyer by order of his negro client. This has
incurred so invariably that I have accepted it as a rule.
Irrespective of that, the negro gets justice in the courts,
and the last remaining prejudice against him in the jury-box
has passed away. I convicted a white man for voluntary
manslaughter under peculiar circumstances. A negro
met him on the street and cursed him. The white man
ordered him off and started home. The negro followed
him to his house and cursed him until he entered the door.
When he came out, the negro was still waiting. He
renewed the abuse, followed him to his store, and there
struck him with his fist. In the struggle that followed,
the negro was shot and killed. The jury promptly convicted
the slayer.”</p>

<p class='c018'>So much for the relation between the races in the South,
in churches, schools, social organizations, on the railroad,
<span class='pageno' id='Page_303'>303</span>and in theaters. Everything is placed on the basis of equal
accommodations, but separate. In the courts the blacks
are admitted to the jury-box as they lift themselves into
the limit of qualification. Mistakes have been made and
injustice has been worked here and there. This was to
have been expected, and it has been less than might have
been expected. But there can be no mistake about the
progress the South is making in the equitable adjustment
of the relations between the races. Ten years ago nothing
was settled. There were frequent collisions and constant
apprehensions. The whites were suspicious and the blacks
were restless. So simple a thing as a negro taking an
hour’s ride on the cars, or going to see a play, was fraught
with possible danger. The larger affairs—school, church,
and court—were held in abeyance. Now all this is
changed. The era of doubt and mistrust is succeeded by
the era of confidence and good-will. The races meet in the
exchange of labor in perfect amity and understanding.
Together they carry on the concerns of the day, knowing
little or nothing of the fierce hostility that divides labor
and capital in other sections. When they turn to social
life they separate. Each race obeys its instinct and congregates
about its own centers. At the theater they sit in
opposite sections of the same gallery. On the trains they
ride each in his own car. Each worships in his own
church, and educates his children in his schools. Each has
his place and fills it, and is satisfied. Each gets the same
accommodation for the same money. There is no collision.
There is no irritation or suspicion. Nowhere on earth is there
kindlier feeling, closer sympathy, or less friction between
two classes of society than between the whites and blacks
of the South to-day. This is due to the fact that in the
adjustment of their relations they have been practical and
sensible. They have wisely recognized what was essential,
and have not sought to change what was unchangeable.
They have yielded neither to the fanatic nor demagogue,
refusing to be misled by the one or misused by the
other. While the world has been clamoring over their differences
<span class='pageno' id='Page_304'>304</span>they have been quietly taking counsel with each
other, in the field, the shop, the street and cabin, and settling
things for themselves. That the result has not astonished
the world in the speediness and the facility with
which it has been reached, and the beneficence that has
come with it, is due to the fact that the result has not been
freely proclaimed. It has been a deplorable condition of
our politics that the North has been misinformed as to the
true condition of things in the South. Political greed and
passion conjured pestilential mists to becloud what the
lifting smoke of battle left clear. It has exaggerated where
there was a grain of fact, and invented where there was
none. It has sought to establish the most casual occurrences
as the settled habit of the section, and has sprung
endless jeremiades from one single disorder, as Jenkins filled
the courts of Christendom with lamentations over his dissevered
ear. These misrepresentations will pass away with
the occasion that provoked them, and when the truth is
known it will come with the force of a revelation to vindicate
those who have bespoken for the South a fair trial,
and to confound those who have borne false witness
against her.</p>

<p class='c018'>One thing further need be said, in perfect frankness.
The South must be allowed to settle the social relations of
the races according to her own views of what is right and
best. There has never been a moment when she could have
submitted to have the social status of her citizens fixed by
an outside power. She accepted the emancipation and the
enfranchisement of her slaves as the legitimate results of
war that had been fought to a conclusion. These once
accomplished, nothing more was possible. “Thus far and
no farther,” she said to her neighbors, in no spirit of defiance,
but with quiet determination. In her weakest
moments, when her helpless people were hedged about by
the unthinking bayonets of her conquerors, she gathered
them for resistance at this point. Here she defended
everything that a people should hold dear. There was
little proclamation of her purpose. Barely did the whispered
<span class='pageno' id='Page_305'>305</span>word that bespoke her resolution catch the listening
ears of her sons; but for all this the victorious armies
of the North, had they been rallied again from their homes,
could not have enforced and maintained among this disarmed
people the policy indicated in the Civil Rights bill.
Had she found herself unable to defend her social integrity
against the arms that were invincible on the fields where
she staked the sovereignty of her States, her people would
have abandoned their homes and betaken themselves into
exile. Now, as then, the South is determined that, come
what may, she must control the social relations of the two
races whose lots are cast within her limits. It is right that
she should have this control. The problem is hers, whether
or not of her seeking, and her very existence depends on
its proper solution. Her responsibility is greater, her
knowledge of the case more thorough than that of others
can be. The question touches her at every point; it
presses on her from every side; it commands her constant
attention. Every consideration of policy, of honor, of
pride, of common sense impels her to the exactest justice
and the fullest equity. She lacks the ignorance or misapprehension
that might lead others into mistakes; all others
lack the appalling alternative that, all else failing, would
force her to use her knowledge wisely. For these reasons
she has reserved to herself the right to settle the still
unsettled element of the race problem, and this right she
can never yield.</p>

<p class='c018'>As a matter of course, this implies the clear and unmistakable
domination of the white race in the South. The
assertion of that is simply the assertion of the right of
character, intelligence and property to rule. It is simply
saying that the responsible and steadfast element in the
community shall control, rather than the irresponsible and
the migratory. It is the reassertion of the moral power
that overthrew the scandalous reconstruction governments,
even though, to the shame of the Republic be it said, they
were supported by the bayonets of the General Government.
Even the race issue is lost at this point. If the
<span class='pageno' id='Page_306'>306</span>blacks of the South wore white skins, and were leagued
together in the same ignorance and irresponsibility under
any other distinctive mark than their color, they would
progress not one step farther toward the control of affairs.
Or if they were transported as they are to Ohio, and there
placed in numerical majority of two to one, they would
find the white minority there asserting and maintaining
control, with less patience, perhaps, than many a Southern
State has shown. Everywhere, with such temporary
exceptions as afford demonstration of the rule, intelligence,
character, and property will dominate in spite of
numerical differences. These qualities are lodged with the
white race in the South, and will assuredly remain there
for many generations at least; so that the white race will
continue to dominate the colored, even if the percentages
of race increase deduced from the comparison of a lame
census with a perfect one, and the omission of other considerations,
should hold good and the present race majority
be reversed.</p>

<p class='c018'>Let no one imagine, from what is here said, that the
South is careless of the opinion or regardless of the counsel
of the outside world. On the contrary, while maintaining
firmly a position she believes to be essential, she appreciates
heartily the value of general sympathy and confidence.
With an earnestness that is little less than pathetic she
bespeaks the patience and the impartial judgment of all
concerned. Surely her situation should command this
rather than indifference or antagonism. In poverty and
defeat,—with her cities destroyed, her fields desolated, her
labor disorganized, her homes in ruins, her families scattered,
and the ranks of her sons decimated,—in the face of
universal prejudice, fanned by the storm of war into hostility
and hatred—under the shadow of this sorrow and
this disadvantage, she turned bravely to confront a problem
that would have taxed to the utmost every resource of
a rich and powerful and victorious people. Every inch of
her progress has been beset with sore difficulties; and if
the way is now clearing, it only reveals more clearly the
<span class='pageno' id='Page_307'>307</span>tremendous import of the work to which her hands are
given. It must be understood that she desires to silence
no criticism, evade no issue, and lessen no responsibility.
She recognizes that the negro is here to stay. She knows
that her honor, her dear name, and her fame, no less than
her prosperity, will be measured by the fulness of the justice
she gives and guarantees to this kindly and dependent
race. She knows that every mistake made and every error
fallen into, no matter how innocently, endanger her peace
and her reputation. In this full knowledge she accepts
the issue without fear or evasion. She says, not boldly,
but conscious of the honesty and the wisdom of her convictions:
“Leave this problem to my working out. I will
solve it in calmness and deliberation, without passion or
prejudice, and with full regard for the unspeakable equities
it holds. Judge me rigidly, but judge me by my
works.” And with the South the matter may be left—must
be left. There it can be left with the fullest confidence
that the honor of the Republic will be maintained,
the rights of humanity guarded, and the problem worked
out in such exact justice as the finite mind can measure or
finite agencies administer.</p>
<div class='pbb'>
 <hr class='pb c007' />
</div>
<div class='chapter'>
  <span class='pageno' id='Page_308'>308</span>
  <h2 class='c012'>THE LITTLE BOY IN THE BALCONY.</h2>
</div>
<hr class='c013' />
<p class='drop-capa0_25_0_7 c017'>MY special amusement in New York is riding on the
elevated railway. It is curious to note how little
one can see on the crowded sidewalks of this city. It is
simply a rush of the same people—hurrying this way or
that on the same errands—doing the same shopping or eating
at the same restaurants. It is a kaleidoscope with
infinite combinations but the same effects. You see it to-day,
and it is the same as yesterday. Occasionally in the
multitude you hit upon a <i>genre</i> specimen, or an odd
detail, such as a prim little dog that sits upright all day
and holds in its mouth a cup for pennies for its blind master,
or an old bookseller with a grand head and the deliberate
motions of a scholar moldering in a stall—but the
general effect is one of sameness and soon tires and
bewilders.</p>

<p class='c018'>Once on the elevated road, however, a new world is
opened, full of the most interesting objects. The cars
sweep by the upper stories of the houses, and, running
never too swiftly to allow observation, disclose the secrets
of a thousand homes, and bring to view people and things
never dreamed of by the giddy, restless crowd that sends
its impatient murmur from the streets below. In a course
of several months’ pretty steady riding from Twenty-third
Street, which is the station for the Fifth Avenue Hotel, to
Rector, which overlooks Wall Street, I have made many
acquaintances along the route—and on reaching the city
my first curiosity is in their behalf.</p>

<p class='c018'>One of these is a boy about six years of age—akin in
his fragile body and his serious mien, a youngster that is
very precious to one. I first saw this boy on a little balcony
about three feet by four, projecting from the window
of a poverty-stricken fourth floor. He was leaning over
<span class='pageno' id='Page_309'>309</span>the railing, his white, thoughtful head just clearing the
top, holding a short round stick in his hand. The little
fellow made a pathetic picture, all alone there above the
street, so friendless and desolate, and his pale face came
between me and my business many a time that day. On
going up town that evening just as night was falling, I saw
him still at his place, white and patient and silent. Every
day afterwards I saw him there, always with the short stick
in his hand. Occasionally he would walk around the balcony
rattling the stick in a solemn manner against the railing,
or poke it across from one corner to another and sit on
it. This was the only playing I ever saw him do, and the
stick was the only plaything he had. But he was never
without it. His little hand always held it, and I pictured
him every morning when he awoke from his joyless sleep,
picking up his plaything and going out to his balcony, as
other boys go to play. Or perhaps he slept with it, as
little ones do with dolls and whip-tops.</p>

<p class='c018'>I could see that the room beyond the window was bare.
I never saw any one in it. The heat must have been terrible,
for it could have had no ventilation. Once I missed the
boy from the balcony, but saw his white head, moving about
slowly in the dusk of the room. Gradually the little fellow
become a burden to me. I found myself continually
thinking of him, and troubled with that remorse that
thoughtless people feel even for suffering for which they
are not in the slightest degree responsible. Not that I ever
saw any suffering on his face. It was patient, thoughtful,
serious, but with never a sign of petulance. What thoughts
filled that young head—what contemplation took the place
of what should have been the ineffable upbringing of childish
emotion—what complaint or questioning were living
behind that white face—no one could guess. In an older
person the face would have betokened a resignation that
found peace in the hope of things hereafter. In this child,
without hope or estimation, it was sad beyond expression.</p>

<p class='c018'>One day as I passed I nodded at him. He made no
sign in return. I repeated the nod on another trip, waving
<span class='pageno' id='Page_310'>310</span>my hand at him—but without avail. At length, in response
to an unusually winning exhortation, his pale lips trembled
into a smile—but a smile that was soberness itself. Wherever
I went that day that smile went with me. Wherever
I saw children playing in the parks, or trotting along with
their hands nestled in strong fingers that guided and protected,
I thought of that tiny watcher in the balcony—joyless,
hopeless, friendless—a desolate mite, hanging between
the blue sky and the gladsome streets—lifting his wistful
face now to the peaceful heights of the one, and now looking
with grave wonder on the ceaseless tumult of the other.
At length—but why go any further? Why is it necessary
to tell that the boy had no father, that his mother was bedridden
from his birth, and that his sister pasted labels in a
drug-house, and he was thus left to himself all day? It is
sufficient to say that I went to Coney Island yesterday, and
forgot the heat in the sharp saline breezes—watched the
bathers and the children—listened to the crisp, lingering
music of the waves as they sang to the beach—ate a robust
lunch on the pier—wandered in and out among the booths,
tents, and hubbub—and that through all these manifold
pleasures, I had a companion that enjoyed them with a
gravity that I can never hope to emulate, but with a soulfulness
that was touching—and that as I came back in the
boat, the breezes singing through the cordage, music floating
from the fore-deck, and the sun lighting with its dying
rays the shipping that covered the river, there was sitting
in front of me a very pale but very happy bit of a boy,
open-eyed with wonder, but sober and self-contained, clasping
tightly in his little fingers a short battered stick. And
finally that whenever I pass by a certain overhanging balcony
now, I am sure of a smile from an intimate and
esteemed friend who lives there.</p>
<div class='pbb'>
 <hr class='pb c007' />
</div>

<div class='nf-center-c0'>
<div class='nf-center c001'>
    <div><span class='pageno' id='Page_311'>311</span><span class='c029'>POEMS</span></div>
    <div class='c000'><i>BY VARIOUS HANDS.</i></div>
  </div>
</div>

<div class='pbb'>
 <hr class='pb c001' />
</div>
<div class='chapter'>
  <span class='pageno' id='Page_313'>313</span>
  <h2 class='c012'>GRADY.</h2>
</div>
<hr class='c013' />

<div class='nf-center-c0'>
  <div class='nf-center'>
    <div>I.</div>
  </div>
</div>

<div class='lg-container-b c031'>
  <div class='linegroup'>
    <div class='group'>
    <div  class='linedc drop-capanf0_25_0_7'>SUNS rise and set, stars flash and darken:</div>
      <div class='line in4'>To-day I stand alone and hearken</div>
      <div class='line in2'>Unto this counsel, old and wise:</div>
      <div class='line'>“As shadows still we flee.” The blossom</div>
      <div class='line'>May hide the rare fruit in its bosom,</div>
      <div class='line in2'>But in the core the canker lies.</div>
    </div>
  </div>
</div>

<div class='nf-center-c0'>
<div class='nf-center c000'>
    <div>II.</div>
  </div>
</div>

<div class='lg-container-b c031'>
  <div class='linegroup'>
    <div class='group'>
      <div class='line'>To-day I stand alone and listen—</div>
      <div class='line'>While on my cheek the teardrops glisten</div>
      <div class='line in2'>And a strange blindness veils my sight,</div>
      <div class='line'>Unto the story of his dying</div>
      <div class='line'>And how, in God’s white slumber lying,</div>
      <div class='line in2'>His laureled brow is lulled to-night.</div>
    </div>
  </div>
</div>

<div class='nf-center-c0'>
<div class='nf-center c000'>
    <div>III.</div>
  </div>
</div>

<div class='lg-container-b c031'>
  <div class='linegroup'>
    <div class='group'>
      <div class='line'>Dear friends, I would not mock your sorrow</div>
      <div class='line'>With this poor wreath that ere to-morrow</div>
      <div class='line in2'>Shall fade and perish—little worth;</div>
      <div class='line'>But from the mountains that lament him,</div>
      <div class='line'>And from these vales whose violets lent him</div>
      <div class='line in2'>Their fragrance; from around the earth,</div>
    </div>
  </div>
</div>

<div class='nf-center-c0'>
<div class='nf-center c000'>
    <div>IV.</div>
  </div>
</div>

<div class='lg-container-b c031'>
  <div class='linegroup'>
    <div class='group'>
      <div class='line'>Wherever Love hath her dominion,</div>
      <div class='line'>Sorrow hath plumed her shadowed pinion</div>
      <div class='line in2'>And paid the tribute of her tears;</div>
      <div class='line'>And here is mine! In pathways lowly</div>
      <div class='line'>This man, whose dust ye count as holy</div>
      <div class='line in2'>Met me, a traveller of the years,</div>
    </div>
  </div>
</div>

<div class='nf-center-c0'>
<div class='nf-center c000'>
    <div><span class='pageno' id='Page_314'>314</span>V.</div>
  </div>
</div>

<div class='lg-container-b c031'>
  <div class='linegroup'>
    <div class='group'>
      <div class='line'>And reached his strong right hand—a brother,</div>
      <div class='line'>Saying: “Mankind should love each other,”</div>
      <div class='line in2'>And so I shared and felt his love;</div>
      <div class='line'>And now my heart its grief expresses</div>
      <div class='line'>As comes from out lone wildernesses</div>
      <div class='line in2'>The sad lamenting of the dove.</div>
    </div>
  </div>
</div>

<div class='nf-center-c0'>
<div class='nf-center c000'>
    <div>VI.</div>
  </div>
</div>

<div class='lg-container-b c031'>
  <div class='linegroup'>
    <div class='group'>
      <div class='line'>Yet while I weep States mourn together</div>
      <div class='line'>And in the world ’tis rainy weather</div>
      <div class='line in2'>And all that bright rain falls for him!</div>
      <div class='line'>States mourn, and while their voices fame him</div>
      <div class='line'>The fond lips of the lowly name him,</div>
      <div class='line in2'>And little children’s eyes grow dim,</div>
    </div>
  </div>
</div>

<div class='nf-center-c0'>
<div class='nf-center c000'>
    <div>VII.</div>
  </div>
</div>

<div class='lg-container-b c031'>
  <div class='linegroup'>
    <div class='group'>
      <div class='line'>With tender tears, because they love him;</div>
      <div class='line'>Their hands strew violets above him:</div>
      <div class='line in2'>They lisp his dear name in their dreams.</div>
      <div class='line'>And in their sorrows and afflictions</div>
      <div class='line'>Old men breathe dying benedictions</div>
      <div class='line in2'>Where on his grave the starlight gleams.</div>
    </div>
  </div>
</div>

<div class='nf-center-c0'>
<div class='nf-center c000'>
    <div>VIII.</div>
  </div>
</div>

<div class='lg-container-b c031'>
  <div class='linegroup'>
    <div class='group'>
      <div class='line'>He stood upon the heights, yet never</div>
      <div class='line'>So high but that his heart forever</div>
      <div class='line in2'>Was by the lowliest accent thrilled;</div>
      <div class='line'>He loved his land and sought to save it,</div>
      <div class='line'>And in that love he freely gave it</div>
      <div class='line in2'>The life Death’s hand hath touched and stilled.</div>
    </div>
  </div>
</div>

<div class='nf-center-c0'>
<div class='nf-center c000'>
    <div>IX.</div>
  </div>
</div>

<div class='lg-container-b c031'>
  <div class='linegroup'>
    <div class='group'>
      <div class='line'>Dear, brave, true heart! You fell as falleth</div>
      <div class='line'>A star when from far spaces calleth</div>
      <div class='line in2'>God’s voice that shakes the trembling spheres;</div>
      <div class='line'>Fell! Nay! that voice, like softest lyre,</div>
      <div class='line'>Whispered thee in thy dreams: “Come higher,</div>
      <div class='line in2'>Above Earth’s sorrows, hopes and fears.”</div>
    </div>
  </div>
</div>

<div class='nf-center-c0'>
<div class='nf-center c000'>
    <div><span class='pageno' id='Page_315'>315</span>X.</div>
  </div>
</div>

<div class='lg-container-b c031'>
  <div class='linegroup'>
    <div class='group'>
      <div class='line'>I shall not see the dead: Thy living,</div>
      <div class='line'>Dear face, the gentle and forgiving;</div>
      <div class='line in2'>The kindly eyes compassionate;</div>
      <div class='line'>The rare smile of thy lips—each token</div>
      <div class='line'>I have of thee must be unbroken—</div>
      <div class='line in2'>Death shall not leave them desolate?</div>
    </div>
  </div>
</div>

<div class='nf-center-c0'>
<div class='nf-center c000'>
    <div>XI.</div>
  </div>
</div>

<div class='lg-container-b c031'>
  <div class='linegroup'>
    <div class='group'>
      <div class='line'>O, Christmas skies of blue December,</div>
      <div class='line'>This day of earthly days remember—</div>
      <div class='line in2'>He loved you, skies! to him your blue</div>
      <div class='line'>Was beautiful! O, sunlight gleaming</div>
      <div class='line'>Like silver on the rivers streaming</div>
      <div class='line in2'>Out to the sea; and mountain’s dew</div>
    </div>
  </div>
</div>

<div class='nf-center-c0'>
<div class='nf-center c000'>
    <div>XII.</div>
  </div>
</div>

<div class='lg-container-b c031'>
  <div class='linegroup'>
    <div class='group'>
      <div class='line'>Bespangled—and ye velvet valleys,</div>
      <div class='line'>Green-bosomed, where the south winds dallies—</div>
      <div class='line in2'>He loved you! And ye birds that sing—</div>
      <div class='line'>Do ye not miss him? Winds that wander,</div>
      <div class='line'>How can ye pass him, lying yonder,</div>
      <div class='line in2'>Now sigh his dirge with folded wing?</div>
    </div>
  </div>
</div>

<div class='nf-center-c0'>
<div class='nf-center c000'>
    <div>XIII.</div>
  </div>
</div>

<div class='lg-container-b c031'>
  <div class='linegroup'>
    <div class='group'>
      <div class='line'>In dearest dust that ever nourished</div>
      <div class='line'>The violets that o’er it flourished,</div>
      <div class='line in2'>He lies, your lover and your friend!</div>
      <div class='line'>Thy softest beams, sweet sun, will kiss him;</div>
      <div class='line'>Sweet, silent valleys, ye will miss him,</div>
      <div class='line in2'>Your roses, weeping, o’er him bend.</div>
    </div>
  </div>
</div>

<div class='nf-center-c0'>
<div class='nf-center c000'>
    <div>XIV.</div>
  </div>
</div>

<div class='lg-container-b c031'>
  <div class='linegroup'>
    <div class='group'>
      <div class='line'>Good-night—Good-bye! Above our sorrow,</div>
      <div class='line'>Comrade! thine is a fair “good-morrow,”</div>
      <div class='line in2'>In some far, luminous world of light,</div>
      <div class='line'>Yet, take this farewell—Love’s last token:</div>
      <div class='line'>We leave thee to thy rest unbroken—</div>
      <div class='line in2'>God have thee in his care—Good-night!</div>
    </div>
  </div>
</div>

<div class='c039'>—<span class='sc'>F. L. Stanton.</span></div>
<div class='pbb'>
 <hr class='pb c007' />
</div>
<div class='chapter'>
  <span class='pageno' id='Page_316'>316</span>
  <h2 class='c012'>ATLANTA.</h2>
</div>
<hr class='c013' />
<div class='lg-container-b c031'>
  <div class='linegroup'>
    <div class='group'>
      <div class='line'>We weep with Atlanta!</div>
      <div class='line'>Her loss is the nation’s!</div>
      <div class='line'>With deep lamentations</div>
      <div class='line'>Our grief is revealed;</div>
      <div class='line'>For her hero so youthful,</div>
      <div class='line'>So radiant and truthful,</div>
      <div class='line'>Her loyal defender,</div>
      <div class='line'>Lies dead on the field.</div>
    </div>
    <div class='group'>
      <div class='line'>We weep with Atlanta!</div>
      <div class='line'>O sore her bereavement!</div>
      <div class='line'>For he whose achievement</div>
      <div class='line'>The continent thrilled,</div>
      <div class='line'>His last word has spoken;</div>
      <div class='line'>In silence unbroken.</div>
      <div class='line'>By Death’s cruel mandate,</div>
      <div class='line'>The proud pulse is stilled.</div>
    </div>
    <div class='group'>
      <div class='line'>We weep with Atlanta!</div>
      <div class='line'>For woe crowds upon her</div>
      <div class='line'>When the soldier of honor</div>
      <div class='line'>Death’s countersign gives.</div>
      <div class='line'>Keep the grasses above him,</div>
      <div class='line'>And let those who love him</div>
      <div class='line'>Proclaim beyond doubting</div>
      <div class='line'>That the hero still lives.</div>
    </div>
  </div>
</div>

<div class='c039'><span class='sc'>Josephine Pollard.</span></div>

<p class='drop-capanf0_25_0_7 c017'><span class='sc'>New York City</span>, <i>Dec. 27, 1889</i>.</p>
<div class='pbb'>
 <hr class='pb c007' />
</div>
<div class='chapter'>
  <span class='pageno' id='Page_317'>317</span>
  <h2 class='c012'>HENRY W. GRADY.</h2>
</div>
<hr class='c013' />

<div class='lg-container-b c031'>
  <div class='linegroup'>
    <div class='group'>
    <div  class='linedc drop-capanf0_25_0_7'>TRUE-HEARTED friend of all true friendliness!</div>
      <div class='line'>Brother of all true brotherhoods!—Thy hand</div>
      <div class='line'>And its late pressure now we understand</div>
      <div class='line'>Most fully, as it falls thus gestureless,</div>
      <div class='line'>And Silence lulls thee into sweet excess</div>
      <div class='line in2'>Of sleep. Sleep thou content!—Thy loved Southland.</div>
      <div class='line in2'>Is swept with tears, as rain in sunshine; and</div>
      <div class='line'>Through all the frozen North our eyes confess</div>
      <div class='line in2'>Like sorrow—seeing still the princely sign</div>
      <div class='line'>Set on thy lifted brow, and the rapt light</div>
      <div class='line in2'>Of the dark, tender, melancholy eyes—</div>
      <div class='line'>Thrilled with the music of those lips of thine,</div>
      <div class='line'>And yet the fire thereof that lights the night,</div>
      <div class='line in2'>With the white splendor of thy prophecies.</div>
    </div>
  </div>
</div>

<div class='c039'><span class='sc'>James Whitcombe Riley.</span></div>

<p class='drop-capanf0_25_0_7 c017'>In <i>New York Tribune</i>, December 23, 1889.</p>
<div class='pbb'>
 <hr class='pb c007' />
</div>
<div class='chapter'>
  <span class='pageno' id='Page_318'>318</span>
  <h2 class='c012'>A REQUIEM.</h2>
</div>

<div class='nf-center-c0'>
<div class='nf-center c007'>
    <div><i>IN MEMORY OF “HIM THAT’S AWA’”.</i></div>
  </div>
</div>

<hr class='c028' />
<div class='lg-container-b c031'>
  <div class='linegroup'>
    <div class='group'>
    <div  class='linedc drop-capanf0_25_0_7'>BURY him in the sunshine,</div>
      <div class='line in4'>Bring forth the rarest flowers</div>
      <div class='line'>In love to rest above the breast</div>
      <div class='line in2'>Of this dead hope of ours!</div>
      <div class='line'>Let not the strife and pain of life</div>
      <div class='line in2'>One ray of joy dispel,</div>
      <div class='line'>And we’ll bury him in the sunshine,</div>
      <div class='line in2'>In the light he loved so well!</div>
    </div>
    <div class='group'>
      <div class='line'>Bury him in the sunshine,</div>
      <div class='line in2'>All that of earth remains;</div>
      <div class='line'>Let every tear that damps his bier</div>
      <div class='line in2'>Fall warm as April rains</div>
      <div class='line'>That bring to light the blossoms bright,</div>
      <div class='line in2'>And break the wintry spell.</div>
      <div class='line'>Thus we’ll bury him in the sunshine,</div>
      <div class='line in2'>In the light he loved so well!</div>
    </div>
    <div class='group'>
      <div class='line'>Bury him in the sunshine,</div>
      <div class='line in2'>Where softest breezes blow.</div>
      <div class='line'>His dear face brought no dismal thought,</div>
      <div class='line in2'>To those who love him so.</div>
      <div class='line'>Let cheerful strains and glad refrains</div>
      <div class='line in2'>A joyous requiem swell,</div>
      <div class='line'>While we bury him in the sunshine,</div>
      <div class='line in2'>In the light he loved so well!</div>
    </div>
    <div class='group'>
      <div class='line'>Bury him in the sunshine,</div>
      <div class='line in2'>While Christmas carols rise</div>
      <div class='line'><span class='pageno' id='Page_319'>319</span>In thankful mirth from smiling earth</div>
      <div class='line in2'>To fair sun-litten skies.</div>
      <div class='line'>Forget the gloom that shrouds the tomb,</div>
      <div class='line in2'>And hush the dreary knell,</div>
      <div class='line'>For we’ll bury him in the sunshine,</div>
      <div class='line in2'>In the light he loved so well!</div>
    </div>
    <div class='group'>
      <div class='line'>Bury him in the sunshine;</div>
      <div class='line in2'>His peerless soul hath flown</div>
      <div class='line'>To that fair land upon whose strand</div>
      <div class='line in2'>No winds of winter moan.</div>
      <div class='line'>Sublimer heights, purer delights,</div>
      <div class='line in2'>Than mortal tongue can tell;</div>
      <div class='line'>So, we’ll bury him in God’s sunshine,</div>
      <div class='line in2'>In the light he loved so well!</div>
    </div>
  </div>
</div>

<div class='c039'><span class='sc'>Montgomery M. Folsom.</span></div>
<div class='pbb'>
 <hr class='pb c007' />
</div>
<div class='chapter'>
  <span class='pageno' id='Page_320'>320</span>
  <h2 class='c012'>HENRY WOODFIN GRADY.</h2>
</div>
<hr class='c013' />
<div class='lg-container-b c031'>
  <div class='linegroup'>
    <div class='group'>
    <div  class='linedc drop-capanf0_25_0_7'>MUST we concede the life so swiftly flown</div>
      <div class='line in5'>That seemed but yesterday to breath our own—</div>
      <div class='line'>The pulsing stayed that through our land he sent,</div>
      <div class='line'>In whose one impact North and South were blent—</div>
      <div class='line'>His cords yet vital stilled with tone abounding,</div>
      <div class='line'>His heart-strings sundered by their vibrant sounding?</div>
    </div>
    <div class='group'>
      <div class='line'>Too well we feel the import of our fears—</div>
      <div class='line'>The wide-flashed word, “the South is steeped in tears!”</div>
      <div class='line'>Fitly she weeps for her chivalric son</div>
      <div class='line'>Who turned to her, in flush of triumph won,</div>
      <div class='line'>The filial voice to gain her glad applause—</div>
      <div class='line'>The golden tongue to plead—to gild her cause.</div>
    </div>
    <div class='group'>
      <div class='line'>That spirit note—the music of his speech,</div>
      <div class='line'>Is silenced now in earthly hearing’s reach;</div>
      <div class='line'>Snapped is the silvern thread—the resonant soul—</div>
      <div class='line'>Though severed still its pæans reverberant roll—</div>
      <div class='line'>All hearts their hope-rung—chants in mourning merge,</div>
      <div class='line'>All joyous dreams translate into a dirge.</div>
    </div>
    <div class='group'>
      <div class='line'>Fallen in hero prime of conscious power</div>
      <div class='line'>His fame lives on and soothes her anguished hour,</div>
      <div class='line'>Yields to the land of Calhoun and of Clay</div>
      <div class='line'>His name as heirloom to her later day,—</div>
      <div class='line'>A legacy by life’s oblation left,</div>
      <div class='line'>A breathing solace to a home bereft.</div>
    </div>
    <div class='group'>
      <div class='line'>That knightly nature’s gift—that intellect’s grace,</div>
      <div class='line'>Relieved attrition wrought by clash of race,</div>
      <div class='line'>That reason poised in sympathy supreme,</div>
      <div class='line'>Revealed translucent pathos in his theme,</div>
      <div class='line'><span class='pageno' id='Page_321'>321</span>Bade clamor cease—taught candor’s part to cure—</div>
      <div class='line'>Bade truth appear more true, pure thought more pure.</div>
    </div>
    <div class='group'>
      <div class='line'>But is the zenith reached—his record done,</div>
      <div class='line'>His duty closed beneath meridian sun?</div>
      <div class='line'>Was it for him like meteor flash to sweep</div>
      <div class='line'>Athwart the heavens, as vaulting lightnings leap—</div>
      <div class='line'>On living errand our dimmed orbit cleave—</div>
      <div class='line'>On mission radiate, yet no message leave?</div>
    </div>
    <div class='group'>
      <div class='line'>Ah, no! his flame rose not to fall anon;</div>
      <div class='line'>His words as phrase to glitter and be gone;</div>
      <div class='line'>Not evanescent in the minds of men,</div>
      <div class='line'>His ling’ring oratory speaks again—</div>
      <div class='line'>An era’s nuncio in a Nation’s view,</div>
      <div class='line'>An envoy of another South, and new:</div>
    </div>
    <div class='group'>
      <div class='line'>For now in prescience ’neath his Southern skies</div>
      <div class='line'>The grander vision greets our Northern eyes;</div>
      <div class='line'>The proud mirage he conjured up we see—</div>
      <div class='line'>His picturing of her potency to be,</div>
      <div class='line'>Her virile wealth of sun and soil and ore,</div>
      <div class='line'>Her new-born Freedom’s force—far nobler store.</div>
    </div>
    <div class='group'>
      <div class='line'>With sectional lines and warring feuds effaced,</div>
      <div class='line'>Their racial problems solved—their blots erased—</div>
      <div class='line'>Full in that vision circumfused shall rise</div>
      <div class='line'>A symbol that his life-rays crystallize,</div>
      <div class='line'>For all our state-loves lit in him to stand—</div>
      <div class='line'>For bonds that Georgia’s Genius lent to all our land.</div>
    </div>
  </div>
</div>

<div class='c039'><span class='sc'>Henry O’Meara.</span></div>
<div class='pbb'>
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</div>
<div class='chapter'>
  <span class='pageno' id='Page_322'>322</span>
  <h2 class='c012'>HENRY W. GRADY.</h2>
</div>
<hr class='c013' />
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    <div  class='linedc drop-capanf0_25_0_7'>Upon the winds from shores uncharted blown,</div>
      <div class='line in4'>That phantom came, stoled in his trailing mists;</div>
      <div class='line in2'>He set his cruel gyves upon thy wrists:—</div>
      <div class='line in2'>Thine ear was dulled save to his subtle tone:—</div>
      <div class='line'>He led thee down where fade the paths unknown</div>
      <div class='line in2'>In the deep hollows of the Shadow Land:</div>
      <div class='line in2'>Love’s tears,—the tendance of her gentle hand,—</div>
      <div class='line in2'>Thou didst remember not: her deepest groan</div>
      <div class='line'>Stayed not thy feet—thine eyes were fixed away</div>
      <div class='line in2'>Upon the mountains of some other clime!</div>
      <div class='line in2'>Among the noblest, gathered from all time,</div>
      <div class='line'>In God’s great universe somewhere to-day</div>
      <div class='line'>He wanders where the cool all-healing trees</div>
      <div class='line'>Uplift their fronds in fair Champs Elysées.</div>
    </div>
  </div>
</div>

<div class='c039'><span class='sc'>Henry Jerome Stockard.</span></div>
<p class='drop-capanf0_25_0_7 c017'><span class='sc'>Graham, N.C.</span></p>
<div class='pbb'>
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</div>
<div class='chapter'>
  <span class='pageno' id='Page_323'>323</span>
  <h2 class='c012'>WHO WOULD CALL HIM BACK?</h2>
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    <div  class='linedc drop-capanf0_25_0_7'>A&nbsp;LIFE-WORK finished: yet, hardly begun:</div>
      <div class='line in6'>A course in which courage cowardice undone:</div>
      <div class='line'>A leader of battles whose life’s setting sun</div>
      <div class='line in18'>Leaves no cause unwon.</div>
    </div>
    <div class='group'>
      <div class='line'>The scholar and statesman, dear to us all,</div>
      <div class='line'>As he sleeps his last sleep, though fateful his fall,</div>
      <div class='line'>Dreams only of peace—to life’s pain past recall—</div>
      <div class='line in18'>That, kindred, is all.</div>
    </div>
    <div class='group'>
      <div class='line'>The robe he wore with such marvelous grace,</div>
      <div class='line'>Will be fitted to shoulders made for his place:</div>
      <div class='line'>Efforts about which none could selfishness trace</div>
      <div class='line in18'>Shall still bless his race.</div>
    </div>
    <div class='group'>
      <div class='line'>Deeds he has done in humanity’s name</div>
      <div class='line'>Will outlive the marble upreared to his fame:</div>
      <div class='line'>Yet, would any one ask him, even through pain,</div>
      <div class='line in18'>To live life again?</div>
    </div>
  </div>
</div>

<div class='c039'><span class='sc'>Belle Eyre.</span></div>
<p class='drop-capanf0_25_0_7 c017'><span class='sc'>Boston, Mass.</span></p>
<div class='pbb'>
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</div>
<div class='chapter'>
  <span class='pageno' id='Page_324'>324</span>
  <h2 class='c012'>HENRY W. GRADY.</h2>
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<hr class='c013' />
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    <div  class='linedc drop-capanf0_25_0_7'>LAMENTED Son of Georgia,</div>
      <div class='line in4'>Thou wert New England’s honored guest</div>
      <div class='line'>In welcome glad, but yesterday,</div>
      <div class='line in2'>With charming speech and banquet’s zest.</div>
    </div>
    <div class='group'>
      <div class='line'>In glowing life, so recently,</div>
      <div class='line in2'>From Plymouth Rock and Bunker’s Hill,</div>
      <div class='line'>Thy vision swept the Pilgrim’s sea,—</div>
      <div class='line in2'>But now in death thy heart is still.</div>
    </div>
    <div class='group'>
      <div class='line'>And in thine own dear native clime,</div>
      <div class='line in2'>Thou art at rest in early tomb,</div>
      <div class='line'>Where brightest skies expand sublime,</div>
      <div class='line in2'>And choicest flowers forever bloom.</div>
    </div>
    <div class='group'>
      <div class='line'>Thy work ere yet at zenith done,</div>
      <div class='line in2'>But harvests, o’er thy fertile field,</div>
      <div class='line'>Are waving in the noonday sun,</div>
      <div class='line in2'>Like billows, with abundant yield.</div>
    </div>
    <div class='group'>
      <div class='line'>Now fallen, but more glorious,</div>
      <div class='line in2'>In peaceful triumph grander far</div>
      <div class='line'>Than pageant kings victorious,</div>
      <div class='line in2'>With bleeding captives, spoils of war.</div>
    </div>
    <div class='group'>
      <div class='line'>O, ye bereaved, in mourning bowed,</div>
      <div class='line in2'>Around Atlanta’s noble dead!</div>
      <div class='line'>What woe is in your wailing land;</div>
      <div class='line in2'>How hallowed is the ground ye tread!</div>
    </div>
    <div class='group'>
      <div class='line'><span class='pageno' id='Page_325'>325</span>A joyous home, now desolate,</div>
      <div class='line in2'>A circle broken, sad and lone,</div>
      <div class='line'>A vacant chair in Sable State,</div>
      <div class='line in2'>A husband, father, loved one gone.</div>
    </div>
    <div class='group'>
      <div class='line'>A widowed mother, mute with grief,</div>
      <div class='line in2'>Whose weeping children call in vain,</div>
      <div class='line'>Their cries and tears bring no relief,</div>
      <div class='line in2'>Thou can’st not meet them here again.</div>
    </div>
    <div class='group'>
      <div class='line'>And yet, beyond this hour of gloom,</div>
      <div class='line in2'>Athwart the sky, the promised bow,</div>
      <div class='line'>Above these clouds, and o’er thy tomb,</div>
      <div class='line in2'>The starry heavens are bending low.</div>
    </div>
    <div class='group'>
      <div class='line'>In memory of loving worth,</div>
      <div class='line in2'>Sweet thoughts like hidden springs will flow;</div>
      <div class='line'>Rare flowers in oasis have birth,</div>
      <div class='line in2'>As Sorrow’s deserts verdant grow.</div>
    </div>
    <div class='group'>
      <div class='line'>With patriotic, burning zeal,</div>
      <div class='line in2'>Thy brilliant genius, tongue and pen,</div>
      <div class='line'>Were wielded for the common weal,</div>
      <div class='line in2'>The good of all thy countrymen.</div>
    </div>
    <div class='group'>
      <div class='line'>O’er ruins of the effete Old,</div>
      <div class='line in2'>Thou wrought to build a better New,</div>
      <div class='line'>Whose peerless glories might unfold,</div>
      <div class='line in2'>As North and South together grew.</div>
    </div>
    <div class='group'>
      <div class='line'>Thou longed to note accordant band</div>
      <div class='line in2'>Of Sister States through future years,</div>
      <div class='line'>A Union for the world to stand</div>
      <div class='line in2'>With little aid of blood and tears.</div>
    </div>
    <div class='group'>
      <div class='line'>Of such a spirit, He who taught</div>
      <div class='line in2'>Eternal Truth in Galilee;</div>
      <div class='line'>The human and divine in-wrought</div>
      <div class='line in2'>With perfect love and charity.</div>
    </div>
    <div class='group'>
      <div class='line'><span class='pageno' id='Page_326'>326</span>And so thy deeds will grow in grace,</div>
      <div class='line in2'>They are exalted, wise and pure,</div>
      <div class='line'>For freedom and the human race,</div>
      <div class='line in2'>And in our hearts will long endure.</div>
    </div>
    <div class='group'>
      <div class='line'>For thee nor local, fleeting fame,</div>
      <div class='line in2'>But for all nations, space and time;</div>
      <div class='line'>Around thy lofty, shining name,</div>
      <div class='line in2'>Unfading laurels we entwine.</div>
    </div>
  </div>
</div>

<div class='c039'><span class='sc'>G. W. Lyon.</span></div>
<p class='drop-capanf0_25_0_7 c017'><span class='sc'>Cedar Rapids, Iowa</span>, Jan. 18, 1890.</p>
<hr class='c040' />
<div class='chapter'>
  <h2 class='c012'>WHAT THE MASTER MADE.</h2>
</div>
<hr class='c013' />
<div class='lg-container-b c031'>
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    <div class='group'>
    <div  class='linedc drop-capanf0_25_0_7'>THE Master made a perfect instrument to sound His praise,</div>
      <div class='line in3'>It breathed forth glorious notes for many days,—</div>
      <div class='line'>Chords of great strength, tones of soft melody,</div>
      <div class='line'>Grand organ anthems—bird-like minstrelsy;</div>
      <div class='line'>Its final burst of music—the Master’s master-stroke</div>
      <div class='line'>Fell on the world—and then the spent strings broke.</div>
    </div>
  </div>
</div>

<div class='c039'><span class='sc'>Mel R. Colquitt.</span></div>
<div class='pbb'>
 <hr class='pb c007' />
</div>
<div class='chapter'>
  <span class='pageno' id='Page_327'>327</span>
  <h2 class='c012'>IN ATLANTA, CHRISTMAS, 1889.</h2>
</div>
<hr class='c013' />

<div class='nf-center-c0'>
  <div class='nf-center'>
    <div>I.</div>
  </div>
</div>

<div class='lg-container-b c031'>
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    <div  class='linedc drop-capanf0_25_0_7'>O&nbsp;PROUD Gate City of the South, reborn,</div>
      <div class='line in4'>Risen, a phœnix, from war’s fiery flood—</div>
      <div class='line'>Why draped in gloom, this precious natal morn</div>
      <div class='line in2'>Of Him crowned martyr for earth’s peace and good?</div>
      <div class='line'>Set in the faces of your old and young,</div>
      <div class='line in2'>Is seen the sorrow, ruthless Fate hath sprung!</div>
    </div>
  </div>
</div>

<div class='nf-center-c0'>
<div class='nf-center c000'>
    <div>II.</div>
  </div>
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<div class='lg-container-b c031'>
  <div class='linegroup'>
    <div class='group'>
      <div class='line'>Your prince lies stark amid the stately towers,</div>
      <div class='line in2'>Which he, strong leader in a radiant day,</div>
      <div class='line'>Had helped to build, when Georgia’s unbound powers</div>
      <div class='line in2'>Amazed the world and held majestic sway.</div>
      <div class='line'><span class='sc'>Grady</span> is gone, like meteor flashing bright</div>
      <div class='line in2'>Across the canopy of star-gemmed night!</div>
    </div>
  </div>
</div>

<div class='nf-center-c0'>
<div class='nf-center c000'>
    <div>III.</div>
  </div>
</div>

<div class='lg-container-b c031'>
  <div class='linegroup'>
    <div class='group'>
      <div class='line'>Lift him, with gentleness, and bear him hence!</div>
      <div class='line in2'>Keep slow, deliberate pace unto the grave</div>
      <div class='line'>Which long must be a spot where reverence,</div>
      <div class='line in2'>Halting its footsteps, will his laurel wave!</div>
      <div class='line'>Impulsive youth, in halls of fierce debate,</div>
      <div class='line in2'>His counsels heed, his spirit emulate!</div>
    </div>
  </div>
</div>

<div class='c039'><span class='sc'>Henry Clay Lukens.</span></div>
<p class='drop-capanf0_25_0_7 c017'><span class='sc'>Jersey City Heights, N. J.</span></p>
<div class='pbb'>
 <hr class='pb c007' />
</div>
<div class='chapter'>
  <span class='pageno' id='Page_328'>328</span>
  <h2 class='c012'>IN MEMORY OF HENRY WOODFIN GRADY.</h2>
</div>
<hr class='c013' />

<div class='nf-center-c0'>
  <div class='nf-center'>
    <div><i>From the “West Shore” Portland, Oregon.</i></div>
    <div class='c000'>I.</div>
  </div>
</div>

<div class='lg-container-b c031'>
  <div class='linegroup'>
    <div class='group'>
    <div  class='linedc drop-capanf0_25_0_7'>AMID the wrecks of private fortunes and</div>
      <div class='line in4'>The fall of commonwealths, he saw arise</div>
      <div class='line in2'>A stricken people, and, with mournful eyes,</div>
      <div class='line'>Beheld the smoke of war bedim their land,</div>
      <div class='line'>And in its folds the fragments of a band</div>
      <div class='line in2'>Erst bound, as by grim Fate, to exercise</div>
      <div class='line in2'>Their judgments in the wrong and sacrifice</div>
      <div class='line'>Against the measures Providence had planned.</div>
    </div>
    <div class='group'>
      <div class='line'>Unconquered still, he saw the Southern folk,</div>
      <div class='line'>Though awed and vanquished by the deadly jar</div>
      <div class='line'>Of war’s deep thunder belching forth, “Ye must!”</div>
      <div class='line'>In love this Master sought to lift the yoke</div>
      <div class='line'>Of ignorance from the Southland, and to star</div>
      <div class='line'>Its night with those same stars trailed in its dust!</div>
    </div>
  </div>
</div>

<div class='nf-center-c0'>
<div class='nf-center c000'>
    <div>II.</div>
  </div>
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<div class='lg-container-b c031'>
  <div class='linegroup'>
    <div class='group'>
      <div class='line'>Unto the North he, as a brother, came,</div>
      <div class='line in2'>And in his heart the great warm South he brought,</div>
      <div class='line in2'>And as he stood and oped his mouth he wrought</div>
      <div class='line'>The miracle of setting hearts aflame,</div>
      <div class='line'>That leaped to crown him orator of fame,</div>
      <div class='line in2'>Since in his own emboldened hand he’d caught</div>
      <div class='line in2'>The golden chain of love, by many sought,</div>
      <div class='line'>To bind our Union something more than name.</div>
    </div>
    <div class='group'>
      <div class='line'>But hark! The while his eloquence did charm</div>
      <div class='line'>The Nation’s ear, the lightnings flashed along</div>
      <div class='line'>The wires the weeping news, “<i>He is no more!</i>”</div>
      <div class='line'>Brave seer! Thou didst both North and South disarm!</div>
      <div class='line'>Leap, lightnings, from your wires, the clouds among,</div>
      <div class='line'>And flash his eulogy the heavens o’er!</div>
    </div>
  </div>
</div>

<div class='c039'><span class='sc'>Lee Fairchild.</span></div>
<p class='drop-capanf0_25_0_7 c017'><span class='sc'>Seattle</span>, <i>January 14, 1890</i>.</p>
<div class='pbb'>
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</div>
<div class='chapter'>
  <span class='pageno' id='Page_329'>329</span>
  <h2 class='c012'><em class='gesperrt'>A SOUTHERN CHRISTMAS DAY</em>.</h2>
</div>

<div class='nf-center-c0'>
<div class='nf-center c007'>
    <div><span class='c033'><i>Paraphrased from Henry W. Grady’s Editorial.</i></span></div>
  </div>
</div>

<hr class='c028' />
<div class='lg-container-b c031'>
  <div class='linegroup'>
    <div class='group'>
      <div class='linedc in2dc drop-capanf0_25_0_7'>NO man or woman living now</div>
      <div class='line in4'>Shall e’er again behold</div>
      <div class='line in2'>A Christmas day so royal clad,</div>
      <div class='line in4'>In robes of purpled gold,</div>
      <div class='line in4'>As yesterday sank down to rest,</div>
      <div class='line'>In perfect, rounded triumph in the West.</div>
    </div>
    <div class='group'>
      <div class='line in2'>A winter day it was—yet shot</div>
      <div class='line in4'>With sunshine to the core—</div>
      <div class='line in2'>Enchantment’s spell filled all the scene</div>
      <div class='line in4'>With power unknown before—</div>
      <div class='line in4'>And he who walked abroad could feel</div>
      <div class='line'>Its subtle mast’ry o’er him softly steal.</div>
    </div>
    <div class='group'>
      <div class='line in2'>Its beauty prodigal he saw—</div>
      <div class='line in4'>He breathed elixir pure—</div>
      <div class='line in2'>Twas bliss to strive with reaching hand</div>
      <div class='line in4'>Its rapture to secure,</div>
      <div class='line in4'>And bathe with open fingers where</div>
      <div class='line'>The waves of warmth and freshness pulsed the air.</div>
    </div>
    <div class='group'>
      <div class='line in2'>The hum of bees but underrode</div>
      <div class='line in4'>The whistling wings outspread</div>
      <div class='line in2'>Of wild geese, flying through the sky,</div>
      <div class='line in4'>As Southwardly they sped—</div>
      <div class='line in4'>While embered pale, in drowsy grates,</div>
      <div class='line'>The fires slept lightly, as when life abates.</div>
    </div>
    <div class='group'>
      <div class='line in2'><span class='pageno' id='Page_330'>330</span>And people, marveling, out of doors,</div>
      <div class='line in4'>Watched in sweet amaze</div>
      <div class='line in2'>The soft winds’ wooing of delight,</div>
      <div class='line in4'>Upon this day of days—</div>
      <div class='line in4'>Their wooing of the roses fair—</div>
      <div class='line'>Their kissing lilies, with a lover’s air.</div>
    </div>
    <div class='group'>
      <div class='line in2'>God’s benediction, with the day,</div>
      <div class='line in4'>Slow dropping from the skies,</div>
      <div class='line in2'>Came down the waiting earth to bless,</div>
      <div class='line in4'>And give it glad surprise—</div>
      <div class='line in4'>His smile, its light—a radiant flood,</div>
      <div class='line'>That upward bore the prayer of gratitude.</div>
    </div>
    <div class='group'>
      <div class='line in2'>And through and through its stillness all—</div>
      <div class='line in4'>And through its beauty too—</div>
      <div class='line in2'>To every heart came mute appeal,</div>
      <div class='line in4'>To live a life more true—</div>
      <div class='line in4'>And every soul invoking then,</div>
      <div class='line'>With promise—“Peace on earth—good will to men.”</div>
    </div>
  </div>
</div>

<div class='c039'><span class='sc'>N.C. Thompson.</span></div>
<div class='pbb'>
 <hr class='pb c007' />
</div>
<div class='chapter'>
  <span class='pageno' id='Page_331'>331</span>
  <h2 class='c012'>IN MEMORY OF HENRY W. GRADY.</h2>
</div>
<hr class='c013' />
<div class='lg-container-b c031'>
  <div class='linegroup'>
    <div class='group'>
    <div  class='linedc drop-capanf0_25_0_7'>SHALL we not mourn for those who pass</div>
      <div class='line in3'>Like meteors from the midnight sky,</div>
      <div class='line'>From out the gleaming heights of fame,</div>
      <div class='line in2'>As those who for their country die?</div>
    </div>
    <div class='group'>
      <div class='line'>Who die, and sleep in dreamless slumber,</div>
      <div class='line in2'>Where sunbeams like a blessing shed</div>
      <div class='line'>Their glories, and the rain-drops, falling,</div>
      <div class='line in2'>Weep ever o’er our Southern dead.</div>
    </div>
    <div class='group'>
      <div class='line'>Of silvery tongue, and heart of fire,</div>
      <div class='line in2'>And grace of manhood, what is left?</div>
      <div class='line'>A voiceless grief—a tear—a sigh,</div>
      <div class='line in2'>A nation of her son bereft.</div>
    </div>
    <div class='group'>
      <div class='line'>Great soul with eloquence o’erflowing,</div>
      <div class='line in2'>In rhythmic measures sweet and grand,</div>
      <div class='line'>Great heart whose mission was a message</div>
      <div class='line in2'>Of peace and good will, thro’ the land.</div>
    </div>
    <div class='group'>
      <div class='line'>O tongue of flame by truth inspired!</div>
      <div class='line in2'>Tho’ thou art silent, and we never</div>
      <div class='line'>May hear again thy stirring strains,</div>
      <div class='line in2'>They’ll echo in our halls forever.</div>
    </div>
    <div class='group'>
      <div class='line'>Thy life was like a rushing river,</div>
      <div class='line in2'>That proudly bore upon its breast</div>
      <div class='line'>Our highest hopes unto a haven,</div>
      <div class='line in2'>Where heroes dwell, and patriots rest.</div>
    </div>
    <div class='group'>
      <div class='line'><span class='pageno' id='Page_332'>332</span>Sleep well! tho’ thou art gone, the grave</div>
      <div class='line in2'>Holds but the outward earthly shrine,</div>
      <div class='line'>That held within its clay-cold breast</div>
      <div class='line in2'>The sacred spark of life divine.</div>
    </div>
    <div class='group'>
      <div class='line'>Sleep well! immortal, unforgotten,</div>
      <div class='line in2'>Where buds and blossoms round thee blow,</div>
      <div class='line'>And the soft fires of Southern sunsets</div>
      <div class='line in2'>In glory gild thy couch below.</div>
    </div>
  </div>
</div>

<div class='c039'><span class='sc'>Elizabeth J. Hereford.</span></div>
<p class='drop-capanf0_25_0_7 c017'><span class='sc'>Dallas, Texas.</span></p>
<div class='pbb'>
 <hr class='pb c007' />
</div>
<div class='chapter'>
  <span class='pageno' id='Page_333'>333</span>
  <h2 class='c012'>HENRY W. GRADY.</h2>
</div>
<hr class='c013' />
<div class='lg-container-b c031'>
  <div class='linegroup'>
    <div class='group'>
    <div  class='linedc drop-capanf0_25_0_7'>IF Death had waited till the grateful Land</div>
      <div class='line in3'>He championed with his life had bent and crowned,</div>
      <div class='line'>With a proud, civic garland of command</div>
      <div class='line in2'>That knightly brow, with laurels freshly bound!</div>
      <div class='line'>Yet he cared not for crowds—this wrestler strong;</div>
      <div class='line in2'>If down the arena swept some warm, wild breath</div>
      <div class='line'>Of his People’s praise—this bore his soul along,</div>
      <div class='line in2'>This came with sweetness in the midst of death,</div>
      <div class='line in2'>For love was more to him than crown or wreath.</div>
    </div>
    <div class='group'>
      <div class='line in2'>Ah! half her Sun is stricken from the South,</div>
      <div class='line in2'>Since he is dead—her tropic-hearted one,—</div>
      <div class='line'>Will the pomegranate flower’s vivid mouth</div>
      <div class='line in2'>Open to drink the dews when Frost is done?</div>
      <div class='line'>Will the gay red-bird flash like winged flame,</div>
      <div class='line in2'>The mocking-bird awake its thrilling lyre?</div>
      <div class='line'>Will Spring and Song—will Love ev’n seem the same,</div>
      <div class='line in2'>Now he is gone—the spirit whose light and fire</div>
      <div class='line'>And pulsing sweetness were like Spring to make,</div>
      <div class='line'>The gray earth young?—will Light and Love awake,</div>
      <div class='line'>And he still sleep?—and we weep for his sake!</div>
    </div>
  </div>
</div>

<div class='c039'><span class='sc'>Mary E. Bryan.</span></div>
<div class='pbb'>
 <hr class='pb c007' />
</div>
<div class='chapter'>
  <span class='pageno' id='Page_334'>334</span>
  <h2 class='c012'>THE OLD AND THE NEW.</h2>
</div>
<hr class='c013' />
<div class='lg-container-b c031'>
  <div class='linegroup'>
    <div class='group'>
    <div  class='linedc drop-capanf0_25_0_7'>NOT to the beauteous maid who weeps</div>
      <div class='line in5'>And wails in broken numbers,</div>
      <div class='line'>Where ’neath the solemn cypress sleeps</div>
      <div class='line in2'>The brave in dreamless slumbers.</div>
    </div>
    <div class='group'>
      <div class='line'>Oh, not to her whose pallid cheeks</div>
      <div class='line in2'>With form all bent and broken</div>
      <div class='line'>An utter loss of promise speaks</div>
      <div class='line in2'>And perished hopes betoken.</div>
    </div>
    <div class='group'>
      <div class='line'>Ah, not to her!—the sorrowing maid</div>
      <div class='line in2'>Who sighs so sad and lowly,</div>
      <div class='line'>Where our “Lost Cause and Cross” were laid,</div>
      <div class='line in2'>Keeping their memories holy.</div>
    </div>
    <div class='group'>
      <div class='line'>Ah, not to her whose sons have passed</div>
      <div class='line in2'>To rest in peace sedately,</div>
      <div class='line'>To glory and the grave at last,</div>
      <div class='line in2'>In soldier phalanx stately;</div>
    </div>
    <div class='group'>
      <div class='line'>That sleep beneath the mountain sod</div>
      <div class='line in2'>Or by the murmuring rivers,</div>
      <div class='line'>Beneath the blooming prairie clod</div>
      <div class='line in2'>Or where the sea breeze quivers.</div>
    </div>
    <div class='group'>
      <div class='line'>The past is God’s, the future ours,</div>
      <div class='line in2'>And o’er our plains and mountains</div>
      <div class='line'>The young spring comes with thousand flowers</div>
      <div class='line in2'>And music in bright fountains.</div>
    </div>
    <div class='group'>
      <div class='line'><span class='pageno' id='Page_335'>335</span>Oh, let the bugle and the drum</div>
      <div class='line in2'>Pass to the halls of glory,</div>
      <div class='line'>Where time has made our passions dumb</div>
      <div class='line in2'>And fame has told its story.</div>
    </div>
    <div class='group'>
      <div class='line'>But let no High Priest of despair</div>
      <div class='line in2'>Wed us to shades of sorrow,</div>
      <div class='line'>Or bind our younger limbs and fair</div>
      <div class='line in2'>In all our bright to-morrow.</div>
    </div>
    <div class='group'>
      <div class='line'>Oh, not for her our younger years</div>
      <div class='line in2'>Whose beauty bloomed to perish—</div>
      <div class='line'>Enough a whole decade of tears,</div>
      <div class='line in2'>Sad memories that we cherish.</div>
    </div>
    <div class='group'>
      <div class='line'>But thou, sweet maid, whose gentle wand</div>
      <div class='line in2'>Doth bring the May-time blossom—</div>
      <div class='line'>We kiss thy lips and clasp thy hand</div>
      <div class='line in2'>And press thy beauteous bosom.</div>
    </div>
    <div class='group'>
      <div class='line'>Thou who dost teach us to forgive</div>
      <div class='line in2'>The red hand of our brother,</div>
      <div class='line'>And binds us closer while we live</div>
      <div class='line in2'>To Country, as a mother.</div>
    </div>
    <div class='group'>
      <div class='line'>Ah, wedded to this Newer South</div>
      <div class='line in2'>We’ll find peace, love and glory,</div>
      <div class='line'>And in some future singer’s mouth</div>
      <div class='line in2'>Freedom will boast the story.</div>
    </div>
  </div>
</div>

<div class='c039'><span class='sc'>J. M. Gibson.</span></div>
<p class='drop-capanf0_25_0_7 c017'><span class='sc'>Vicksburg</span>, <i>January 14, 1890</i>.</p>
<div class='pbb'>
 <hr class='pb c007' />
</div>
<div class='chapter'>
  <span class='pageno' id='Page_336'>336</span>
  <h2 class='c012'>HENRY W. GRADY.</h2>
</div>
<hr class='c013' />

<div class='nf-center-c0'>
  <div class='nf-center'>
    <div><span class='c033'><i>From the “Boston Globe.”</i></span></div>
  </div>
</div>

<div class='lg-container-b c031'>
  <div class='linegroup'>
    <div class='group'>
    <div  class='linedc drop-capanf0_25_0_7'>FAIR brow grief-clouded, blue eyes dark with tears,</div>
      <div class='line in4'>The young South sighed above her hero’s bier,</div>
      <div class='line'>“Wear these my favors in the lists of Death,”</div>
      <div class='line'>And o’er his calm breast scattered immortelles.</div>
      <div class='line'>What Launcelot of old in jousts and field</div>
      <div class='line'>Did bravely for the right with pen and voice,</div>
      <div class='line'>With mind broad-reaching and with soul intense,</div>
      <div class='line'>Did this young champion wisely for the truth.</div>
      <div class='line'>From the loud echoes of rude, hideous war</div>
      <div class='line'>He caught the murmur of a far-off peace;</div>
      <div class='line'>Through the fierce hatred of embittered foes</div>
      <div class='line'>He saw the faint day-star of amity;</div>
      <div class='line'>O’er the ruin of the things that were</div>
      <div class='line'>Beheld the shadowy Angel of new life,</div>
      <div class='line'>And, chosen from the whirl of troublous days,</div>
      <div class='line'>With soul knit up in valor, mind aflame,</div>
      <div class='line'>Stood forth the knight and prophet of good will,</div>
      <div class='line'>Of peace with dignity, of manhood’s strength</div>
      <div class='line'>Sustaining brother’s love, of industry</div>
      <div class='line'>That keeps an equal pace with building thought,</div>
      <div class='line'>Of old things gracious yielding place to new.</div>
      <div class='line'>And from the mists, responsive to his call,</div>
      <div class='line'>Came forth in radiance, virgin-robed,</div>
      <div class='line'>The starry maiden of sweet hope, and smiled—</div>
      <div class='line'>Put forth her willing palm to meet his own,</div>
      <div class='line'>And walked with him the valleys of Re-birth,</div>
      <div class='line'>And where they passed the earth grew musical,</div>
      <div class='line'>And long-hushed voices from the caves of Doubt</div>
      <div class='line'>Swelled into melody of joyous faith;</div>
      <div class='line'><span class='pageno' id='Page_337'>337</span>While from the forests of the North swept down</div>
      <div class='line'>The pæan of the Pines, and from the South</div>
      <div class='line'>The murmur of the Everglades up stole</div>
      <div class='line'>The diapason perfecting. Stark fields</div>
      <div class='line'>That fever had burned out revived; and marts</div>
      <div class='line'>Where brooded weird decay, and mills at rest,</div>
      <div class='line'>The forge in blackness rusting, and the shop,</div>
      <div class='line'>The school, the church, the forum, and the stage</div>
      <div class='line'>Thrust off their desolation and despair</div>
      <div class='line'>To feel again the energy of life</div>
      <div class='line'>And know once more the happiness of man.</div>
    </div>
    <div class='group'>
      <div class='line'>Such was his doing who was brave for truth;</div>
      <div class='line'>Such is the legacy he leaves to pride;</div>
      <div class='line'>And, though the New South mourn her fallen knight,</div>
      <div class='line'>His soul and word move ever hand in hand</div>
      <div class='line'>Adown the smiling valleys of Re-birth,</div>
      <div class='line'>That still shall bud and flower because of him</div>
      <div class='line'>And grow fair garlands for man’s Brotherhood.</div>
    </div>
  </div>
</div>

<div class='c039'>E. A. B.</div>
<div class='pbb'>
 <hr class='pb c007' />
</div>
<div class='chapter'>
  <span class='pageno' id='Page_338'>338</span>
  <h2 class='c012'>AT GRADY’S GRAVE.</h2>
</div>
<hr class='c013' />
<div class='lg-container-b c031'>
  <div class='linegroup'>
    <div class='group'>
    <div  class='linedc drop-capanf0_25_0_7'>“WE live in deeds, not years; in thoughts, not breadths;</div>
      <div class='line in7'>In feelings, not in figures on a dial;</div>
      <div class='line'>We should count time by heart-throbs; he most lives</div>
      <div class='line'>Who thinks most, feels the noblest, acts the best”—</div>
      <div class='line'>The Poet, dreaming in divinest mood,</div>
      <div class='line'>Scanning the future with a Prophet’s eyes,</div>
      <div class='line'>Beheld the outlines of the Perfect Man</div>
      <div class='line'>Take shape before the vision of his soul;</div>
      <div class='line'>And though the beauteous phantom could not stay,</div>
      <div class='line'>He caught its grace and glory in the song</div>
      <div class='line'>Wherein he praises the Ideal Man</div>
      <div class='line'>Of whom he dreamed, and whom the world should know,</div>
      <div class='line'>When in the teeming womb of Time the years</div>
      <div class='line'>Had ripened him, mature in every part.</div>
    </div>
    <div class='group'>
      <div class='line'>While yet the world, expectant of this man,</div>
      <div class='line'>Watched, mutely wondering when and whence would come</div>
      <div class='line'>This radiant one, this full-bloom, fairest flower</div>
      <div class='line'>Of manhood’s excellence, which Heaven itself</div>
      <div class='line'>Were fain to keep, to crown the angels with—</div>
      <div class='line'>God granting unto Earth but one or two</div>
      <div class='line'>Within the cycle of a century—</div>
      <div class='line'>Lo! suddenly, from out the realm of Dreams,</div>
      <div class='line'>The splendid Vision of the musing bard,</div>
      <div class='line'>His perfect and ideal Man, came forth,</div>
      <div class='line'>And walked within the common light of day,</div>
      <div class='line'>A living, breathing Presence—Henry Grady!</div>
    </div>
    <div class='group'>
      <div class='line'>Did not this marvelously gifted man,</div>
      <div class='line'>Who trod with us the old, familiar paths,</div>
      <div class='line'>And glorified them daily with strange light,</div>
      <div class='line'><span class='pageno' id='Page_339'>339</span>As if a god were dwelling in our midst,</div>
      <div class='line'>Measure, full-length, the stature of the man</div>
      <div class='line'>The Poet quarried from the mines of Thought?</div>
      <div class='line'>What though his years were brief, did he not fill</div>
      <div class='line'>Their precious brevity with glorious deeds,</div>
      <div class='line'>Till he outlived the utmost lives of men</div>
      <div class='line'>Of lesser mold, of feebler fibred souls?</div>
      <div class='line'>Garnering betwixt his cradle and his grave</div>
      <div class='line'>The ripened harvests of a century!</div>
      <div class='line'>Did he not live in thoughts as flowers live</div>
      <div class='line'>In sunshine, filling the whole world with light,</div>
      <div class='line'>And the celestial fragrance of his soul!</div>
      <div class='line'>Did he not live in feelings so refined,</div>
      <div class='line'>That every heart-string into music woke,</div>
      <div class='line'>Though touched more lightly than a mother’s mouth</div>
      <div class='line'>Would touch the sleep-sealed eyelids of her babe!</div>
      <div class='line'>Ah, were the throbs of his great, loving heart,</div>
      <div class='line'>Meet as a measure for <i>his</i> span of life?</div>
      <div class='line'>Would not such measure circle all the world,</div>
      <div class='line'>And find no end, save in infinity?</div>
      <div class='line'>If he lives most—(and who shall dare deny</div>
      <div class='line'>A truth which is as true as God is true?)</div>
      <div class='line'>If he doth live the most who thinks the most,</div>
      <div class='line'>Who feels the noblest, and who acts the best,</div>
      <div class='line'>Thou, O my friend! didst to the utmost mete</div>
      <div class='line'>Of transitory mortal life live out</div>
      <div class='line'>Thine earthly span, though to our eyes thy life</div>
      <div class='line'>Seems like the flashing of a falling star,</div>
      <div class='line'>Which for a moment fills the heavens with light,</div>
      <div class='line'>And vanishes forever.</div>
    </div>
    <div class='group'>
      <div class='line in24'>Nay, not so—</div>
      <div class='line'>The Poet’s words are thy best epitaph!</div>
      <div class='line'>And though the stone which marks thy grave but tells</div>
      <div class='line'>The number of the years thy mortal frame</div>
      <div class='line'>Retained that eagle-wingèd soul of thine,</div>
      <div class='line'>How long thy all-compassionating heart</div>
      <div class='line'>Inhabited its clayey tenement,</div>
      <div class='line'>As one of God’s blest almoners, sent down</div>
      <div class='line'><span class='pageno' id='Page_340'>340</span>To fill the world with light and melody;</div>
      <div class='line'>Tells when that prophet-tongue of thine was stilled,</div>
      <div class='line'>Which, touched with inspiration’s sacred fire,</div>
      <div class='line'>Preached Man’s eternal brotherhood, and led</div>
      <div class='line'>The battle waged for Justice, Truth, and Right,</div>
      <div class='line'>Still, and despite the tears that Sorrow woos</div>
      <div class='line'>From the spontaneous fountains of our hearts,</div>
      <div class='line'>We know that thou didst come unto thy grave</div>
      <div class='line'>Brimful of years, if noble deeds and thoughts,</div>
      <div class='line'>If love to God and Man, be made alone</div>
      <div class='line'>The measure of thy length of human years;</div>
      <div class='line'>And that, even as thy soul beyond the stars</div>
      <div class='line'>Shall live—as God lives—everlastingly,</div>
      <div class='line'>So shall the memory of thy shining deeds,</div>
      <div class='line'>Remain forever in the hearts of men;</div>
      <div class='line'>Nor shall the record of thy fame be touched</div>
      <div class='line'>By Time’s defacing hand—thou art immortal!</div>
    </div>
    <div class='group'>
      <div class='line'>And now, dear friend, farewell to thee! Thine eyes</div>
      <div class='line'>Have death’s inviolate seal upon their lids;</div>
      <div class='line'>They cannot see the Season’s glorious shows,</div>
      <div class='line'>Although, methinks, in memory of thee</div>
      <div class='line'>The grass grows greener here, and tenderer</div>
      <div class='line'>The daily benediction of the sun</div>
      <div class='line'>Falls on thy grave, as if thy very dust</div>
      <div class='line'>Had sentience still, and, kindling into life</div>
      <div class='line'>Under the fiery touchings of the sun,</div>
      <div class='line'>Broke through the turfy barriers of the tomb</div>
      <div class='line'>To mingle with the light, and mellow it;</div>
      <div class='line'>There’s not a flower that timidly uplifts</div>
      <div class='line'>Its smiling face, to look upon the Dawn,</div>
      <div class='line'>Or bows its head to worship silently</div>
      <div class='line'>The awful glory of the midnight stars,</div>
      <div class='line'>But what takes on a gentler grace for thee,</div>
      <div class='line'>And for thy sake a sweeter incense flings</div>
      <div class='line'>From out its golden censer.</div>
    </div>
    <div class='group'>
      <div class='line in30'>Nor, my friend,</div>
      <div class='line'>Will thy dull ears awaken to the songs,</div>
      <div class='line'><span class='pageno' id='Page_341'>341</span>Of jubilant birds, the Summer’s full-voiced choir,</div>
      <div class='line'>Singing thy praises—for they sing of Love,</div>
      <div class='line'>And Love was the high choral of thy life,</div>
      <div class='line'>The swan-song of thy soul; thou canst not hear</div>
      <div class='line'>The sweetest sounds—made sweeter for thy sake</div>
      <div class='line'>By the presiding Genius of this place—</div>
      <div class='line'>The silvery minor-music of the rain,</div>
      <div class='line'>Those murmurous drops, with iterations soft,</div>
      <div class='line'>Of every flower, and trembling blade of grass,</div>
      <div class='line'>A fairy’s cymbal make; the whispering wind,</div>
      <div class='line'>The sea-like moaning of the distant pines,</div>
      <div class='line'>The sound of wandering streams, or, sweeter still,</div>
      <div class='line'>The voice of happy children at their play—</div>
      <div class='line'>Ah, none of these interminable tones</div>
      <div class='line'>Of Nature’s many-chorded instrument,</div>
      <div class='line'>Which make the music of the outward world,</div>
      <div class='line'>As thou didst make its inner harmony,</div>
      <div class='line'>Out of the finer love-chords of thy heart,</div>
      <div class='line'>Shall ever move thee; but a mightier charm</div>
      <div class='line'>Shall often woo thee from thy heavenly home,</div>
      <div class='line'>To shed upon thy place of sculpture</div>
      <div class='line'>The splendor of a Presence from the skies;</div>
      <div class='line'>For thou shalt see a fairer sight than all</div>
      <div class='line'>The panoramas of the Seasons bring,</div>
      <div class='line'>And hear far sweeter music than the sound</div>
      <div class='line'>Of murmuring waters, or the melody</div>
      <div class='line'>Of birds that warble in their happy nests:</div>
      <div class='line'>Yea, thou shalt see how little children come</div>
      <div class='line'>To deck thy grave with daisies, wet with tears;</div>
      <div class='line'>See homeless Want slow hither wend his way,</div>
      <div class='line'>To bless the ashes of “the poor man’s friend,”</div>
      <div class='line'>And from the scant dole of his wretchedness,</div>
      <div class='line'>Despite his hunger, lay a liberal gift</div>
      <div class='line'>Upon thy grave, in token of his love;</div>
      <div class='line'>And in the pride and glory of her state,</div>
      <div class='line'>Sceptred and crowned, the Spirit of the South,</div>
      <div class='line'>Whose Heart, and Soul, and living Voice thou wert,</div>
      <div class='line'>Will come with Youth and Manhood by her side,</div>
      <div class='line'><span class='pageno' id='Page_342'>342</span>To draw fresh inspirations from thy dust,</div>
      <div class='line'>And consecrate her children with thy fame,</div>
      <div class='line'>Till they have learned the lessons of thy life,</div>
      <div class='line'>And glorify her, too, with noble deeds;</div>
      <div class='line'>Thou shalt behold here, coming from all lands,</div>
      <div class='line'>The men who honor Love and Loyalty,</div>
      <div class='line'>Who glory in the strength of those who scale</div>
      <div class='line'>The mountain-summits of Humanity,</div>
      <div class='line'>And from their star-encircled peaks proclaim</div>
      <div class='line'>The Fatherhood of the Eternal God,</div>
      <div class='line'>The Brotherhood of Man—both being one</div>
      <div class='line'>In holy bonds of justice, truth, and love—</div>
      <div class='line'>Christ’s “Peace on Earth and good-will unto Men”—</div>
      <div class='line'>That old evangel, preached anew by thee,</div>
      <div class='line'>Till the persuasion of thy golden tongue</div>
      <div class='line'>Quickened and moved the world with mighty love,</div>
      <div class='line'>As if a god had come to earth again!</div>
    </div>
  </div>
</div>

<div class='c039'><span class='sc'>Charles W. Hubner.</span></div>
<p class='drop-capanf0_25_0_7 c017'><span class='sc'>Atlanta, Ga.</span></p>
<div class='pbb'>
 <hr class='pb c007' />
</div>

<div class='nf-center-c0'>
<div class='nf-center c001'>
    <div><span class='pageno' id='Page_343'>343</span><span class='c029'>MEMORIAL MEETINGS.</span></div>
  </div>
</div>

<div class='pbb'>
 <hr class='pb c001' />
</div>
<div class='chapter'>
  <span class='pageno' id='Page_345'>345</span>
  <h2 class='c012'>THE ATLANTA MEMORIAL MEETING.</h2>
</div>
<hr class='c013' />

<div class='nf-center-c0'>
  <div class='nf-center'>
    <div><i>From the “Constitution,” December 21.</i></div>
  </div>
</div>

<p class='drop-capa0_25_0_7 c017'>THE overflowing hearts of a sorrowing people found
expression in words yesterday.</p>

<p class='c018'>Memorial services to the memory of the dead Grady were
held in DeGive’s Opera House, and for three hours eulogies
were pronounced on his name.</p>

<p class='c018'>Loving lips and dewy eyes told the sorrow of a bereaved
people gathered to pay the last public tribute to their
departed friend.</p>

<p class='c018'>The service began at 11 o’clock, and continued until 2.</p>

<p class='c018'>At half-past ten the various escorts assembled at the
Chamber of Commerce. There they formed and marched
to the Opera House in a body. General Clement A. Evans,
D.D., and Rev. Dr. J. W. Lee, D.D., headed the procession.
Following them were the speakers of the occasion, pallbearers,
honorary escort and members of the Chi Phi Fraternity,
headed by Mayor John T. Glenn.</p>

<p class='c018'>At the Opera House the delegations were ranged on the
stage. They were Dr. J. B. Hawthorne, Dr. H. C. Morrison,
Dr. N.C. Barnett, General Clement A. Evans, Judge
W. R. Hammond, Judge W. T. Newman, Mayor John T.
Glenn, Hon. John Temple Graves, Prof. H. C. White, of
Athens; Hon. Patrick Walsh, of Augusta; Julius L. Brown,
W. A. Hemphill, Dr. J. W. Lee, Charles S. Northen, Louis
Gholstin, T. L. Meador, B. B. Crew, Donald Bain, Hon. N.
J. Hammond, Captain J. W. English, Governor Gordon,
John C. Calhoun, of New York; Judge Howard Van Epps,
Patrick Calhoun, Albert H. Cox, W. R. Joyner, C. A.
Collier, John Colvin, Porter King, Captain Everett, S. M.
Inman, Professor Bass, Major Jno. A. Fitten, Captain R.
I. Lowry, L. J. Hill, W. H. Thompson, J. A. Wright, H.
<span class='pageno' id='Page_346'>346</span>C. White, W. P. Hill, Arnold Broyles, and other members
of the Chi Phi; W. J. Garrett, W. W. Boyd, W. L. Calhoun,
Hon. T. H. Mustin, of Madison; R. D. Spalding,
M. C. Kiser, J. J. Griffin, J. R. Wyly, H. B. Tompkins, L.
B. Nelson, Charles Keith, Judge George Hillyer, Gus
Long, Dr. Crawford, J. G. Oglesby, J. J. Spalding, John
J. Falvey, Clark Howell, Jr., F. M. O’Bryan, C. A. Fouche,
of Rome, and others.</p>

<p class='c018'>The Opera House, inside and out, was draped in sable
and white, and on the stage, forming a fragrant background,
was a mass of beautiful flowers and floral pieces.
In the center of the group was the lovely offering of the
dead man’s associates and employés, standing out from a
setting of palms and roses. To the right of this central
piece was the crown from the people of Boston, and to the
left the tribute from the Virginia Society.</p>

<p class='c018'>To the front and at each side of the stage was a life-size
crayon portrait of Mr. Grady, heavily draped, and resting
on a gilded easel. Round the base of the easel were
flowers and plants of delicate foliage, perfuming the air
with their fragrant breath, and seeming to send sweet
messages to the loved face above.</p>

<p class='c018'>The galleries and boxes were all hung in mourning.</p>

<p class='c018'>General <span class='sc'>Clement A. Evans</span> opened the service with
prayer, full of words of sweetness and comfort, and of
grateful thanks for the good already accomplished by the
one that is gone, even in so short a sojourn on the earth.
General Evans prayed calmly and simply, concluding with
the invocation of God’s blessing to those left behind, and
an inspiration to those who were to speak of the departed
soul.</p>

<p class='c018'>Mayor <span class='sc'>Glenn</span>, who presided over the service, then arose
and announced the order of exercises. He said he was too
sick of heart to attempt to offer a tribute to the memory of
his dead friend, and contented himself with a few simple
words of preface.</p>

<hr class='c032' />

<p class='c018'>Judge <span class='sc'>W. R. Hammond</span> was introduced, and read the
<span class='pageno' id='Page_347'>347</span>following tribute of the Chi Phi Fraternity, of which Mr.
Grady was one of the charter members at the State University:</p>
<h3 class='c016'>THE CHI PHI MEMORIAL.</h3>

<p class='c024'>The following memorial and resolutions were prepared
by a committee appointed by a number of members of the
Chi Phi Fraternity, who assembled in Atlanta upon the
announcement of the death of Henry W. Grady, who was
a member of that Fraternity, and were read by Judge W. R.
Hammond:</p>

<p class='c021'>It is sad beyond the power of expression to be compelled to-day, and
from this time henceforth, to speak of Henry W. Grady as dead. But
it is with the profoundest pleasure that we take occasion to give utterance
to our appreciation of his virtues, and bear testimony to those
high qualities in him that marked him in many respects, not only as
one of the leading men of his State and section, but as one of the foremost
men of his times.</p>

<p class='c022'>It is peculiarly appropriate that his club-mates of the Chi Phi
Fraternity should perpetuate his memory, because he was one of its
charter members at the State University, and always gave to it a place
of unusual warmth in his affections, ever manifesting, in his attachment
to its principles and to its members, that freshness of enthusiastic
ardor which so strikingly characterized him in his college days. How
well do we remember him—those of us who were accustomed to be
with him in those days—as, with buoyant tread and sparkling eye and
merry smile, he went out and came in amongst us, ever bearing in his
frank, generous, hearty manner, the cheeriest good will to all, and the
unmistakable evidence of malice and ill-will toward none. Easily and
quickly did he win the hearts of all his club and college-mates, and it
was their delight to do him honor whenever occasion permitted.</p>

<p class='c022'>As it was then among the boys, so it was afterwards among men.
He wore his heart upon his sleeve, and gave it to all without reserve.
In some this characteristic would have been weakness, but in him it
was a chief element of strength because of the very fact that he possessed
it in such a marked and striking degree. Even those who were
his enemies were won to him when they came into his presence, and
had their dislikes charmed away by the magnetism of his manner and
his open and unreserved frankness.</p>

<p class='c022'>Henry Grady had eminent characteristics which made him great,
and it is proper and right that we should place upon record our estimate
<span class='pageno' id='Page_348'>348</span>of them, and cannot but be highly beneficial to us to thoughtfully
consider some of them.</p>

<p class='c022'>His mind was exceedingly subtle, and his perceptible powers unusually
and remarkably keen. He comprehended at a glance, and discriminated
as if by intuition. It was this, doubtless, that gave him
that wonderful expressiveness of speech which so completely captivated
all who ever heard him. He saw clearly—therefore he had power to
make others see.</p>

<p class='c022'>We all have within us at times vague and inexpressible thoughts,
and we feel a desire for some one who can interpret them for us, and
give utterance and expression to that which we cannot even put into
the form of a suggestion. We feel the need of a Daniel who can tell
us the dream, and then give us the interpretation of it. Who that has
listened to the magic of Grady’s speech, or gathered the subtle thought
from his well-chosen words, has not found in them the expression of
that which seemed to lie slumbering in his own bosom, only to be
awakened by the touch of his master hand! Such is the service which
genius renders to humanity, and such did he render for us with a
power that was almost matchless and unapproachable.</p>

<p class='c022'>But, superb as were his mental gifts, it was not this alone, or even
chiefly, that made him great and gave him power such as few ever
possessed to attract men to him. There have been those who equaled
if they did not surpass him here, but who yet have failed to impress
themselves upon humanity with a tithe of the force exerted by him. It
was his great heart that endeared him to us all and made us love him
and rejoice in his success, with a feeling that knew no jealousy, and
ever prompted us to bid him God-speed in his onward and upward
career to the high destiny which seemed to await him.</p>

<p class='c022'>True love is unmistakable in its manifestations. He who really and
truly loves his fellows need not fear that they will fail to find it out. It
will manifest itself, not in the arts and wiles of the demagogue, but in
a thousand ways which need not be premeditated, and cannot be misjudged
or misunderstood.</p>

<p class='c022'>Grady loved humanity, and love with him was not weak sentimentality,
but strong, over-mastering passion. He loved humanity, not in
the abstract, but in the person of those members of it who came within
reach of him. And this love to them was not a mere sentiment, but a
real passion, to which he gave expression in his never-tiring acts of
devotion and his ceaseless efforts to aid them in every way and by every
means that lay in his power. It was thus that he grappled his friends
to him with hoops of steel and held them in a grasp which nothing
could loosen.</p>

<p class='c022'>It was Grady’s strong emotional nature that gave wings to his words
and carried them so deep into the hearts of his fellow men. Thought
<span class='pageno' id='Page_349'>349</span>must have feeling back of it before it can have power to stir men’s
blood and move them to action. The twain must be married together
as one, and from their union springs a light and power which are
potent factors in the redemption of humanity. In Grady they were
united, and hence his words burnt their way into the souls of men.
The magnificence of his thoughts, and the untold wealth of feeling
which sprang from his great heart, were not to be resisted, and easily
won and held the admiration and homage of his fellow men.</p>

<p class='c022'>But the deep pathos of Grady’s heart, so often stirred into those
grand utterances which made him famous, seems now to have been but
the prophecy of the far deeper pathos of his untimely death. Oh how
sad it was to see him lying there upon his bier mute and motionless,
when but yesterday the nation hung upon his words, and men of all
sections and political parties delighted to do him honor. Oh how
strong in our breasts is the wish that he might have lived, not only for
himself, his family and friends, but also for the sake of his country,
and especially his beloved Southland, just beginning to feel the disenthrallment
from her bonds, and to realize that one had arisen who
seemed to have the power to place her before the Nation and the world
in her rightful position, and claim for her that sympathy and forbearance
which she so much needs in the solution of the great problem
which has been thrust upon her.</p>

<p class='c022'>But he is gone, and we can only mourn his loss, and indulge the
hope that the good he has done may live after him, and that even the
sad bereavement of his death may do much to help seal the truth of his
last public utterance upon the hearts of the people of this great country,
and ultimately bring them together as one in a union of fraternal
fellowship and love.</p>

<p class='c022'><i>Resolved</i>, That in the death of our brother, Henry W. Grady, our
Fraternity has lost one of its most honored and devoted members.</p>

<p class='c022'><i>Resolved</i>, That we tender to his bereaved family our sincere and
heartfelt sympathy.</p>

<p class='c022'><i>Resolved</i>, That a copy of this memorial and resolutions be sent to
his family.</p>

<p class='c022'><i>Resolved</i>, That the city papers be requested to publish these proceedings,
and that a copy be sent to the national organ of the Chi Phi Fraternity.</p>

<div class='lg-container-l c041'>
  <div class='linegroup'>
    <div class='group'>
      <div class='line'><span class='sc'>J. W. Lee</span>,      }</div>
      <div class='line'><span class='sc'>J. T. White</span>,    }</div>
      <div class='line'><span class='sc'>B. H. Hill</span>,     }</div>
      <div class='line'><span class='sc'>Andrew Calhoun</span>, }  <i>Committee</i>.</div>
      <div class='line'><span class='sc'>W. H. Hill</span>,     }</div>
      <div class='line'><span class='sc'>Jack M. Slaton</span>, }</div>
      <div class='line'><span class='sc'>W. R. Hammond</span>,  }</div>
    </div>
  </div>
</div>

<p class='c018'><span class='pageno' id='Page_350'>350</span>Hon. Patrick Walsh was introduced by Mayor Glenn,
and said:</p>
<h3 class='c016'>ADDRESS OF HON. PATRICK WALSH.</h3>

<p class='c021'>Mr. Chairman, Ladies and Fellow-Citizens: We are
here to pay a tribute to the worth and greatness of the
departed—to him who did so much for the prosperity of
the great and goodly city of Atlanta; to him who did so
much for Georgia and the South, and to him who did so
much for the restoration of peace and good will among the
people of all sections of our common country.</p>

<p class='c022'>The most gifted and useful public man of his day has
passed away in the person of Henry W. Grady. I will
refer briefly to him as an editor before he electrified the
country, and won plaudits from his countrymen by the
magic of his winsome eloquence.</p>

<p class='c022'>I met him for the first time about twenty years ago at a
meeting of the Georgia Press Association in the city of
Augusta. Although he had not reached his majority, he
was the proprietor and editor of the Rome <i>Commercial</i>,
which was his first newspaper venture. He was then a
striking and manly youth, and gave promise of a career of
prominence and usefulness in the field of journalism. He
moved from Rome to Atlanta and was engaged for a few
years in editing the <i>Herald</i>, one of the brightest and most
enterprising newspapers in the State. He acquired reputation
as a correspondent during the period of reconstruction,
and subsequently represented one of the leading journals
of the North as its special representative in Florida during
the memorable campaign of 1876, when the returning board
of that State negatived the will of the people. Mr. Grady
gave the country graphic and truthful pictures of the evils
which the South endured. He strikingly depicted the
wrongs imposed upon our people and exposed the usurpation
of those placed in authority by the aid of the general
Government. During that sad period of the South’s eventful
history, he rendered signal service to the people, and the
<span class='pageno' id='Page_351'>351</span>principles which he advocated, with a steadfast devotion and
an exalted patriotism.</p>

<p class='c022'>His reputation as a journalist is identified with the
growth and prosperity of that great newspaper, in the
upbuilding of which he took such a conspicuous part. The
<i>Constitution</i> stands as a monument to his ability as an
editor. His versatility as a writer was something phenomenal.
There was no subject within the range of the
press that he did not discuss with a grace and facility that
were captivating and with a clearness and vigor that were
convincing. His imagination glowed with luminous
thoughts which were clothed in the diction of polished
rhetoric. Without disparagement to the living or the
dead, he won the first place in the ranks of Southern
journalists.</p>

<p class='c022'>I speak of Mr. Grady as an editor. Others will speak
of him as an orator. Oratory was a natural gift with him.
It was born in him. Where others struggle to win success,
he, by reason of his genius, reached the mountain top, and
from this great eminence spoke to the ear of the Nation and
captured the hearts of the people. He achieved greatness
by reason of his vigorous mentality, and his fame as an
editor and as an orator is voiced by the sentiments of
admiring but sorrowing friends in all sections of the Union.
He has been stricken before his time. Already the first of
his generation, if his life had been spared his opportunity
for greatness would have broadened and given him in “the
applause of listening senates” a field for the exercise of
those great gifts with which he was so richly endowed.
He died too soon for his people and for his country. But
his name and his fame will be an example and an inspiration
to practice and perpetuate the principles of government
in the advocacy of which he yielded up his life.</p>

<p class='c022'>“With charity for all and malice toward none,” he
went about among his countrymen doing good. It was his
mission to help the poor and to aid the deserving. Every
good work received the support of his impulsive heart and
noble soul. His last speech was an impassioned and eloquent
<span class='pageno' id='Page_352'>352</span>plea for a peaceful solution of that great problem
which the South and the South alone can solve. It was
not to oppress, but to elevate the colored man—to enable
both races to live in peace, and work out their mission in
the regeneration of the South. What he so eloquently
said in Boston represents the firm conviction of his Southern
countrymen, and his death but emphasizes the truth
and force of his position. The South is free and the intelligence
and courage of her people will preserve her and
her institutions for all time from hostile and inferior
domination.</p>

<p class='c022'>The South mourns the untimely death of Georgia’s brilliant
son. The North deeply sympathizes with us in the
death of him whose last public utterance so feelingly
touched the patriotic heart of the people, and the response
comes back from all sections of a re-united people and a
restored Union. Few men have accomplished so much for
the unification of public sentiment on questions of grave
import, and there is no one who has accomplished more for
the material development of his beloved South. He is
dead, but his works will live after him. His name is
enshrined in the hearts of his grateful countrymen, who
are saddened and bowed down with unspeakable sorrow.</p>

<p class='c022'>Henry W. Grady had the zeal of a martyr and valor of a
patriot. If it be permitted to mortals who have put on
immortality to look upon this world from their celestial
home, the incense of praise which ascends from our stricken
hearts will be grateful to the soul of Henry Grady. God
has set his seal upon his silver tongue, and no more forever
will his eloquent voice, stimulating his fellow-countrymen
to deeds of noble enterprise, be heard on earth.
Matchless the fertility of his mind, matchless the magic
and power of his presentation, matchless his power of
organization, matchless his power of accomplishment.
Truly, indeed, can it be said of him, there is no man left
to fill his place.</p>

<p class='c022'>May his golden soul rest in the bosom of the God that
gave it, is the humble but heartfelt prayer of one who
<span class='pageno' id='Page_353'>353</span>admired and respected him living, and who mourns and
reveres him dead.</p>
<h3 class='c016'>ADDRESS OF HON. B. H. HILL.</h3>
<p class='c021'>I cannot speak in studied phrase of my dead friend.
The few simple words I can trust my faltering lips to utter
will come from a heart burdened with grief too deep for language
to express. A grief whose crushing weight, outside
of my own home circle, has taken away from life its brightest
hopes and its highest inspiration.</p>

<p class='c022'>In the summer of 1866 I first met Henry Grady, even
then giving promise of marvelous gifts of mind and heart.
From that summer evening, remembered now as though it
were but yesterday, I have loved him with all a brother’s
devotion and tenderness. During all these years there has
been no shadow on our friendship and no secrets in our
hearts. In prosperity he has rejoiced with me, and when
sorrow and trouble came no voice was as cheering, no sympathy
was as sweet as his. Only a year ago, when death
came into my home and took the one little blossom that
had bloomed in my heart as my own, he wrote to my
mother words of tenderest comfort for her and of love for
me—words that are inexpressibly precious to me now. Out
of my life into the beautiful beyond have passed the two
friends I loved best on earth—the chivalrous Gordon, the
peerless Grady. God keep my friends and lead them
gently through the meadow-lands where the river flows
in song eternal. I know that near its crystal banks,
where the birds sing sweetest and flowers bloom brightest,
they have clasped hands in blessed and happy reunion.
The love with which Henry Grady inspired his friends has
never been surpassed by mortal man. Beautiful and touching
have been the expressions of devotion that have come
to his family. I believe that there are hundreds all over
this State who would gladly take his place in yonder
silent tomb, if by so doing they could restore him to the
people who loved him and who need him so greatly. It is
not his great genius, unrivaled as it was; not his fervent
<span class='pageno' id='Page_354'>354</span>patriotism, unselfish as it was; not his wonderful eloquence,
matchless as it was; not his public spirit, willing
as it was—these are not the recollections that have moved
the people as they have never been moved before.</p>

<p class='c022'>But it was the great heart of the man beating in loving
sympathy with suffering, touching with sweetest encouragement
the lowly and struggling, carrying the sunshine of his
own radiant life into so many unhappy lives, that now bow
down the hearts of the people under the weight of a personal
loss.</p>

<p class='c022'>Henry Grady lived in an atmosphere of love. In him
there was greatness—greatness unselfish—unconscious—gentle
as the heart of a child. In him there was charity—charity
white and still as the moonlight that shines into
the shadows of night. In him there was heroism—the
heroism of the knight that drew no sword, but waved in
his hand, high above his white plumed brow, the sacred
wand of peace, of love, of fraternity. In him there was
patriotism, but a patriotism as pure and steadfast as a flame
burning as a passion for the people he loved. As I contemplate
this life through the years that I have known him
so well, I feel as one who has seen the sun rise in the cloudless
spring time, warming into beauty all the flowers of the
earth, and winning into praise all the songsters of the air,
at noonday, when all earth was rejoicing in its light and
growing in its strength, suddenly fade away, leaving the
land in darkness. Henry Grady was the great sun of the
Southland, under whose fervid eloquence the cold heart
of the North was melting into patience, confidence, justice,
sympathy and love. It is no exaggeration to say that he
was the great hope of the country.</p>

<p class='c022'>The eyes of the South were looking toward him with
hope. The ears of the North were listening to him with
faith. Inscrutable, indeed, are the ways of a Providence
that demanded a life so richly endowed, so potential for
good. And yet it is the finite mind that would question
either the mercy or wisdom of the Infinite. Our hero could
not have died at a time when he was dearer to his people.
<span class='pageno' id='Page_355'>355</span>His last brave, eloquent message will find its way, has found
its way, to the hearts and consciences of his countrymen.
His death is a sacrificial offering from whose altar rises even
now the incense of perpetual peace and a perfect union of
brotherly love. The lessons of his life will ripen with the
passing years. Ages yet to come will compass the fullness
of his fame and time will consecrate the patriotic martyrdom
of his death. He sang like one inspired with the
sacred memories of the past and the glorious hopes of the
future. His works and his noble qualities will expand and
multiply from his tomb as the sweet spice rushes from the
broken alabaster vase. His name will become the synonym
for friendship, charity, wisdom, eloquence, patriotism and
love, wherever these virtues are known and treasured
among men.</p>

<p class='c022'>To use his own beautiful words, written of another:
“Those who loved him best will find him always present.
They will see him enthroned in every heart that kindles
with sympathy to others. They will feel his kindly presence
in the throb of every hand that clasps their hands in
the universal kinship of grief. They will see his loving
memory beaming from every eye as it falls on theirs.” So
he shall live in Georgians and with Georgians forever and
forever. On the monument which loving hands will erect
to his memory let the inscription be written: “At all times
and everywhere he gave his strength to the weak—his
sympathy to the suffering—his life to his country and his
heart to God.” Our hearts go out to-day in tenderest
sympathy to the loved ones at home. Those alone who
have had the privilege of entering the charmed circle can
know the void left there.</p>

<p class='c022'>To the mother who idolized this noble son—and he never
forgot her, for did he not turn aside from questions of state
to tell the Nation that her knees were the truest altar he
had ever found, and her hands the fairest and strongest
that had ever led him; to the sweet and loving sister, the
companion of his boyhood; to the heart-broken wife
always worthy of his love, devoted to him, ever dear to him;
<span class='pageno' id='Page_356'>356</span>to the sweet and gentle daughter, the idol of his heart and
household; to the noble and manly son—these were his
jewels. And as we loved him so shall we love them. I
have seen a picture with a shaft of light reaching from
earth to heaven. Up the long, white rays, dazzling in
glory and transcendent in beauty, an immortal soul is
ascending to the illumined heights—ascending to meet its
God. I think that if there ever was a soul borne upward
upon rays of glory it was the beautiful soul of this friend
we loved. The golden beams of this earthly glory shining
into the pure light of heaven wove his radiant pathway to
the stars. What an ascension for an immortal soul!
Earth’s glory under his feet; Heaven’s glory upon his brow.
So he, our immortal, becomes God’s immortal. Oh, thou
bright, immortal spirit! Thou standeth this day in the
presence of the angels. The King, in his beauty, hath
greeted thee with the welcome: Well done, well done good
and faithful servant; the great and good that have passed
from earth are thy companions, and thy ears have heard
music sweeter far than all earthly plaudits. Yet we miss
thee; we mourn thee; through the rifted heavens we greet
thee with grateful tears and undying love.</p>
<h3 class='c016'>MR. JULIUS L. BROWN’S SPEECH.</h3>

<p class='c021'>Again we are assembled in the house of mourning. Our
homes and public buildings are yet black with the symbols
of our grief for him who went before.</p>

<p class='c022'>“One woe doth tread upon another’s heel, so fast they
follow.”</p>

<p class='c022'>Two short weeks ago, while we were assembled in our
capital covered with the insignia of grief, to do honor to
the memory of one who had been our chief when the storm
of war raged, we received a telegram, mingling his grief
with ours, from him, then on his journey of duty to Boston,
whose sad death we have met this day to mourn.</p>

<p class='c022'>Jefferson Davis and Henry Grady are dead. To-day
their souls commune, and we are left to weep. In their
deaths the South has lost two of her noblest sons. One
<span class='pageno' id='Page_357'>357</span>was gathered to his fathers full of years and rich in honor.
He had served his country well. He had been the chosen
leader of our people, when the storms of war were raging.
He, as our representative, had been subjected to insults
and to indignities by the Government he had honored, and
in whose service he had spent the best years of his life.
He passed away, and the sunset of his life was glorious and
beautiful.</p>

<p class='c022'>We have not yet put aside the sables of grief we wear
for Jefferson Davis, and yet in two short weeks we have met
to mourn the death of him whom we hold dearer; our
townsman, our daily associate and friend.</p>

<p class='c022'>Henry W. Grady has gone to his last home.</p>

<p class='c022'>One was an old man, ready and waiting to be called.
His day was over, his work was done, and he was waiting
for his rest. His sun had risen, past its meridian in glory
and was sinking in honor. For him the night in due time
had come. The other, was a young man, full of hope and
rich in promise. His sun had just arisen and it gave
promise that before him was yet a glorious day.</p>

<p class='c022'>One was the chosen representative of our people before
the storms of war had swept over us. He was the representative
of the South under its old system. The other
was the acknowledged exponent of the South under its
altered condition of affairs.</p>

<p class='c022'>We weep for him to-day.</p>

<p class='c022'>Of all the young men in America none had such power
for good. None had the ear of the public so completely
as he to be heard. None had so eloquent a tongue to
produce conviction. None had so magnetic a bearing to
induce followers. He was ambitious, yes, but for what?
Not for the spoils of office, not for command of his fellow-man,
not for himself, but for his people. Years ago when
his friends all over Georgia urged him to allow his name to
be presented for a post of honor in the counsels of the Nation
he refused. His letter of declination was so strong, so
patriotic, and so unselfish that it commanded the admiration
of the world. I know that even far-off New Zealand
<span class='pageno' id='Page_358'>358</span>published his words and did him honor. His eloquent
speech in New York completed the structure of his national
fame. From the night of its delivery the whole country
ranked him among its foremost citizens. Even in down-trodden
and oppressed Cuba his eloquent words were
translated into the Spanish tongue and read with delight
while I was there. The echoes of his last eloquent, matchless
defense of the South yet linger in Faneuil Hall, and so
long as its historic walls shall stand they will be classed
with the best efforts of Everett and of Webster. His
friends all over the country read his words, and wondered
that he was so great. Ambitious; yes, ambitious to be
able to present the cause of the South in such a manner as
to produce conviction in the minds and in the hearts of its
most ultra defamers, that our people now in good faith
accept as final the construction placed upon the Constitution
of this country by the victors, and that they are as
absolutely loyal and devoted, as are the people of the
North, to that Union against which his father had fought.</p>

<p class='c022'>With no apologies for the past; with no recantation of
the belief that they were patriots, without in any way casting
reproach upon our dead, with a nature grand enough
to admire Abraham Lincoln and Jefferson Davis, he had
taken for his high mission on this earth, the task of
reconciling the people of the sections. Until this great
mission was accomplished, he had no time to devote to the
narrow duties of a public office. Office, therefore, he did
not seek. Office he would not have. There was but one
office in this land great enough for him. Had he lived
until his sun had reached its meridian splendor there
would have been a complete reconciliation between the
sections. Partisan malignity would not have sought to
enact laws aimed at only a part of this grand country.
Soon would there have been a complete union of hearts
between those who had been engaged in fratricidal strife,
which the most ultra partisanship could not have severed.
Too young himself to be in the war, but the son of a gallant
Confederate soldier, killed upon the field of battle, he,
<span class='pageno' id='Page_359'>359</span>more than any one of older years, could by his chosen profession
bear the messages of peace to the North, and by his
mighty pen, by his eloquent tongue, by his melodious
voice, and by his commanding presence could he procure a
hearing from an audience of strangers and produce conviction.
If it be true that,</p>
<div class='lg-container-b c042'>
  <div class='linegroup'>
    <div class='group'>
      <div class='line'>The tongues of dying men</div>
      <div class='line'>Enforce attention like deep harmony,</div>
    </div>
  </div>
</div>

<p class='c043'>then his last words, uttered in behalf of his people, will
not have been spoken in vain.</p>
<p class='c022'>In his death the South has lost its most eloquent advocate
and its most powerful defender. America weeps
for one of her noblest sons. Who is there to finish this
work? God grant that there may rise some one to complete
his mission!</p>

<p class='c022'>He was a man full of impulse and a quick reader of the
popular mind. Well do we all remember the time when
the result of a presidential election became certainly
known, how his heart, wild with joy at what he believed
to be the beginning of better days for the South, organized
a street procession and proceeded to the legislative halls of
this State, and with his followers entered the house, and in
his clear, ringing voice announced, “Mr. Speaker: A
message from the American people,” and adjourned it.
’Tis said that history shows that there have been but two
men who have ever adjourned a parliament without a vote,
Oliver Cromwell and Henry Grady. One was an act of
tyranny—the other the expression of the desire of every
member of the house.</p>

<p class='c022'>A citizen of Atlanta, he loved Georgia; a Georgian, he
adored the South; a Southerner, he worshipped the whole
Union. He was an American in the fullest sense of that
term. There was no work of public or private charity
among us which he did not aid by his tongue, his pen, his
head or his purse, whether that work was to procure the
pardon of an abandoned young girl confined in the chain-gang
with criminals, or canvassing the streets of Atlanta
<span class='pageno' id='Page_360'>360</span>through snow and ice, accompanied with a retinue of
wagons and drays, to accumulate fuel and provisions to
prevent our poor from freezing and from starving. It was
in response to his appeals, more than to all else combined,
that a home is now being erected within sight of the dome
of yonder capitol for the aged and infirm veterans of the
Lost Cause. It was to him more than to all others that our
Piedmont Expositions, designed to show to the world the
wealth of our undeveloped mineral, agricultural and other
resources, were carried to a successful end. It was through
his persuasive power that the Chautauqua Association,
designed to more thoroughly educate our people, was
established.</p>

<p class='c022'>But in the limited time allotted to me, I cannot go into
further details. If you seek his monuments, look around.
They are in every home and every calling of life. In all
that which has tended to develop the material resources of
the country, to enrich his people, to encourage education
and a love of the arts, to relieve suffering, to provide for
the poor, and to make our people better and nobler, he
devoted his life, unselfishly and without hope of other
reward than the approval of his conscience.</p>

<p class='c022'>He was a model citizen. As a member of society, he
was welcomed to every fireside. He was the center of
every group. His doors were open always to strangers.
He was given to hospitality. He was the life, the soul
of every enterprise with which he was connected. As
a patriot, his heart was bowed down with grief that his
countrymen should be estranged. As a humanitarian, his
great heart wept at the suffering of the poor, and his voice
was ever raised in behalf of the afflicted and oppressed.
As a friend, he was devoted, unselfish and loyal. Now,
that he is gone, we know how dear he was to us. We have
awakened to the full appreciation of his great worth, and
of the calamity which has befallen us.</p>

<p class='c022'>Yesterday we stood by his tomb. No private citizen in
this country ever had such a pageant. For miles the
streets were lined with people. We saw the aged and the
<span class='pageno' id='Page_361'>361</span>young, the rich and the poor, the white and the black,
with eyes dimmed by tears, with hearts bowed down with
sorrow at loss of him. They had left their homes upon
our greatest festal day to pay him the homage of their
tears. To each of them his loss was a personal sorrow.</p>

<p class='c022'>I knew Henry W. Grady well, and I loved him. To me
his death is a personal grief. He had been my friend for
more than twenty-three years. Well do I remember the day
I joined his class in our University. Well do I picture his
friendly presence as he bade me welcome and invited me to
his home. Well do I recall our meeting in our college
societies. Our plans, our struggles, our defeats and our
triumphs there. Since that time, I have sat with him around
social boards. He has been time and again an honored and
a welcomed guest in my house. I shall miss him there.
We have been together in public enterprises, we have met
in the busy marts of men. We have worked side by side,
and we have differed upon questions of policy, but in all
these differences he has been my friend. I loved him, and
deplore his death.</p>

<p class='c022'>We shall erect in this city a monument to commemorate
his many virtues, and to hold him up as an example
before the young and those who come after us; but however
exalted that monument may be, and however near the
skys it may reach, the greatest and best monument to us
who knew him will be the memory of his many virtues
which we shall always treasure in our hearts.</p>
<div class='lg-container-b c042'>
  <div class='linegroup'>
    <div class='group'>
      <div class='line'>Sink, thou of nobler light.</div>
      <div class='line'>The land will mourn thee in its darkening hour;</div>
      <div class='line'>Its heavens grow gray at thy retiring power;</div>
      <div class='line'>Thou stirring orb of mind, thou beacon power,</div>
      <div class='line'>Be thy great memory still a guardian might,</div>
      <div class='line'>When thou art gone from sight.</div>
    </div>
  </div>
</div>

<p class='c021'>Judge Emory Speer was on the list of speakers to follow
Mr. Brown, but did not reach the city in time to take part
in the exercises.</p>
<div>
  <span class='pageno' id='Page_362'>362</span>
  <h3 class='c016'>SPEECH OF HON. ALBERT COX.</h3>
</div>
<p class='c021'>Twenty-three years ago, poor and painfully uncertain of
even a broken part of education, but shortly from farm and
camp and captivity, broken-hearted and distrusting all
things, lonesome in a strange place, two companions met
me at Athens and made me feel at home. One of them
mourns to-day with me the death of the other.</p>

<p class='c022'>I look across the many years as across a wide and misty
river made up of many streams, and recall the sunny
face, the glowing eye, the engaging smile, the warm hand
formed; it seemed to assure a friend of love with its very
clasp—the happy-hearted, the happy-making Henry Grady.</p>

<p class='c022'>Treasured by his companions are traditions that his
generous hands were helpful even then. It is known that
his appeal to the “Great Old Commoner” kept a child of
the State to the breast of its own Alma Mater. It is known
that he led the relief corps of kindness to the aid of maimed
veterans shivering in bitter winter at the old rock college.
To suggest such deeds seemed natural to his heart, and to
do them nobly seemed inherent to his hand.</p>

<p class='c022'>His was the versatile genius of our class. Never fenced
in to his text-books, apparently careless of mere curriculum,
he roamed the fields of literature more than he tramped the
turnpike of studies. Sparkling and popular, genial and
beloved, his mind moved like a stream of poetry, cascading
and flashing, banked in sweet flowers, and singing to sweet
meadows made happy by its song.</p>

<p class='c022'>His address as final orator of his society, fairly represents
the mind of the man when launched. It was an
exquisite fiction of ideal life. He painted in words an
island of beauty; in the sweetness of his sentences the
fragrance of flowers sweeter than nature’s own seemed to be
wafted to rapt listeners; the loveliness of his creation stood
out so vividly to the eye of intellect that no one view of any
grace in statuary or beauty in picture of any artist would
be remembered better. It was an island worthy to lay in
the same sea with Tennyson’s Island of Avilion, where
<span class='pageno' id='Page_363'>363</span>Knight and King Arthur was to rest his soul, and I would
wish the soul of my class-mate the sweet and eternal rest of
his own happy island, embowered in the beauties of his
own sweet fancies forever, did I not believe that he has
touched the pearl-strewn shore of a better and lovelier land
than even this, or even that of which he dreamed; that he
“rests in the balm-breathing gardens of God!”</p>

<p class='c022'>Who would dream that such ideality of mind would be
composed with such powers of business as he had? It is
wonderful that the versatile course of his life, while adding
to his breadth, did not lessen his depth. To but few,
indeed, is it endowed to be both versatile and profound.
His varied experience, like tributes, added to the brightness
and to the breadth, and to the depth of his intellect,
until before touching the sea it rolled in majestic splendor,
wide and clear as the Potomac, deep and burden-bearing as
the Ohio. He had great opportunities. He worked and
won them. Starting without them, he created them by
deserving them. That great journal, through whose columns
he and his associates have done so much to rebuild
the fortunes and hopes of our people, did not make Henry
Grady. The Lord made him. But his bereaved associates
there did all that men can do in the moulding of other
men. They recognized him for what he was and for what
he could become. They participated in the glorious work,
They surrendered him, and he surrendered himself to his
country. The first duty of the Southern patriot—a national
duty also—was to recuperate this section. In that duty,
no man out of office, perhaps no man at all, has labored with
more credit and with better result than Henry W. Grady.
For the complete reconciliation of the sections of this
Union every patriot ought to strive and every Christian
ought to pray. Sectional jealousies and angers are the
only enemies of the Union, and those who claim to place
the preservation of the Union above all other duties, ought
to be the foremost forwarders of the fraternity of the
American people. They who love the Union should help
to heal its wounds.</p>

<p class='c022'><span class='pageno' id='Page_364'>364</span>Strange spectacle! Noble culmination of a noble life!
From the midst of those charged with hate toward the
Union, Henry W. Grady went forth a minister to plead for
love to all its parts.</p>

<p class='c022'>“Blessed is the peacemaker.”</p>

<p class='c022'>His voice was for that peace in our country made perpetual
by justice to all and respect for the sacred things of
earth. His voice was for building an American temple of
peace, not upon the quicksands of comparative power, subject
to the shift from one section to the other, but upon the
everlasting foundations of right to all, respect to all, liberties
and liberality to all!</p>

<p class='c022'>Oh, what a cause he had! If successful, unfolded
glories of the Union of future times; the sweet and swelling
harmonies of the ever-increasing choir of free and
happy States; the grand ideals of the venerable fathers all
realized, and every bloom of American hope fruited in happiness,
in love, in liberty, in enduring peace!</p>

<p class='c022'>And if unsuccessful! If he and those to come must
plead in vain for the unity as well as union of the country,
then the dread doubt whether all peace is to be only preparation
for deadly grapplings; the dread doubt whether,
as in England and Scotland, these feuds are to harry our
homes and our hearts for hundreds of years!</p>

<p class='c022'>What a cause! and, thank God, what an advocate! It
would seem that our own Southern sun had warmed and
sweetened him for the work. He exactly fitted the culmination
and mission of his life. His noble soul propelled
his thoughts. His eloquence rushed from mountain-side
fountains, pure and bold and free. His reasoning was so
blended with appeal that the one took the shape of stating
truths in sequence, and his appeal seemed responsive to
the heart-beats of his listeners.</p>

<p class='c022'>Thus the cause, the advocate and the occasion met, and
once more in New England a Southern man was applauded
as an American patriot. With the triple levers of his great
soul and mind and tongue he moved two mighty sections,
with all their weights of passions of victory and passions
<span class='pageno' id='Page_365'>365</span>of defeat, with all their weights of misconceptions and
misjudgments. With his hands he moved these mighty
bodies nearer each to the heart of the other—nearer to that
true Union for which the real heart of this country, in
every part of it, beats with the pulses of a devoted love,
never entirely to be stilled.</p>

<p class='c022'>Oh, how nobly he must have been inspired as he felt
the “rock-ribbed and iron-bound” prejudice of New
England quiver to the touch of his magic hand; and as her
snow began to melt under the warmth of his great heart,
surely he was the sunshine of this great land!</p>

<p class='c022'>But, oh, the grief of it—the bitter, bitter grief of it!
Just as we knew how noble and great he was, he sank
below the horizon of life, never to rise again!</p>

<p class='c022'>I shall always recall him as dying like that lad from
Lombardy, pictured by Browning. I shall think that the
South, decked like a queen in all her jewels of glory and
of love, came to his dying couch and said:</p>
<div class='lg-container-b c042'>
  <div class='linegroup'>
    <div class='group'>
      <div class='line'>“Thou art a Lombard, my brother! Happy art thou,” she cried,</div>
      <div class='line in1'>And smiled like Italy on him. He dreamed in her face and died!</div>
    </div>
  </div>
</div>

<h3 class='c016'>ADDRESS OF WALTER B. HILL, OF MACON, GA.</h3>
<p class='c021'>Love was the law of Henry Grady’s life. His splendid
eminence among his fellows teaches once again that “he
who follows love’s behest far exceedeth all the rest.” Its
strongest throbs beat in the inner circle of the home; but
in widening waves they expand first into friendship, then
into public spirit, then into patriotism, then into philanthropy.
When it rises above these forms of human affection
in the incense of worship—we give it once more the
sacred name of love, which it bore at its fireside shrine.
From Henry Grady’s heart, that first and best and truest
and most of all was the home-fond heart, there flowed out
in all the prodigality of his generous soul, and yet with the
perfect adjustment of due degree, all those currents of feeling
which bear so many names and yet are one. And as
<span class='pageno' id='Page_366'>366</span>he loved, so is he mourned—from the hearth of a desolated
home to the borders of a mighty nation.</p>

<p class='c022'>What was he to his friends? I dare not answer except
to muffle my own heart in borrowed words—the words of
Carlyle over the bier of the gifted Edward Irving—“His
was the bravest, freest, brotherliest human soul mine ever
came in contact with.”</p>

<p class='c022'>What was he to Atlanta? More than any other man,
he built this city which he rightly loved as he loved no
other. Although the feudal independence of the old
Southern life was distinctly promotive of individualism—yet
it was reserved for this young leader—but one remove
from that past generation, to give to our common country
the finest and most conspicuous type which American citizenship
has yet produced of that high civil virtue—public
spirit. It is a virtue untaught in the schools—a grace and
a duty not preached from the pulpit: and yet, as I study
its manifestations in this marvelous man whose suggestion
and sagacity planted the cornucopias of plenty amid industrial
desolation and agricultural poverty—to me it seems
far more in touch with the brotherhood of man and the
helpfulness of Christ than the benevolence which so often
degrades the recipient and the zeal which burns so fiercely
for the conversion of opinions. If the Church does not
claim it as the fruit of religion, the State may be proud to
own it as the patriotism of peace.</p>

<p class='c022'>What was he to Georgia? We naturally think of the
material progress which he inspired throughout the State,
and all due emphasis has been accorded to it. But we
must not forget the other forms of progress to which he
was devoted. What a many-sided man he was! He spent
himself to the utmost of his wonderful resources in behalf
of the intellectual culture of the State—in the earnest but
sweet-spirited championship of that moral issue which he
declared was “the most hopeful experiment ever undertaken
in any American city,” in that magnificent tribute
to the value of her young men, which Atlanta has “writ
large” in the stately Association Building. And thus he,
<span class='pageno' id='Page_367'>367</span>whose pen seemed like the touch of Midas turning to the
gold of material wealth every interest to which it pointed,
he teaches also that imperative lesson of our needy time—that
to know and to be are greater things than to get and
to have.</p>

<p class='c022'>What was he to the South? Let the laureate answer:</p>
<div class='lg-container-b c042'>
  <div class='linegroup'>
    <div class='group'>
      <div class='line'>The voice of any people is the sword—</div>
      <div class='line'>The sword that guards them or the sword that beats them down.</div>
    </div>
  </div>
</div>

<p class='c021'>More than any other public man, he was the voice of his
people. His eloquence in magnetic speech, and that new
art his genius had created—the oratory of the editorial!—along
with the voices in literature of Joel Chandler Harris,
Thomas Nelson Page and Harry Stillwell Edwards, have
conquered a hearing at the North. In glowing utterance
and moving story, they have set forth the true and tender
pictures of the old Southern life, the sincere and single-hearted
heroism of the Confederate soldier, the cordial but
self-respecting loyalty of the South of to-day to the restored
Union. They have brought it to pass that in the contemporary
fiction of English-speaking peoples the favorite scene
is amid the old plantations, and the popular hero is the
boy that wore the gray. By these subtle forces of genius,
results have been achieved which no forensic advocacy or
party zeal could ever have accomplished. Old verdicts of
condemnation and prejudice have been reversed; and in
their stead, comprehension has come, patience is coming,
confidence will come.</p>

<p class='c022'>For the sole but sufficient reason that the whole truth
demands it, I ought to say, that from what seemed to me
some of the implications of his public utterances I had
urged upon him my own dissent; and his letter in reply,
permitting me to differ without a discount in his sincere
esteem, is now, more than ever, one of the treasures of my
life.</p>

<p class='c022'>His work for his people could not have been so adequately
done had office crowned his worth. His advocacy
would then have seemed professional and political. Public
<span class='pageno' id='Page_368'>368</span>station would have put limitations on him—would have
narrowed his audience. A rare lesson of his life is here—a
lesson needed especially among us whose habit has been
to associate official distinction too exclusively with public
service. The people are greater than Senate or Congress.
The official in Washington can speak only to his party.
But the audiences which Grady and his generous eulogist,
Depew, commands show that a man uncrowned with public
office can be great in public life, and perhaps thereby
do a greater work.</p>

<p class='c022'>What was he to the Nation? Compelled by the limitations
of the hour to answer in one word, I choose this:
He it was who first taught the rising generation of the
South to bind the name of Lincoln with that of Washington
“as a sign upon their hand and a frontlet on their
brow.”</p>

<p class='c022'>We stand face to face with a great mystery. It is the
tragedy of early death, like that of Arthur Henry Hallam,
which wrung from the sweetest singer of our time the
noblest poem of sorrow, a poem whose pages have been for
three days past luminous to me with new and richer
meaning. Accepting the evidence of consciousness in its
report of the hopes and aspirations of the human soul,
there can be but two rational hypotheses for this mystery
of an unfinished life. One has been phrased by Renan in
words like this: “There is at the heart of the universe, an
infinite fiend who has filled the hearts of his creatures with
delusions, in order that in awful mockery he may witness
the discomfiture of their despair.” The other theory has
been phrased by Martineau in words like these: “The
universe, which includes and folds us round, is the life-dwelling
of an eternal mind and an infinite love; and every
aspiration is but a prophecy of the reality in that overarching
scene where one incompleteness is rounded out in
the greatness of God.” I need not tell you which of these
faiths Henry Grady accepted, or I accept. I envy not the
man who can think that there are in this universe any
shadows dark enough to quench his sunny spirit. I
<span class='pageno' id='Page_369'>369</span>believe (turning to his picture, on the stage) oh friend of
mine! that I shall look again into that love-lit eye—that I
shall clasp once more thy generous hand!</p>

<p class='c022'>A poet sings of the echoes of the bugle from cliff and
scar as contrasted with the impact of human influence:</p>
<div class='lg-container-b c042'>
  <div class='linegroup'>
    <div class='group'>
      <div class='line'>Oh, love, <i>they</i> die on your rich sky,</div>
      <div class='line in2'><i>They</i> faint on hill and field and river;</div>
      <div class='line'><i>Our</i> echoes roll from soul to soul</div>
      <div class='line in2'>And grow forever and forever!</div>
    </div>
  </div>
</div>

<p class='c021'>In all gratitude we can say that we are happier because
he lived; in all humility that we are better because his life
touched ours. And because this is true our children and
our fellow men shall be made happier and better; and so
the echoes of his soul, reduplicated in ten thousand hearts,
shall abide, a gladdening and beneficent force—</p>
<div class='lg-container-b c042'>
  <div class='linegroup'>
    <div class='group'>
      <div class='line'>Until the stars grow old,</div>
      <div class='line'>And the suns grow cold,</div>
      <div class='line'>And the leaves of the judgment book unfold!</div>
    </div>
  </div>
</div>

<h3 class='c016'>SPEECH OF JUDGE HOWARD VAN EPPS.</h3>
<p class='c021'>Ladies and Gentlemen: The lightning brought this
message to Atlanta:</p>

<p class='c022'>“Henry Grady spends Christmas in heaven.”</p>

<p class='c022'>Who doubts it? What creature whom the Creator has
loved enough to suffer him to hold a Christian’s faith will
question that he is at this moment in company with the
good and great and virtuous who have preceded him? I
looked upon his face, the pitifulness of death sealed upon
it, and as I turned away with swimming eyes, I saw hidden
in a mass of flowers that loving hands had placed by his
side, these words:</p>
<div class='lg-container-b c042'>
  <div class='linegroup'>
    <div class='group'>
      <div class='line in23'>O, stainless gentleman!</div>
      <div class='line'>True man, true hero, true philanthropist!</div>
      <div class='line'>Thy name was “Great Heart,” honor was thy shield,</div>
      <div class='line'>Thy golden motto, “Duty without fear!”</div>
    </div>
  </div>
</div>

<p class='c043'>And the fragrant breath around him seemed vocal with
triumphant voices, singing, “Reward without stint!” In
<span class='pageno' id='Page_370'>370</span>Athens, the home of his boyhood, a few months ago, he
said, “I am going to Sunday-school. I want to feel that I
am a boy again.” When seated there the children sang,
“Shall we gather at the river?” and he sank his face in
both his hands, and tears flooded through his fingers. O,
“Great Heart,” we know that when your eyes closed upon
the weariness of the terrestrial, they opened fearless upon
the glories of the celestial. I fancy Mr. Hill sought him
without delay, fixing upon him the earnest, penetrating
glance we know so well, but out of which the pained seriousness
has been washed away forever, exclaiming,
“Why, Henry! You? And so soon! Welcome home
to our Father’s house!” Judge Lochrane has doubtless
already repaired to his side and regaled him with a bit of
celestial humor that set the seraphs ashout with laughter.
Perhaps he has encountered by this time Mr. Lincoln and
Mr. Davis with arms interlocked, their differences all
adjusted, in wider wisdom, and has been startled to hear
them say: “We were but just now speaking of you and
of the future destiny of the American Republic. Mr. Lincoln
had just remarked that the United States were on the
threshold of a more cordial understanding and a closer
union than ever before, and Mr. Davis has just quoted your
prophetic invocation: ‘Let us resolve to crown the miracles
of the past with the spectacle of a Republic compact,
united, indissoluble in the bonds of love—loving from the
Lakes to the Gulf—the wounds of war healed in every heart
as on every hill—serene and resplendent at the summit of
human achievement and earthly glory—blazing out the
path, and making clear the way, up which all the nations
of the earth must come in God’s appointed time!’”</p>
<p class='c022'>Oh, that he who alone knew how to describe “a perfect
Christmas day,” could come back to his beloved Atlanta
and make it all clear to us—the recognitions, the employments,
the conversations, the blessedness of the redeemed.
What sort of goblet of immortal nectar—of commingled
“musk of yellow grain, of flavor of ripening fruits, fragrance
of strawberries, exquisite odor of violets, aroma of
<span class='pageno' id='Page_371'>371</span>all seasons” of the celestial year, did the angels brew out
of the material of yesterday to pledge the never-ending fellowships
of Heaven in? What sort of hug of odorous shine
did Henry get armsful of yesterday, when he flung his
hands wide apart in the presence of that Being whom he
was wont to call always in his reverent speech “the Lord
God Almighty.”</p>

<p class='c022'>Oh, well enough for Henry! but for us only the pain of
it all, the bitter pain. I look abroad and Atlanta’s business
men seem grown suddenly older. The cry of the
newsboys—“Paper, sir?”—is almost a sob. I went late at
night into the <i>Constitution</i> building and the editors’ faces
were graver than they should be, and the composing-room
was heavy with suggestions of widowhood and orphanage.</p>

<p class='c022'>I went into a store Christmas eve (for Henry would
not have the children neglected) and the merchant couldn’t
find anything he sought for, and said, apologetically, “I
haven’t had any sense to-day.” The pity of it! We are
bereft. Our city is desolate. We had some great public
enterprises in view, that is, Henry had, and we were going
to follow him, and overwork him, as usual.</p>

<p class='c022'>We are disheartened—almost discouraged. Atlanta is
so young and fiery, almost fierce in her civic energy, and
pulls so hard on the reins. Who will drive for us now?</p>

<p class='c022'>We will see more clearly after a little, when our grief
is calmer, but now as we see it through our tears, the face
and body of the times are out of joint.</p>

<p class='c022'>I do not care, in this place and under present limitations,
to speak of his kittenish boyhood; of his idyllic
home-life; of his rollicsome and irresistible humor; of his
sympathy and prodigality of self-sacrifice; of his boundless
love to his fellow men; of his ability as a writer and super-eminence
as an orator; of his pride in Atlanta and services
in aid of her material progress; of his patriotic devotion to
the South and to the Union. I want to ask indulgence to
say one thing, which, as I believe, were he here to prescribe
my course and dictate my utterances, he would have me
say. I want to say to noble men of all parties, north and
<span class='pageno' id='Page_372'>372</span>east and west, speaking here from Grady’s bier, that the
South is no more hostile to the Union than is New
England, and that her love, and sympathy, and desire to
help the dependent class in her midst is deeper, if possible,
than the treason of political agitators who seek to foment
race prejudice to secure party supremacy. “We pledge
our lives, our property, and our sacred honor,” that we
will bring wisdom and humanity to the solution of the
grave problem in government which confronts us, and that
we “will carry in honor and peace to the end.” We
repeat again and again, in our sadness, with the sacredness
of our grief for his loss around us, the plea of
Georgia’s son, for patience, for confidence, for sympathy,
for loyalty to the Republic, devoid of suspicion and
estrangement, against any section.</p>

<p class='c022'>We send greeting to generous New England. They
loved him and we love them for it. We have even forgiven
them for being Republicans. We throw his knightly
and Christian gauntlet at their feet. We challenge her
business men, in the name of our champion of the doctrine
of the brotherhood of men and of Americans, to the national
glory-fields of the future—to fraternal love that will forgive
errors of judgment seven times, and seventy times seven;
and to a patriotic pride in and devotion to every foot of the
soil of our magnificent Republic, that will brook no suspicions
and no wrath in all her borders except when
directed against a foreign enemy.</p>

<hr class='c032' />

<p class='c022'>Professor White’s address was delivered under very
trying conditions. He had been suffering from a severe
headache all morning and, in fact, he has been unwell for
several days past. During his speech he suffered painfully,
and immediately at its conclusion he was so much overcome
as to be almost completely prostrated. He was led
from the stage to the office of Judge Will Haight, where
he remained until he recovered, leaving for home later in
the afternoon.</p>

<p class='c022'>The address was delivered with pathos and emotion,
<span class='pageno' id='Page_373'>373</span>and that part which bore on his close relations with the
dead man touched a responsive chord in every heart in the
vast audience that sat in listening attention to the words of
love.</p>
<h3 class='c016'><span class='fss'>REMARKS OF PROF. H. C. WHITE.</span></h3>
<p class='c021'>My friends—companions in a common grief: My heart
is yet too full of sorrow’s bitterness to frame in fitting
terms the tribute I would wish to pay the gracious memory
of our beloved dead. Save she who bears my name, he
whom we buried yesterday was my dearest friend on earth.
Our friendship, born of close companionship amid academic
groves where we together caught the inspirations that come
to wakening intellects, and nursed the high resolves that
budding youth projects as guides along the future pathway
of the man, was nourished as we grew to man’s estate, and
in these latter years so closely knit by constant intercourse,
reciprocal respect each for the other’s judgment, wishes
and desires, and mutual confidences of hopes and fears, of
sacred interests and fond ambitions, that when he died a
great and fervent glow seemed gone from out of my life, and
desolation laid its icy touch upon my heart.</p>

<p class='c022'>In recognition of these sacred ties that closely bound
our lives, I am bidden here to-day to join my grief to yours
and say a word of him who was as dear to me as man may
be to man.</p>

<p class='c022'>How can I speak at Henry Grady’s funeral! What may
I say that others have not said; that will not, in our history,
be written; for a Nation mourns him and a continent
deplores his untimely taking off, as the passing of the
brightest hope that cheered the future of our common
country’s rehabilitated life.</p>

<p class='c022'>That he was worthy all the homage cultured men may
pay to genius, talent, intellect, and wit, his works and
reputation that survive beyond the grave will abundantly
attest. That he was worthy all the plaudits honest men
accord to truth and justness, integrity and honor, none
dare stand here and interpose the faintest shadow of a
<span class='pageno' id='Page_374'>374</span>doubt. That he was worthy all the sacred tears that gentle
women and blessed little children may not refrain from
showering on his grave as tribute to his tenderness, his
gentleness, his abounding love for all things human, we,
who knew him best, who shared the golden flood of sunshine
his personality evoked and the sweetest, softest
harmonies of the music of his life, we come, a cloud of
witnesses, to testify.</p>

<p class='c022'>He was truly great if earthly greatness may be measured
by the lofty aspirations men conceive for bettering their
fellow men’s estate, or by the success with which they realize
ideals. His ambition was of the sort that makes men
kings—not petty officers—and led him to aim to teach a
mighty Nation how best its glorious destiny might be
achieved. His ample view looked far beyond the narrow
policies of strife and selfishness and partisan contentions
that mark the statesmanship of lesser men, and counseled
the broader, more effective lines of peace and love, of
patience and forbearance. Had he but lived who may
doubt but that his counsels would have prevailed? This
city, which he loved so well and which he builded, stands,
in its fair proportions, the peer of any on the earth in good
and equitable government, the prosperous home of happy,
cultured freemen, as a type of what he wished his neighbors
and his fellow-countrymen might strive to make
themselves in contrast with their fellow men; worthy to
stand among the bravest and the best. Its massive walls
stand witness to his energy, his skill and his success.</p>

<p class='c022'>He was wise, and thousands came to him for counsel.
The University—his loved and loving Alma Mater—whose
smiles had brightened the endeavors of his youth, called
him to her councils in his maturer years, and to-day she
sits upon her classic hills, a Niobe, in tears and clad in
mourning for him—chiefest among her brilliant sons; foremost
among her guardians and advisers.</p>

<p class='c022'>He was good; and for all the thousand chords of human
emotions he played upon with facile pen and tongue of
matchless eloquence, he ever held a heart in tender sympathy
<span class='pageno' id='Page_375'>375</span>with childhood’s innocence, the mother’s love, the
lover’s passion, the maiden’s modesty, the sinner’s penitence
and the Christian’s faith.</p>

<p class='c022'>One consolation comes to us, his sorrowing friends to-day.
Around his bier no fierce contentions wage unseemly
strife for offices left vacant by his death. He held no place
that may be filled by gift of man. He filled no office within
the power of governments or peoples to bestow. He served
the public but was no public servant. He was a private
citizen and occupied a unique position in the commonwealth,
exalted beyond the meed of patronage, won by virtue
of his individual qualities and held at pleasure of his
genius and by the grace of God.</p>

<p class='c022'>Full well I know that, in God’s providence, no one
man’s death may halt the march of time to ultimate events
or change the increasing purpose that through the ages
runs, but this I do believe, that this man’s death has slowed
the dial of our country’s progress to full fruition of its
happiness, prosperity, and peace. To those of us who
stand in history midway between a national life our fathers
founded and wrecked in throes of revolution and of war,
and another in the future, bright with fair promises but
ill-defined as yet in form, with darkling clouds casting grim
shadows across the lines along which it must be achieved,
he was our chosen leader and our trusted champion. No
one of us will be tardy in acknowledgment that he stood
head and shoulders above us all and towered at the very
front. That time will bring a successor in the leadership
we reverently pray and confidently hope, but meanwhile
our generation is camped in bivouac by the path of history
awaiting the birth and training of another chief.</p>

<p class='c022'>Of all his usefulness to nation, state and town; of all
that he contributed to the glory of our country’s history—the
brave defense of its unsullied past; the wise direction
of its present purposes; the high ideals of its future progress—of
these, others with equal knowledge, may speak
with greater eloquence than I. I come especially to pay a
simple tribute (time and occasion serve for nothing more)
<span class='pageno' id='Page_376'>376</span>to the man himself—my boyhood’s, manhood’s companion,
friend and lover. When on the day he died I nursed my
selfish grief within the sacred precincts of a home which he
had often beautified and rendered joyous by his presence;
in the city of his birth, among the lanes his boyish feet had
trod; amid scenes where his genius had first been plumed
to flight; where he had felt the first touch of manhood’s
aspirations and ambitions; where he had pressed his maiden
suit of sacred love; where his dead hero-father lay at rest,
and where the monumental shaft is reared to the base of
which it was his ardent hope that he might bring his son to
anoint him with the glories and the graces of a hero race—I
thought no other’s sorrow could be as keen as mine. But
lo! my neighbors shared an universal grief and draped
their homes with sable tokens of their mourning hearts;
the very children in the streets stopped in their Christmas
play and spoke in whispers as in the presence of a dread
calamity; and here, I find myself but one among a multitude
to whom that great and noble heart had given of its
gracious bounty and drawn them to himself by bonds of
everlasting love that caused their tears to flow as freely as
my own, in tribute to the sweetness, gentleness, magnetic
joyousness of him that we have lost.</p>

<p class='c022'>He was the very embodiment of love. A loving man; a
man most lovable. Affection for his fellows welled from
out his heart and overwhelmed in copious flood all brought
within its touch. His love inspired counter-love in men of
all degree. The aged marked his coming with a brightening
smile; the young fell down and worshiped him.
Unselfishness, the chiefest virtue men may claim—it carries
all the others in its train—was possessed by him in unsurpassed
degree. His generosity passed quick and far beyond
the lines marked out by charity and overflowed the limits
fixed by prudence. In fine, the gentler graces all were
his:</p>
<div class='lg-container-b c042'>
  <div class='linegroup'>
    <div class='group'>
      <div class='line'>His gentleness, his tenderness, his fair courtesy,</div>
      <div class='line in2'>Were like a ring of virtues ’bout him set,</div>
      <div class='line'>And God-like charity the center where all met.</div>
    </div>
  </div>
</div>

<p class='c021'><span class='pageno' id='Page_377'>377</span>Science and religion alike declare that force is indestructible.
Some catch from one and some the other the
inspiration that gives them faith and blessed hope that that
great thing we call the Soul may live and work beyond that
accident which we call Death, which comes with all the
terrors of unfathomable mystery to free the fretting spirit
from its carnal chains.</p>

<p class='c022'>He had no special knowledge—nor cared for none—of
scientific theory or philosophic speculation, but he had
gained from deep religious thought—not technical theology
perhaps, but true religion, the same that taught him to
“visit the widows and fatherless in their affliction and to
keep himself unspotted from the world”—he had gained
from this a deep, abiding conviction in a life beyond the
grave. That this was true I know; for often we have
talked of these great mysteries and, closeted together, have
weighed the doubts the increasing knowledge of the centuries
has brought, and I have never known a man whose
convictions were as firm, and who, frankly and squarely
meeting every doubt, retained unshaken faith with all his
heart, soul and mind.</p>
<div class='lg-container-b c042'>
  <div class='linegroup'>
    <div class='group'>
      <div class='line'>He held it truth with him who sings,</div>
      <div class='line'>To one clear harp in divers tones,</div>
      <div class='line'>That men <i>must</i> rise on stepping-stones</div>
      <div class='line'>Of their dead selves to higher things.</div>
    </div>
  </div>
</div>

<p class='c021'>How far this faith held him in loyalty to churchly
creed—the necessary corollary of such faith as his—others
are more competent than I to tell.</p>

<p class='c022'>Great Spirit—that which was loose but yesterday from
mortal tenement we sadly laid to rest—thy sorrowing
friends send after thee, along the shimmering lines that
guide thy flight from earth to glory, this fervent prayer—tempering
our agony and comforting our desolation—that
God, in His infinite wisdom, may count thy faith deserving
such reward in Heaven as we would measure to thy works
on earth.</p>

<p class='c022'>God rest thee, princely gentlemen! God keep thee,
peerless friend!</p>

<p class='c023'><span class='pageno' id='Page_378'>378</span>When Mr. Graves was introduced, the audience broke
into applause. His fame as an orator, and his intimate
friendship with Mr. Grady were known, and his eloquent
tribute to his dead friend moved the hearts of his hearers
as they had seldom by words been moved before. Upon
being introduced by Mayor Glenn, Mr. Graves said:</p>
<h3 class='c016'>SPEECH OF HON. JOHN TEMPLE GRAVES.</h3>
<p class='c021'>I am one among the thousands who loved him, and I
stand with the millions who lament his death.</p>

<p class='c022'>I loved him in the promise of his glowing youth, when,
across my boyish vision he walked with winning grace, from
easy effort to success. I loved him in the flush of splendid
manhood when a Nation hung upon his words—and now,
with the dross of human friendship smitten in my soul—I
love him best of all as he lies yonder under the December
skies, with face as tranquil and with smile as sweet as
patrial ever wore.</p>

<p class='c022'>In this sweet and solemn hour all the rare and kindly
adjectives that blossomed in the shining pathway of his pen,
seem to have come from every quarter of the continent to
lay themselves in loving tribute at their master’s feet; but
rich as the music that they bring, all the cadences of our
eulogy</p>
<div class='lg-container-b c042'>
  <div class='linegroup'>
    <div class='group'>
      <div class='line'>Sigh for the touch of a vanished hand,</div>
      <div class='line'>And the sound of a voice that is still.</div>
    </div>
  </div>
</div>

<p class='c021'>And here to-day, within this hall glorified by the echoes
of his eloquence, standing to answer the impulse of my
heart in the roll-call of his friends, and stricken with my
emptiness of words, I know that, when the finger of God
touched his eyelids into sleep, there gathered a silence
upon the only lips that could weave the sunbright story
of his days, or mete sufficient eulogy to the incomparable
richness of his life.</p>

<p class='c022'>I agree with Patrick Collins that he was the most brilliant
son of this Republic. If the annals of these times are
<span class='pageno' id='Page_379'>379</span>told with truth, they will give him place as the phenomenon
of his period, the Admirable Crichton of the age in which
he lived. No eloquence has equaled his since Sargent
Prentiss faded from the earth. No pen has plowed such
noble furrow in his country’s fallow fields since the wrist
of Horace Greeley rested; no age of the Republic has witnessed
such marvelous conjunction of a magical pen with
the velvet splendor of a mellow tongue, and although the
warlike rival of these wondrous forces never rose within
his life, it is writ of all his living, that the noble fires of his
genius were lighted in his boyhood from the gleam that
died upon his father’s sword.</p>

<p class='c022'>I have loved to follow, and I love to follow now the
pathway of that diamond pen as it flashed like an inspiration
over every phase of life in Georgia. It touched the
sick body of a desolate and despairing agriculture with the
impulse of a better method, and the farmer, catching the
glow of promise in his words, left off sighing and went to
singing in his fields, until at last the better day has come,
and as the sunshine melts into his harvests with the tender
rain, the heart of humanity is glad in his hope and the
glow on his fields seems the smile of the Lord. Its brave
point went with cheerful prophecy and engaging manliness
into the ranks of toil, until the workman at his anvil felt
the dignity of labor pulse the somber routine of the hours,
and the curse of Adam softening in the faith of silver sentences,
became the blessing and the comfort of his days.
Into the era of practical politics it dashed with the grace
of an earlier chivalry, and in an age of pushing and unseemly
scramble, it woke the spirit of a loftier sentiment,
while around the glow of splendid narrative and the charm
of entrancing plea there grew a goodlier company of youth,
linked to the Republic’s nobler legends and holding fast
that generous loyalty which builds the highest bulwark of
the State.</p>

<p class='c022'>First of all the instruments which fitted his genius to
expression was this radiant pen. Long after it had blazed
his way to eminence and usefulness, he waked the power
<span class='pageno' id='Page_380'>380</span>of that surpassing oratory which has bettered all the sentiment
of his country and enriched the ripe vocabulary of
the world. Nothing in the history of human speech will
equal the stately steppings of his eloquence into glory. In
a single night he caught the heart of the country into its
warm embrace, and leaped from a banquet revelry into
national fame. It is, at last, the crowning evidence of his
genius, that he held to the end, unbroken, the high fame
so easily won, and sweeping from triumph unto triumph,
with not one leaf of his laurels withered by time or staled
by circumstance, died on yesterday—the foremost orator
of all the world.</p>

<p class='c022'>It is marvelous, past all telling how he caught the heart
of the country in the fervid glow of his own! All the
forces of our statesmanship have not prevailed for union
like the ringing speeches of this bright, magnetic man.
His eloquence was the electric current over which the positive
and negative poles of American sentiment were rushing
to a warm embrace. It was the transparent medium
through which the bleared eyes of sections were learning
to see each other clearer and to love each other better. He
was melting bitterness in the warmth of his patrial sympathies,
sections were being linked in the logic of his liquid
sentences, and when he died he was literally loving a
Nation into peace.</p>

<p class='c022'>Fit and dramatic climax to a glorious mission, that he
should have lived to carry the South’s last and greatest
message to the center of the Nation’s culture, and then,
with the gracious answer to his transcendent service locked
in his loyal heart, come home to die among the people
he had served! Fitter still, that, as he walked in final
triumph through the streets of his beloved city, he should
have caught upon his kingly head that wreath of Southern
roses—richer jewels than Victoria wears—plucked by the
hands of Georgia women, borne by the hands of Georgia
men, and flung about him with a loving tenderness
that crowned him for his burial, that, in the unspeakable
fragrance of Georgia’s full and sweet approval,
<span class='pageno' id='Page_381'>381</span>he might “draw the drapery of his couch about him, and
lie down to pleasant dreams.”</p>

<p class='c022'>If I should seek to touch the core of all his greatness, I
would lay my hand upon his heart. I should speak of his
humanity—his almost inspired sympathies, his sweet
philanthropy and the noble heartfulness that ran like a
silver current through his life. His heart was the furnace
where he fashioned all his glowing speech. Love was the
current that sent his golden sentences pulsing through the
world, and in the honest throb of human sympathies he
found the anchor that held him steadfast to all things
great and true. He was the incarnate triumph of a heartful
man.</p>

<p class='c022'>I thank God, as I stand above my buried friend, that
there is not one ignoble memory in all the shining pathway
of his fame! In all the glorious gifts that God Almighty
gave him, not one was ever bent to willing service in
unworthy cause. He lived to make the world about him
better. With all his splendid might he helped to build a
happier, heartier and more wholesome sentiment among
his kind. And in fondness, mixed with reverence, I believe
that the Christ of Calvary, who died for men, has found a
welcome sweet for one who fleshed within his person the
golden spirit of the New Commandment and spent his
powers in glorious living for his race.</p>

<p class='c022'>O brilliant and incomparable Grady! We lay for a
season thy precious dust beneath the soil that bore and
cherished thee, but we fling back against all our brightening
skies the thoughtless speech that calls thee dead!
God reigns and his purpose lives, and although these brave
lips are silent here, the seeds sown in this incarnate
eloquence will sprinkle patriots through the years to come,
and perpetuate thy living in a race of nobler men!</p>

<p class='c022'>But all our words are empty, and they mock the air.
If we would speak the eulogy that fills this day, let us
build within this city that he loved, a monument tall as
his services, and noble as the place he filled. Let every
Georgian lend a hand, and as it rises to confront in majesty
<span class='pageno' id='Page_382'>382</span>his darkened home, let the widow who weeps there be told
that every stone that makes it has been sawn from the solid
prosperity that he builded, and that the light which plays
upon its summit is, in afterglow, the sunshine that he
brought into the world.</p>

<p class='c022'>And for the rest—silence. The sweetest thing about his
funeral was that no sound broke the stillness, save the
reading of the Scriptures and the melody of music. No
fire that can be kindled upon the altar of speech can relume
the radiant spark that perished yesterday. No blaze born
in all our eulogy can burn beside the sunlight of his useful
life. After all there is nothing grander than such
living.</p>

<p class='c022'>I have seen the light that gleamed at midnight from the
headlight of some giant engine rushing onward through the
darkness, heedless of opposition, fearless of danger, and I
thought it was grand. I have seen the light come over the
eastern hills in glory, driving the lazy darkness like mist
before a sea-born gale, till leaf and tree, and blade of grass
glittered in the myriad diamonds of the morning ray; and
I thought it was grand.</p>

<p class='c022'>I have seen the light that leaped at midnight athwart
the storm-swept sky, shivering over chaotic clouds, mid
howling winds, till cloud and darkness and the shadow-haunted
earth flashed into mid-day splendor, and I knew
it was grand. But the grandest thing, next to the radiance
that flows from the Almighty Throne, is the light of a
noble and beautiful life, wrapping itself in benediction
’round the destinies of men, and finding its home in the
blessed bosom of the Everlasting God!</p>
<h3 class='c016'>SPEECH OF GOVERNOR GORDON.</h3>
<p class='c021'>Mr. Chairman and Fellow-Citizens: The news of Henry
Grady’s death reached me at a quiet country retreat in a
distant section of the State. The grief of that rural community,
as deep and sincere as the shock produced by his
death was great and unexpected, told more feelingly and
eloquently than any words of mine possibly can, the universality
<span class='pageno' id='Page_383'>383</span>of the love and admiration of all her people for
Georgia’s peerless son.</p>

<p class='c022'>It is no exaggeration to say that the humblest and the
highest, the poorest and richest—all classes, colors and
creeds, with an unspeakable sorrow, mourn his death as a
public calamity. It is no exaggeration to say that no man
lives who can take his place. It is no extravagant eulogy
to declare that scarcely any half-dozen men, by their combined
efforts, can fill in all departments the places which
he filled in his laborious and glorious life.</p>

<p class='c022'>His wonderful intellect, enabling him, without apparent
effort, to master the most difficult and obtuse public questions,
and to treat them with matchless grace and power;
his versatile genius, which made him at once the leader in
great social reforms, as well as in gigantic industrial movements—that
genius which made him at once the eloquent
advocate, the logical expounder, the wise organizer, the
vigorous executive—all these rich and unrivaled endowments,
justify in claiming for him a place among the greatest
and most gifted of this or any age.</p>

<p class='c022'>But splendid as were his intellectual abilities, it is the
boundless generosity of his nature, his sweet and loving
spirit, his considerate and tender charity, exhaustless as a
fountain of living waters, refreshing and making happy all
hearts around him, these are the characteristics on which
I love most to dwell. It is no wonder that his splendid
genius attracted the gaze and challenged the homage of the
continent. It is perhaps even a less wonder that a man
with such boundless sympathies for his fellow men and so
prodigal with his own time and talent and money in the
service of the public, should be so universally and tenderly
loved.</p>

<p class='c022'>The career of Henry Grady is more than unique. It
constitutes a new chapter in human experience. No private
citizen in the whole eventful history of this Republic
ever wore a chaplet so fadeless or linked his name so surely
with deathless immortality. His name as a journalist and
orator, his brilliant and useful life, his final crowning
<span class='pageno' id='Page_384'>384</span>triumph, especially the circumstances of martyrdom surrounding
his death, making it like that of the giant of
holy writ, as we trust, more potential than ever in intellectual
prowess of magic of the living man—all these will
conspire not more surely to carry his fame to posterity,
than will his deeds of charity and ready responses to those
who needed his effective help, serve to endear to our hearts
and memories, as long as life shall last, the memory of
Henry W. Grady.</p>

<hr class='c044' />

<p class='c018'>Governor Gordon’s tribute was the last of the sad
occasion.</p>

<p class='c018'>At its conclusion Dr. H. C. Morrison pronounced the
benediction, and the curtain was drawn on the final public
exercises of the most memorable funeral service the South
has ever known.</p>

<p class='c018'>But the memory of the loved and illustrious dead will
linger long with his bereaved people.</p>
<div class='pbb'>
 <hr class='pb c007' />
</div>
<div class='chapter'>
  <span class='pageno' id='Page_385'>385</span>
  <h2 class='c012'>MEMORIAL MEETING AT MACON, GA.</h2>
</div>
<hr class='c013' />
<p class='drop-capa0_25_0_7 c017'>A GRADY Memorial Meeting was held at Macon, Ga.,
on the evening of Thursday, December 26, 1889. The
Academy of Music was filled with an assemblage of citizens
of all classes. The meeting was called to order by Mr. F.
H. Richardson, and the exercises were opened with an
impressive prayer by Rev. T. R. Kendall, pastor of Mulberry
Street Church. In announcing the object of the meeting,
Mr. Richardson, who presided, said:</p>
<h3 class='c016'>ADDRESS OF MR. RICHARDSON.</h3>
<p class='c021'>Fellow-Citizens: We have assembled to-night to honor
the memory of a good and useful man; to express our
sincere regrets that death has closed a high career in the
meridian of its splendor; to voice our sympathy with the
grief which this public loss has carried to every part of our
State.</p>

<p class='c022'>This is an occasion without precedent in the history of
Macon. Never before have its people given such tribute to
the memory of a private citizen. But when has such a
private citizen lived, when has such a one died in Georgia?
In speaking of my dear, dead friend I trust I do not pass
the bounds of exact and proper statement when I say that
there was not within the limits of these United States any
man unburdened by office, unadorned by the insignia
of triumphs in the fields of war, or the arena of politics,
whose death would have been so generally deplored as is
that of Henry W. Grady. It will be our privilege and
pleasure to hear testimony of his genius and his virtues
from the representatives of five organizations; the Press,
the Chamber of Commerce of Macon, the resident alumni
<span class='pageno' id='Page_386'>386</span>of the State University, the City Government, and the Chi
Phi Fraternity. Each of these has good reason to honor
the memory of Henry Grady. The press can fashion no
eulogy richer than his desert, for his was the most illustrious
pen that has flashed in Southern journalism during
this generation. The Chamber of Commerce cannot
accord him too much praise, for, though himself unskilled
in the science of trade, he was the chief promoter of
public enterprise in his city and set an example worthy
the emulation of any man whose ambition looks to the promotion
of commercial and industrial progress. Surely the
Alumni of the State University should honor him, for he
was the most famous man who has left the classic halls of
Athens in many a year. It is well that the City Government
joins in this general tribute to the lamented dead.
He led his own city to high ideals and to large achievements.
He preached the gospel of liberality as well as the
creed of progress. While his devotion to his own city was
supreme, from his lips there fell no word of scorn or malice
for any other community. Let us emulate the catholicity
of his patriotism. Atlanta was its central force and fire,
but it extended to all Georgia, to all these States and,
passing beyond the boundaries of his own county, was
transformed into a love for all mankind. The Chi Phi
Fraternity had much cause to love Henry Grady. Only
those of us who know the full meaning of the mystic bonds
of that brotherhood can appreciate the ardor and enthusiasm
of his devotion to it. There was that in him which
was nobler and worthier of commemoration than even his
radiant genius. Powerful as he was with the pen, persuasive
as he was in his masterful control of the witchery of
eloquence, fascinating as was his personality, he had a still
better claim to honor than could be founded on these distinctions.
After all, the best fame is that which, though
not sought, is won by goodness, charity, and brotherly
love. Leigh Hunt’s Abou Ben Adhem is lovelier than the
mightiest of the Moorish Kings. Henry Grady concerned
himself to do good unto others. He kindled the fire on
<span class='pageno' id='Page_387'>387</span>cold hearth stones, he cared for the sick and the forsaken,
he visited the prisoner, he carried consolation to the desolate.
His works of mercy, tenderness, and love do live
after him, and they are the crowning beauty of his work in
this world. The tear of gratitude that trickles down the
cheek of the orphan is a purer jewel than ever sparkled in
the crown of political fame. The simple thanks of the
friendless and oppressed make sweeter music to the soul
than the applause of senates. These priceless rewards were
showered upon him in recognition of many an untold deed
of charity and grace. His life has been concluded when,
according to human wisdom, it seemed most desirable that
he should linger among the walks of men. Silence has set
its seal on his eloquent lips when their words seemed
sweetest. His great, tender heart has been hushed forever,
when from the life it quickened there were going forth
influences of large and increasing beneficence.</p>

<hr class='c044' />

<p class='c018'>Capt. <span class='sc'>J. L. Hardeman</span> was then introduced, and he
read the following resolutions framed by the committee
from the meeting of the various bodies held last Tuesday:</p>
<h3 class='c016'>RESOLUTIONS.</h3>

<p class='c021'>The death of Henry Grady is a great blow to the hopes of the South.
He had become one of the foremost men of the day in her behalf. His
leadership was as unique as it was controlling. He held no office, he
sought no preferment, and yet he was a leader. History furnishes but
few examples like this, none that can excel him in the sublime usefulness
of his career. His patriotism was so lofty that one cannot measure
it by the standards of the hour. His soul was filled to running over
with a deep love for his people and the sufferings they had endured,
and those to which fanaticism might expose them. This love was his
inspiration. It moved, it commanded the largest exercise of his versatile
genius under an infinite variety of circumstances. And in all of
these, whether as editor, writer, orator or citizen, he buried far out of
sight every consideration of self and wrought for the people’s good.
And his work was on a plane as exalted as his highest aspirations. No
taint of gain ever touched his hand; no surrender of principle ever
marred the colors of the banner he bore. What though in a passing
moment he may have differed with others upon minor matters, yet in
all the great and burning questions which so vitally concern the people
<span class='pageno' id='Page_388'>388</span>of the South and of the Union, he was abreast and ahead of nearly all
others. In his life every element of success was materialized, an
energy as untiring as the tides of the sea; a courage like the eagle’s
that gazes with eye undimmed upon the glare of the noonday sun; a
genius so comprehensive that it grasped with equal facility the smallest
detail and the broadest of human issues, and above all, a patriotism
pure, heroic, unsectional, drawing its inspiration from the sacred fountain
head of American liberty, and spreading its benign influence
wherever the Constitution is obeyed and the rights of mankind respected.
And thus he worked in the fore front till death overtook
him. In this hour of mourning, how heavily do we feel his loss. The
great purpose of life was just planned out. The certainty of its fulfillment
could rest alone with him. To lead his people onward and upward
through all the harassing difficulties which beset them to the full
fruition of constitutional liberty in its widest meaning, was his purpose.
Not alone by his splendid oratory did he seek to attain this end; to this
end he devoted his pen as an editor, and to this end he also devoted
those beautiful traits of his private character, which made him loved
by all who knew him. His unfinished work is yet to be accomplished.
The young Moses of the Southland is gone, and may the people not
wander from his teachings. The people of Macon assembled to do
honor to the illustrious dead</p>

<p class='c022'><i>Resolve</i>, That in the death of Henry W. Grady, the State of Georgia
has lost one of her noblest sons, the Union a man who was a patriotic
lover of constitutional liberty.</p>

<p class='c022'><i>Resolve</i>, That in the death of Henry W. Grady, the city of Atlanta
has been deprived of a noble, energetic and unselfish citizen, who was
devoted to her interests.</p>

<p class='c022'><i>Resolve</i>, That we tender our sympathies as a people to the family of
the deceased, and that a copy of these resolutions be forwarded to
them.</p>

<div class='lg-container-l c045'>
  <div class='linegroup'>
    <div class='group'>
      <div class='line'><span class='sc'>John L. Hardeman</span>,  }</div>
      <div class='line'><span class='sc'>W. W. Collins</span>,     } <i>Committee</i>.</div>
      <div class='line'><span class='sc'>Washington Dessau</span>, }</div>
    </div>
  </div>
</div>

<p class='c023'>In moving the adoption of the resolutions, he said:</p>

<p class='c018'>Mr. Chairman: In moving the adoption of this, the
report of your committee, I can but say that to-night
emphasizes the words of Jerusalem’s King: “A good
name is better than precious ointment, and the day of
death than the day of one’s birth.” Death came to him
as a benediction that followed a sacrifice. Warned by his
physician that he was ill, cavalier of the South alone he
<span class='pageno' id='Page_389'>389</span>marched to battle for her, uninspired by the enthusiasm
of a battle array, yet within cannon shot of Bunker Hill,
and where he could feel the spray from Plymouth Rock,
he fought a gallant fight for us, and leaving the field victor,
amidst the plaudits of those he had conquered, he
hastened home to complete his sacrifice; and the same
angel that bade him leave this world spoke not only to the
soul of Henry W. Grady, but to all the people North and
South: “Peace, be still.”</p>

<p class='c018'>The resolutions were unanimously adopted by a rising
vote.</p>

<hr class='c032' />

<p class='c018'>Professor <span class='sc'>G. R. Glenn</span> was then introduced and read
the following preamble and resolution on the part of the
committee of alumni:</p>
<h3 class='c016'>ALUMNI RESOLUTIONS.</h3>

<p class='c021'>It is no ordinary occasion that calls us together. That was no
ordinary light that went out in the gray mists of early dawn. It was
no ordinary life that has so suddenly and so strangely come down to
its close. To those of us who were University students with him, who
knew his University career, the story of his splendid accomplishments
has more than ordinary significance, and the heart-breaking tragedy of
his sudden taking off a profound meaning.</p>

<p class='c022'>We had a personal sympathy in every stride of his struggling manhood:
we carried a personal pride to every wonderful achievement of
his growing genius: we hailed with fraternal joy every popular triumph
of his intellectual prowess; we joined in every glad shout that
told how victoriously his unselfish love was commanding sway over
the American heart; and when he is stricken down we bow our heads
in sorrow, as only those can who know the sources from which he
drew the inspirations of his life.</p>

<p class='c022'>He came from the University of Georgia in those palmy days from
’66 to ’72, when Lipscomb and Mell and W. L. Brown and Waddell
and Rutherford and Charbonnier and Jones and Smead—names that
some of us will teach our boys to pronounce tenderly and reverently—were
at their greatest and best. In this company gathered here are
those who know the meaning and the moulding power of great character
builders like these. The great soul of the venerable Chancellor
Lipscomb, that grand arch priest of higher learning, made its impress
on the soul of the young man at Athens. Some of us can trace that
impress, and the impress of the University of those days, through all
<span class='pageno' id='Page_390'>390</span>his after life down to that Boston speech, aye, even to the delirium of
that last sickness, when his thought was for others rather than of
himself.</p>

<p class='c022'>Moulded to be generous, broad-minded, tolerant, unselfish, magnanimous,
aspiring, noble, who may tell us what climax this divinely
gifted, sunny soul might not have reached if his rich and kingly life
might have been spared to his race. The education that he received
was an evolution of the best and most royal in manhood. It was
fashioned on this pattern—the germ thoughts of his life took root in
his home and branched out to his friends, overshadowed this city,
sent their far-reaching and strengthening arms over every portion of
his State, and then towered grandly above his section. Yea, and had
began to bear fruit for the healing of the nation, when alas, alas, an
inscrutable Providence cuts him down. But, thank God, that matchless
tongue, now silent forever, was not hushed till, above Atlanta,
above Georgia, above the South, above the whole country, the undying
eloquence of that Boston speech rose in majestic waves over city,
state, section and country, and sent the far-thrilling echoes into the
eternal depths of our common humanity. There it is—from his home,
through the university life, through the splendid work in his editorial
chair, on the rostrum, in every forward movement of his soul to
that last grand plea to the national heart, and down into the delirium
of the death chamber, it is the evolution of the noblest and the best.
The heart that made the sunniest home in Atlanta warmed everything
it touched, from the son of the Puritan on Plymouth Rock, to the
grey-haired old freedman that goes with tottering step and slow to join
old master and old missus behind the sunset hills.</p>

<p class='c022'>The University has sent out many sons who have honored her in
filling large places in the history of our State and country. Hill and
Stephens and Toombs, the Cobbs, and Jacksons, and Lumpkins, and
Crawfords, and Gordons, and a long line of immortal names, have illustrated
her worth in the professions, in the field, and in the forum. Of
the many bright and brightening names of her younger sons, the name
of Grady easily led all the rest, and now that he is gone, the almost
universal cry is, who among those that are left is great enough to fill
his place. In the words of one who had much to do in moulding his
intellectual life: “Ulysses is away on his wandering and there is none
left in Ithaca strong enough to bend his bow.”</p>

<p class='c022'><i>Resolved</i>, That in the death of Henry W. Grady the Alumni of the
University of Georgia have lost from their ranks a man who illustrated
the best that comes from University education.</p>

<p class='c022'><i>Resolved</i>, That his career furnishes to our young men a shining example
of one who, choosing his life-work, loved it with an unwavering
love, believed in it with an unalterable and tireless devotion and reached
success and eminence before he had rounded two-score years.</p>

<p class='c022'><span class='pageno' id='Page_391'>391</span><i>Resolved</i>, That we recognize and commend the unselfish and generous
love of our brother for his own race and for the human race—a
love that was so warm and genial that it won men to him as if by
magic. Here was the motive power that developed and drove his
great brain. Here was the “open sesame” that unlocked for him
those treasure-houses of grand thoughts for humanity that are forever
barred to cold-hearted and self-seeking men.</p>

<p class='c022'><i>Resolved</i>, That we very tenderly and lovingly commend to our
Heavenly Father the loved ones about his own hearthstone. We cannot
understand this blow, but we bow in submission to the Judge of all
the earth, who will do right.</p>

<p class='c022'><i>Resolved</i>, That copies of this preamble and resolutions be furnished
to his family, and to the Macon and Atlanta papers for publication.</p>

<div class='lg-container-l c045'>
  <div class='linegroup'>
    <div class='group'>
      <div class='line'><span class='sc'>G. R. Glenn</span>,       }</div>
      <div class='line'><span class='sc'>W. B. Hill</span>,        } <i>Committee</i>.</div>
      <div class='line'><span class='sc'>Washington Dessau</span>, }</div>
    </div>
  </div>
</div>

<p class='c023'>These resolutions were also unanimously adopted.</p>

<hr class='c032' />

<p class='c018'>Mr. John T. Boifeuillet, representing the press of Macon,
spoke as follows:</p>
<h3 class='c016'>ADDRESS OF MR. BOIFEUILLET.</h3>
<p class='c021'>Mr. Chairman, Ladies and Gentlemen: The silver cord
is loosed, the golden bowl is broken, and the most brilliant
light in American journalism is veiled in darkness. The
crystal spirit has returned to the bright realm from whence
it came, as an evangel of peace, hope and mercy.</p>

<p class='c022'>The star was rapidly ascending to the zenith of its
greatest brilliancy and magnitude when suddenly it disappeared
below the horizon, but across the journalistic
firmament of the country it has left an effulgent track
whose reflection illuminates the world.</p>

<p class='c022'>Henry Grady’s sun-bright intellect shone with a splendor
that dazzled the eyes of men, and made luminous the pages
traced by his magnetic pen. The cold type sparkled with
the fires of his genius. His writings breathed a spirit of
sweetness and good-will. They were inspired by lofty purposes
and earnest endeavor, free from all suspicion of selfishness
or insincerity. No shadow of doubt fell across the
sunshine of his truth.</p>

<p class='c022'><span class='pageno' id='Page_392'>392</span>Wherever a sunbeam wandered, or a tear-drop glistened;
wherever a perishing life trod upon the ebbing tide; wherever
beauty sat garlanded, or grief repined, there Grady
was, singing his loves and binding rainbow hopes around
the darkest despair. His harp was strung in harmony with
the chords of the human heart.</p>

<p class='c022'>When God in his eternal council conceived the thought
of man’s creation, he called to him the three ministers who
wait constantly upon the throne, Justice, Truth, and Mercy,
and thus addressed them: “Shall we make man?” Then
said Justice: “O God, make him not, for he will trample
upon the laws.” Truth made answer also: “O God, make
him not, for he will pollute the sanctuaries.” But Mercy,
dropping upon her knees, and looking up through her
tears, exclaimed: “O God, make him—and I will watch
over him with my care through all the dark paths which
he may have to tread!” Then God made man, and said
to him: “O man, thou art the child of Mercy; go and deal
with thy brother.”</p>

<p class='c022'>So, Henry Grady, a ministering angel of mercy on earth,
faithfully tried, throughout his life, in his conduct toward
his fellow-man, to follow the Divine injunction given at
man’s creation morn. His pen was never dipped in malice
or bitterness, but was always lifted in behalf of charity,
love and kindness; in behalf of progress, industry and
enterprise; in behalf of the South and her institutions—his
State and her people.</p>
<div class='lg-container-b c042'>
  <div class='linegroup'>
    <div class='group'>
      <div class='line'>For every heart he had a tone,</div>
      <div class='line'>Could make its pulses all his own.</div>
    </div>
  </div>
</div>

<p class='c021'>Some men burst to shatters by their own furious notion,
others in the course of nature simply cease to shine; some
dart through the period of their existence like meteors
through the sky, leaving as little impression behind and
having with it a connection equally as slight, while others
enter it so thoroughly that the time becomes identified
with them. To this latter class belonged Henry Grady.</p>

<p class='c022'>His pen improved the agriculture of the South; it
<span class='pageno' id='Page_393'>393</span>advanced the material interest and substantial growth of
Georgia; it advocated industrial training for the youths
and maidens of the land; it developed the poetry of the
State; it elevated the morals of men and purified their
character; it created noble aspirations in the human heart;
it implanted seeds of benevolence, charity and liberality;
it taught the lesson of self-abnegation and forgiveness; it
inculcated principles of patriotism and love of country; it
softened animosities between the North and South, and
clasped the hands of the two sections in fraternal greeting.
His pen built Atlanta, it aided in building up Georgia; it
established expositions that were a credit to the State and
a glory to her people; it accumulated by one editorial
$85,000 for the erection of a Y. M. C. A. building; it collected
the fund for the erection of the Confederate soldiers’
home, which will ever stand as a monument to his patriotism
and fidelity. When winter clasped Atlanta in its icy
embrace, and the poor were suffering from hunger and cold,
his pleading pen made the God-favored people of that city,
who sat within places of wealth and comfort, by glowing
fires and bountifully laden tables, hear the wail of the
orphan and the cry of the widow; purse-strings were
unfastened, cold hearts thawed under the magnetic
warmth of his melting pathos, and in a few hours there
was not an empty larder or a fireless home among the poor
of Georgia’s great capital. Whether engaged in making
governors and senators, or preparing a Christmas dinner
for newsboys, whether occupied in building a church or
forming a Chautauqua; whether constructing a railroad or
erecting some eleemosynary institution, his pen was powerful
and his influence potent. It has left its impress upon
the tablets of the world’s memory, and the name of Henry
Grady, the great pacificator, will live in song and story
until the sundown of time.</p>

<p class='c022'>According to a contemporary, Henry Grady, while a
beardless student at college, wrote a letter to the Atlanta
<i>Constitution</i>, which was his first newspaper experience.
The sparkle and dash of the communication so pleased the
<span class='pageno' id='Page_394'>394</span>editor of the paper, that when the first press convention
after the war was tendered a ride over the State road, the
editor telegraphed his boyish correspondent, who had then
returned to his home in Athens, that he wished to have him
represent the <i>Constitution</i> on that trip, and write up the
country and its resources along the line of the road. Mr.
Grady accepted the commission, and of all the hundreds of
letters written on the occasion, his, over the signature of
“King Hans,” were most popular and most widely copied.
He became editor and one of the proprietors of the Rome
<i>Daily Commercial</i>, a sprightly, newsy, and enterprising
journal. Rome, however, was at that time too small to
support a daily paper on such a scale, and in 1872 Mr.
Grady purchased an interest in the Atlanta <i>Herald</i>. Here
he found room and opportunity for his soaring wings, and
the <i>Herald</i> became one of the most brilliant papers ever
published in Georgia. In 1876 he became connected with
the <i>Constitution</i>. By this time his editorial abilities had
made him many friends at home and abroad, and James
Gordon Bennett at once made him the Southern representative
of the New York <i>Herald</i>. On this journal Mr.
Grady did some of the best work of his life. He rapidly
regained all that he had lost in his ventures, and in 1880
purchased a fourth interest in the <i>Constitution</i>, taking the
position of managing editor, which he held at the time of
his death. His career in that capacity is a matter of proud
and brilliant history. He had just commenced an interesting
series of valuable letters to the <i>New York Ledger</i> when
he was stricken down with fatal sickness, even while the
plaudits of the admiring multitude were ringing in his ears
and the press of the country was singing his praises.</p>

<p class='c022'>The last editorial Grady wrote was the beautiful and
soulful tribute on the death of Jefferson Davis; and on the
eve of Mr. Grady’s departure from Atlanta for Boston he
sounded the bugle-call for funds to help erect a monument
to the peerless champion of the “Lost Cause.” How
strange, indeed, that the illustrious leader and sage of the
Old South and the brilliant and fearless apostle of the New
<span class='pageno' id='Page_395'>395</span>South, should pass away so near together. Ben Hill died,
and his place has never been supplied in Georgia. Mr.
Grady approached nearer to it than any other man. Now
Grady is gone, and his duplicate cannot be found in the
State. Society was blessed by his living and his State
advanced by his usefulness and excellence.</p>

<p class='c022'>Like the great Cicero, who, when quitting Rome, took
from among his domestic divinities the ivory statue of
Minerva, the protectress of Rome, and consecrated it in the
temple, to render it inviolable to the spoilers, so Henry
Grady, when leaving his college halls to enter upon a brilliant
life in the journalistic world, took with him to the
oracles the statue of pure thought, and after its consecration,
to protect and preserve it in his bosom, it became to
him a shield and buckler. Thus armed he went forward to
the battle of life, determined to do his whole duty to his
country, his God and truth. How well he succeeded, the
voice of admiring humanity proclaims, and the angels of
heaven have recorded. He vanquished all opposition and
waved his triumphant banner over every field of conflict.</p>

<p class='c022'>His thoughts were sparks struck from the mind of
Deity, immortal in their character and duration. They
were active, energizing, beautiful, and refined. His mind
was like a precious bulb, putting forth its shoots and blooming
its flowers, warmed by the sunshine and watered by the
showers. It was like a beautiful blade, burnished and
brightened, and as it flashed in the sunlight it mirrored his
kingly soul and knightly spirit.</p>

<p class='c022'>Looking back at the ages that have rolled by in the
revolutions of time, what have we remaining of the past
but the thoughts of men? Where is magnificent Babylon
with her palaces, her artificial lakes and hanging gardens
that were the pride and luxury of her vicious inhabitants;
where is majestic Nineveh, that proud mistress of the East
with her monuments of commercial enterprise and prosperity?
Alas! they are no more. Tyre, that great city,
into whose lap the treasures of the world were poured, she
too is no more. The waves of the sea now roll where once
<span class='pageno' id='Page_396'>396</span>stood the immense and sumptuous palaces of Tyrian wealth.
Temples, arches and columns may crumble to pieces and be
swept into the sea of oblivion; nature may decay and races
of men come and go like the mists of the morning before
the rising sun, but the proud monuments of Henry Grady’s
mind will survive the wrecks of matter and the shocks of
time.</p>

<p class='c022'>On the Piedmont heights peacefully sleeps the freshness
of the heart of the New South, cut down in the grandeur
of his fame and in the meridian of his powers, in the glory
of his life and in the richest prime of his royal manhood.
His brow is wreathed with laurel. Costly marble will
mark the place of his head, and beautiful flowers bloom at
his feet. There the birds will carol their vespers, and
gentle breezes breathe fragrance o’er his grave. The sun in
his dying splendor, ere sinking to rest amid the clouds that
veil the “golden gate,” will linger to kiss the majestic
monument reared by loving hearts, and with a flood of
beauty bathe it in heavenly glory. And then the blush
fades, even as it fades from the face of a beautiful woman.
Shadows begin to climb the hillside, and nature sleeps,
lulled by the soft music of the singing wind. The stars, the
bright forget-me-nots of the angels, come out to keep their
vigils o’er the sleeping dust of him whose soul hath gone</p>
<div class='lg-container-b c042'>
  <div class='linegroup'>
    <div class='group'>
      <div class='line'>To that fair land upon whose strand</div>
      <div class='line'>No wind of winter moans.</div>
    </div>
  </div>
</div>

<hr class='c044' />
<p class='c018'>Major J. F. Hanson, as the representative of the Chamber
of Commerce, said:</p>
<h3 class='c016'>ADDRESS OF MAJOR HANSON.</h3>
<p class='c021'>It would be impossible at this short distance in point of
time from the final struggle in which Mr. Grady yielded
up his life, to form a just estimate of his character, his
attainments and his work. These have passed into history,
and will survive the mournful demonstrations of his people,
because of their loss in his sudden and unexpected death.</p>

<p class='c022'>To many of you he was personally known, while, with
<span class='pageno' id='Page_397'>397</span>the people of Georgia, his name was a household word. In
his chosen profession he will rank with Lamar and Watterson.
With these exceptions, in the field of Southern journalism,
he was without a rival or a peer, while, as an orator,
his brilliant efforts had attracted the attention and won the
plaudits of the entire country.</p>

<p class='c022'>His speeches before the New England Society, at Dallas,
Texas, Augusta, Georgia, the University of Virginia, and
finally at Boston, constitute the record upon which must
rest his claim to statesmanship.</p>

<p class='c022'>While the people of the South, with one voice, approve
the purpose manifested in these matchless efforts to maintain
the supremacy of the Anglo-Saxon in the public affairs
of this section, there are differences of opinion with reference
to the methods, which, by implication at least, he
was supposed to have approved, for the accomplishment of
this purpose. If, at this point, there was real or apparent
conflict with the broad spirit of nationalism, for which at
other times he pleaded so often and so eloquently, it is but
fair to attribute it to the supreme conviction on his part
that, through white supremacy in the South, by whatever
means maintained, this end was to be secured.</p>

<p class='c022'>However we may differ with reference to the methods
which, as a last alternative, he would have employed, or
their final effect upon the institutions of our country, we
recognize the great purpose which inspired his efforts in
our behalf. Because this is true, the people of the South
will keep his memory green, whatever the opinion of the
world may be with reference to this question.</p>

<p class='c022'>In the material development of the South, and her
future prosperity, power and glory, his faith was complete.
He labored without interruption during his entire career to
promote these great results, and impressed himself upon
his section in its new growth and new life, more than any
man of his time. The wonderful growth of his own city
was due to the broad liberality and supreme confidence in
its future with which he inspired the people of Atlanta.</p>

<p class='c022'>Phenomenal as his career has been during the past few
<span class='pageno' id='Page_398'>398</span>years, he had not reached the zenith of his powers, and
what he accomplished gave promise of greater achievements
which the future had in store for him, of increasing
fame, and for his State a richer heritage in his name. It
is doubtful if he fully understood, or had ever tested to
the limit his power as an orator. As occasion increased
the demand upon him, he measured up to its full requirements,
until his friends had grown confident of new and
greater triumphs.</p>

<p class='c022'>We shall miss him much. His faults (and faults he had
like other men) are forgotten in view of his service to his
friends, his home, his State and his country, and of his
untimely death, when the highest honors which his people
could bestow were gathering about him.</p>

<p class='c022'>If he had not reached the meridian of his powers, he
died in the fullness of a great fame, and we turn from his
grave sorrowing, but not without hope, for we leave him in
the hands of that Providence which knoweth best, and
doeth all things well.</p>
<hr class='c044' />

<p class='c018'>Judge Emory Speer, for the resident alumni of the University
of Georgia, said:</p>
<h3 class='c016'>JUDGE SPEER’S ADDRESS.</h3>
<p class='c021'>Mr. President, Ladies and Gentlemen: It is instinctive
with civilized humanity to honor the illustrious dead. This
animating impulse is as practical and beneficent in its
results to the living, as it is righteous and compensating to
those glorious natures who have consecrated their lives to
the service of their country and of mankind.</p>

<p class='c022'>The youthful Athenian might contemplate the statue to
Demosthenes, and with emulation kindled by the story of
his eloquence and his courage, might resolve that his own
lips shall be touched as with the honey of Hybla, and that
he will, if needful, lead the people against another Phillip.
The Switzer lad, bowed before the altar in the chapel of
William Tell, will unconsciously swear forever to defend
the independence of his mountain home. The American
<span class='pageno' id='Page_399'>399</span>youth, standing where the monument to the Father of his
Country throws its gigantic shadow across the tranquil
bosom of the Potomac, with elevation of soul and patriotic
animation will exclaim: I, too, am an American and a freeman.
And, sir, this characteristic of a generous and great
people finds unexampled expression in the conduct of our
country towards the memory of its soldiers, its statesmen,
its patriots, its philanthropists. They are enshrined in the
hearts of a grateful people.</p>
<div class='lg-container-b c042'>
  <div class='linegroup'>
    <div class='group'>
      <div class='line'>Their deeds, as they deserve,</div>
      <div class='line'>Receive proud recompense. We give in charge</div>
      <div class='line'>Their names to the sweet lyre. The historic muse,</div>
      <div class='line'>Proud of the treasure, marches with it down</div>
      <div class='line'>To latest times; and sculpture, in her turn,</div>
      <div class='line'>Gives bond in stone and ever-during brass</div>
      <div class='line'>To guard them and immortalize her trust.</div>
    </div>
  </div>
</div>

<p class='c021'>In obedience to this vitalizing and commanding influence
of a noble people, in deference to the designation of his
brothers and mine, in the beautiful association and sacred
memories of alma mater, I come to place a simple chaplet
upon the grave of Henry Grady, an humble votive offering
at the shrine he has merited and won in the Valhalla of
the American people. Perhaps, sir, in all this vast congregation
there is not one man who knew as I knew our dead
brother in the happy and halcyon days of our childhood.
Thirty years ago we were boys together. Together we
attended the little school in the shadow of the great university
buildings, taught by a noble woman, the daughter
of the venerable Dr. Church, the president of Franklin
College. Henry was then remarkable for his sunny nature,
his generous disposition, his superabundant flow of good-humor
and spirited energy. Beautifully proportioned,
agile, swift of foot, sinewy and strong for his age, he was
easily the leader of our childish sports. Among his young
companions he was even then the popular favorite he has
ever been. In the revolution of the “Great Iron Wheel,”
(an allusion which all good Methodists will understand), I
was borne away at the end of the year, and Henry Grady
<span class='pageno' id='Page_400'>400</span>for years went out of my life. A year later the dun clouds
of war enveloped the country. Five years elapsed, and
when I returned to Athens in September, 1866, to enter the
sophomore class at the University, there was Grady rising
junior. The beautiful boy had become a beautiful youth.
His sunny nature had become even brighter. His generosity
had become a fault. When I had known him in ’59,
his father was perhaps the most successful and enterprising
merchant of Northeast Georgia. He was a sturdy North
Carolinian with that robustness and shrewd vigor of intellectuality
which, with men from that section, has seemed,
in many instances, to dispense with the necessity of elaborate
culture. A soldier and officer of the confederacy, he
had fallen at the head of his regiment, in one of the desperate
battles on the lines at Petersburg, when the immortal
army of Northern Virginia had, in the language of the gallant
Gordon, been “fought to a frazzle.” The brave soldier
and thrifty merchant had left a large estate. Grady was
living with his mother, in that lovely, old-fashioned home
of which, in Boston, he caught the vision, “with its lofty
pillars, and white pigeons fluttering down through the
golden air.”</p>

<p class='c022'>His college life was a miracle of sweetness and goodness;
never did a glass of wine moisten his lips. Never
did an oath or an obscene word defile that tongue whose
honeyed accents in time to come were to persuade the
millions of the fidelity and patriotism of the people he
loved. Well do I remember the look of amazement, of
indulgent but all intrepid forbearance, which came into
his face when one day a college bully offered to insult him.
In those days of innumerable college flirtations he had but
one sweetheart, and she the beautiful girl who became his
wife and is now the mother of his children, and his bereaved
and disconsolate widow.</p>

<p class='c022'>This sweetness of disposition ran through his whole life.
If the great journal of which he became an editor was
engaged in an acrimonious controversy, some other writer
was detailed to conduct it. Grady had no taste for controversy
<span class='pageno' id='Page_401'>401</span>of any acrid sort, and I recall but perhaps one exception
in his whole editorial life. But while he would never
quarrel, I had the best right to know, when the emergency
came, he had the intrepidity of a hero. Well do I
remember the outcome of a thoughtlessly cruel practical
joke, which resulted in showing me and many others the
splendid fire of his courage. Early in my college life, as
Grady and I were walking in a dark night on the lonely
streets of Cobham to a supposed meeting of the Chi Phi
Fraternity we were waylaid by a number of our college-mates.
I was in the secret, Grady was not. A huge navy
revolver, with every cylinder loaded with blank cartridges,
had been thrust upon him as a means of defense from a
band of mythical outlaws, who had made purely imaginary
threats of the bloodiest description against everybody in
general and the students of the university in particular.
Grady put the revolver in his pocket and promised to stand
by me, and well did he redeem the promise. We started
and as we passed a dark grove near the residence of General
Howell Cobb the band of supposed assassins rushed upon
us with demoniac yells, and firing a veritable <i>mitraille</i> of
pistol shots with powder charges. Thoughtless boy that I
was. I shouted a defiance to the assassins and called to
Grady to stand by me, and I gave shot for shot as fast as I
could pull the trigger. The dear fellow had not the slightest
doubt that we were assailed by overwhelming odds by
armed desperate foes, but he stood by my side, firing
straight at the on-rushing foe, until, and not until, after
several volleys I was shot dead and dropped to the ground;
when, being overpowered by numbers, and his ally killed,
he made a masterly retreat. Dear, kindly, gallant nature,
little didst thou deem that this boyish prank, practiced by
those whose familiar love embolden them, and all in the
riotous exuberance of careless youth would so soon be
recalled when thou wert gone, recalled with sighs and tears
to testify that thy gentle life had under its kindly surface
a soul as fearless as ever “swarmed up the breach at
Ascalon.”</p>

<p class='c022'><span class='pageno' id='Page_402'>402</span>Grady, as a writer and orator, was surpassed by no student
of the University, although he was doubtless the
youngest member of his class. Always, however, more
successful in his efforts to advance the political fortunes
of others than of himself, he was defeated for anniversarian
of the Phi Kappa society by one vote; but, as I remember,
he bore off the equal distinction of commencement orator,
each society, at that time, having the right to elect one of
its members to that position. He did not graduate with
class honor, and perhaps fortunately. It is too often true
that honor men mistake the text-books which are merely
the keys to the understanding, for objects worthy of ultimate
pursuit and mastery, and we sometimes find these
gentlemen grubbing for Greek roots and construing abstruse
problems, while the great, busy, throbbing world is passing
them by, and has forgotten their existence. From the
University of Georgia, Grady went to the University of
Virginia. Great tidings of his success came back to us;
we did not doubt that in any contest which would try the
temper of the man he would roll the proud scions of the
first families of Virginia in the humiliating dust of defeat.
Sore indeed were the lamentations, vociferous our denials
of a free ballot and a fair count, when we learned that he
had been defeated in the society contest there; again, as I
remember, by one vote. He came back to Georgia and to
journalism, and from that moment his history is common
property. Others have spoken, or will speak, of his accomplishments
in turning the Pactolian streams of capital into
the channels of Southern investment, of the numberless
enterprises to which he brought his lucidity of statement,
his captivating powers of argumentation, his magnetic
methods for the inspiration of others. The monuments of
the vast and far-reaching designs stand out all over this
broad land; gigantic factories, their tall chimneys towering
toward the sky, mighty railroads stretching through
the mountains of Georgia, where Tallulah and Tugalo rush
downward toward the sea, where hard by Toccoa dashes
its translucent waves to spray. Others, far away toward
<span class='pageno' id='Page_403'>403</span>the shore of the Mexican Gulf, whose languid waves, impelled
by the soft winds of the tropics, cast the sea foam
on the snowy blossoms of the magnolia and the golden
fruitage of the orange, mines have been opened and earth
made to surrender from subterranean stores her hidden
wealth at the touch of his magical wand. Unnumbered
beneficent projects attest his genius and his philanthropy.
But, not content to evolve the treasures of physical nature,
he labored incessantly to provide methods to develop the
mentality of the youth of the State. As a trustee of the
University, and an active member of its Alumni society;
as one in control of that mighty engine of public thought,
the great paper of which he was an editor, his influence
was looking and moving ever toward the light. He knew
that popular ignorance was the greatest danger to liberty,
the greatest foe to national prosperity. He knew that if
the terrible potency of its groping in darkness and prejudice
could but once, like the blind Samson, grasp the pillar
of society in its muscular arms, it would put forth its
baleful strength and whelm every social interest in crushing,
appalling disaster and irremediable ruin.</p>

<p class='c022'>The most tolerant of men, the life of our dear brother
was one of long protest against the narrowness of partisanship
and sectional bigotry. He was the most independent
of thinkers.</p>

<p class='c022'>He demonstrated to the people of both sections of our
once divided country, that we might love and honor the
traditions of our Confederacy, and with absolute loyalty
and devotion to the Union as restored. He made it plain
to the minds of the Northern people that while it was impossible
for an ex-Confederate soldier or the children of his
blood, to recall without a kindling eye and a quickening
pulse the swift march, the stubborn retreat, the intrepid
advance, the charging cry of the gallant gray lines as they
swept forward to the attack, the red-cross battle-flags as
their bullet-torn folds were borne aloft in the hands of
heroes along the fiery crest of battle. But he made it plain
also that these are but the emotions and expressions of
<span class='pageno' id='Page_404'>404</span>pride that a brave people cherish in the memories of their
manhood, in the record of their soldierly devotion. Are
we less imbued with the spirit of true Americanism on this
account? No, forever, no! Are the sons of Rupert’s cavaliers,
or Cromwell’s Ironsides less true to England and her
constitution, because their fathers charged home in opposing
squadrons at Edgehill and Naseby? Do not Englishmen
the world over cherish the common heritage of their
common valor? Have Scotchmen, who fought side by side
with the English in the deserts of the Soudan, or the jungles
of Burmah, forgotten the memories of Bannockburn, of
Bruce, and of Wallace?</p>

<p class='c022'>The time will come—aye, it is present—when the heroism
of the gray and of the blue, is a common element of America’s
military power. I repeat, it is now. There is not a
war officer in the civilized world in comparing the power of
his own country with that of ours, who does not estimate
man for man as soldiers of the Union, the fighting strength
of the Confederacy.</p>

<p class='c022'>The statesmen of the Old World know that underlying
all of the temporary questions of the hour—underlying all
the resounding disputes, whether in the language of Emerson,
“James or Jonathan shall sit in the chair and hold
the purse,” the great patriotic heart of the people is true
to the constitution of the fathers, true to republican government,
true to the sovereignty of the people, true to the
gorgeous ensign of our country.</p>

<p class='c022'>In the presence of this knowledge, in the presence of
that mighty mission which under the providence of God
has grown and expanded day by day and century by century
since Columbus, from his frail caravel, beheld rising before
his enraptured vision the nodding palms and gleaming
shores of another continent, the mission to confer upon
humanity the power and privilege of government by the
people and for the people, should be the chiefest care of
our countrymen. Of this mission Grady spoke with an
eloquence so elevated and so inspired that it seemed as if
the voices of the waiting angels were whispering to his
<span class='pageno' id='Page_405'>405</span>prophetic intelligence messages of peace, joy and gladness
to his countrymen. He said:</p>

<p class='c022'>“A mighty duty, and a mighty inspiration, impels every
one of us to-night to lose in patriotic consecration whatever
estranges, whatever divides. We, sir, are Americans—and
we fight for human liberty! The uplifting force of
the American idea is under every throne on earth. France,
Brazil—these are our victories. To redeem the earth from
kingcraft and oppression—this is our mission! And we
shall not fail. God has sown in our soil the seed of His
millennial harvest, and He will not lay the sickle to the
ripening crop until His full and perfect day has come.
Our history, sir, has been a constant and expanding miracle
from Plymouth Rock and Jamestown all the way—aye,
even from the hour when, from the voiceless and
trackless ocean, a new world rose to the sight of the inspired
sailor. As we approach the fourth centennial of
that stupendous day—when the old world will come to
marvel and to learn, amid our gathered treasures—let us
resolve to crown the miracles of our past with the spectacle
of a Republic compact, united, indissoluble in the bonds
of love—loving from the Lakes to the Gulf—the wounds of
war healed in every heart as on every hill—serene and
resplendent at the summit of human achievement and
earthly glory—blazing out the path and making clear the
way, up which all nations of the earth must come in God’s
appointed time!”</p>

<p class='c022'>We may imagine that this inspired utterance completed,
there came to his glorious mentality another
thought, another vision. Again he exclaims as once
before to a mighty throng, and now to his own people:</p>

<p class='c022'>“All this, my country, and no more can we do for you.
As I look the vision grows, the splendor deepens, the horizon
falls back, the skies open their everlasting gates, and
the glory of the Almighty God streams through, as He
looks down on His people who have given themselves unto
Him, and leads them from one triumph to another until
they have reached a glory unspeaking, and the whirling
<span class='pageno' id='Page_406'>406</span>stars, as in their courses through Arcturus they run to the
Milky Way, shall not look down on a better people or a
happier land.”</p>

<p class='c022'>Thus saying, his work was ended—his earthly pilgrimage
was o’er. He went to sleep</p>
<div class='lg-container-b c042'>
  <div class='linegroup'>
    <div class='group'>
      <div class='line'>Like one who wraps the drapery of his couch about him</div>
      <div class='line'>And lays him down to pleasant dreams.</div>
    </div>
  </div>
</div>

<hr class='c046' />
<p class='c018'>Mr. Hugh V. Washington, representing the City Government,
said:</p>
<h3 class='c016'>ADDRESS OF MR. WASHINGTON.</h3>
<p class='c021'>Mr. Chairman, Ladies and Gentlemen: There is a songster
peculiar to Southern woodland, who is without a rival.
I have heard his song on a still summer night, and when it
died away, the silence seemed deeper and more impressive.
Georgia has given to the country an orator whose eloquence
was peculiar to himself, and charmed every audience
North, South and West, but that which made him dearest
to Southern hearts was the theme he delighted to present;
that voice was never raised except in behalf of the honor,
the interest and the prosperity of his people, and to-night
we know that that voice is silent forevermore. I have no
words to measure the profound sorrow I feel for the death
of Henry Grady; to say that his loss to the country cannot
be estimated, and that there is no one to take his place,
is but to express a thought common to all. His career as
an orator dawned as that other great Georgian, Benn Hill,
passed away. The first time I ever looked upon Jefferson
Davis was when he stood in Atlanta amid a vast concourse
to honor the memory of the eloquent and faithful Hill.
I shall never forget that scene: there stood before me two
types of Southern manhood, the one of the old, the other
of the new; the venerable ex-president came upon the
platform, and a glad shout arose from thousands of
voices,—he stood the emblem and personification of all we
held most dear in the past, but he belonged to the past.
There arose to welcome him a young Georgian; his speech
<span class='pageno' id='Page_407'>407</span>of welcome was a masterpiece, every nerve in that vast
audience vibrated, and every voice was raised in deafening
applause when Mr. Grady declared that the rising of that
morning’s sun, bringing with it our beloved ex-president,
brought greater joy to Southern hearts than any since the
resurrection morn. Mr. Grady, cherishing in his heart of
hearts the history of the Confederacy, seemed an inspiration
of hope and promise; he seemed to stand for the
Present and Future; and now within a few days of each
other these noble men have gone to their rest, and the close
of a joyous year finds our people bowed in sorrow over
their graves. Mr. Grady’s mission in life traveled beyond
State bounds. He was too big, too broad, too patriotic to
be narrow or partisan; but he was a Georgian to the
core,—he sprung from the red hills of classic Athens; he
drank at the fountain of knowledge at the State University;
what was nearest to Georgia was nearest to him, and
he gave his life that the position of Georgia and her sister
States of the South might be made clear to our brethren at
the North; and to-night, by strange providence, his great
work is closed, and he is sepulchered in the bosom of his
native State, in Atlanta, whose greatness is due more to
his efforts than to any other man.</p>

<p class='c022'>The life of Henry Grady was like a rare and beautiful
gem whose every side was resplendent with light; as a son
he was what every mother might hope for in her boy; as a
father he was tender and true; as a friend he was open-hearted
and generous as the day; as a member of his old
college fraternity none exceeded him in zeal and generosity;
as an alumnus of the State University his fertile pen
and brain were tireless in promoting its interests; as a
writer he was at once forcible and fascinating in the highest
degree; in journalism he disregarded old methods, and set
a higher standard for American journalism; as an orator he
had the force of Northern logic, and the beauty of Southern
diction; but as much as we may admire him for these noble
traits, yet it is in the life of Henry Grady, as a private citizen,
that he reached the highest points of his character. I
<span class='pageno' id='Page_408'>408</span>know of no other American citizen in the private walks
of life comparable to him. He never sought or held public
office; he had no record of a hundred battle-fields to make
him famous; his life was filled with private charities, and
every enterprise of his native State or city found a willing
and powerful sympathizer in him. The many charitable
institutions of Atlanta are before us as monuments to his
zeal and generosity in behalf of the poor, the needy, and
the forsaken. After twenty-five years, when the ranks of
the Confederate veterans had been decimated to a handful
by the hand of time, and our State was unable to provide
a home for the scattered remnant, he conceived the plan of
building in our capital city, by private benefaction, the
Confederate Home. Wherever there is a man who wore
the gray, there will his name be honored and revered. But
it is useless to attempt an enumeration of the many enterprises
which he fostered; wherever there was work to be
done to promote the interest of his city, his State, or his
country, he was ready to give his time, his labor, and his
money. But there is another feature in the life of Henry
Grady of which I would speak,—he was pre-eminently a
man of the times and for the times, and in this critical
juncture of our history he seemed to have been raised up
by a special providence to carry the message of the South
to the people of our common country; his aspirations were
not only for the success and prosperity of his native section,
but he desired to see all the States combined together
in a community of interest, of prosperity, of thought, of
aim, and of destiny; he brought to the attention of the
country the most gigantic problem of this or any other
time; he declared to the people of the North that the
white people of the South were one people with those of
the North; that they had the same traditions; the same
blood; the same love of freedom, and the same lofty resolve
to preserve their race unpolluted and free; and he brought
to the discharge of this duty such masterful eloquence,
such sincerity of conviction, such kindness of heart and
liberality of thought, as to gain for him not only the
<span class='pageno' id='Page_409'>409</span>applause, but the admiration and sympathy and attention
of the whole country. Though the matchless orator lies
still in death, the South owes to him a debt of gratitude,
which could not be paid though a monument were erected
to his memory higher than that which rises in the sunlight
above Potomac’s wave. Though his voice be still, his
words, his example, and his patriotism shall be cherished
in the hearts of many generations. If I was asked to point
to a man whose life should stand as a model to the young
men of the South, I would point to that of the young
Georgian, who has but so lately passed from among us.</p>

<p class='c022'>The city of Macon, which I have the honor to represent,
may well sorrow with our sister city of Atlanta, and we
tender to his bereaved people our heartfelt sorrow and
sympathy. Henry Grady stood as a prophet on the verge
of the promised land, bidding the Southland leave the
desert of reconstruction, of gloom and poverty behind it,
and to enter with hope, and courage, and cheerfulness upon
the rich inheritance that the future holds in store for us;
and wherever truth, and courage, and unselfish performance
of duty are appreciated, there will his name find an honored
place on the roll of our country’s great names. And turning
our thoughts and hearts toward his new-made grave,
let us say, “Peace to his ashes, and honor to his memory.”</p>

<hr class='c044' />

<p class='c018'>The Hon. R. W. Patterson spoke as follows for the
members of the Chi Phi Fraternity residing in Macon:</p>
<h3 class='c016'>ADDRESS OF MR. PATTERSON.</h3>
<p class='c021'>Ladies and Gentlemen: When Death like Nature’s
chastening rod hath smitten our common humanity, we
realize the eternal truth that “silence is the law of being,
sound the breaking of the rule.” Standing here as the
representative of those who were knit to the distinguished
dead by as close a tie as that of natural brotherhood, while
a continent is yet vocal with the echoes of his eloquence,
my heart tells me that the infinite possibilities of silence
constitute the only worthy tribute which I can pay to the
<span class='pageno' id='Page_410'>410</span>memory of Henry Grady. The most distinguished member
of our fraternity is lost to us forever. O, Death, there is
thy sting; O, Grave, there is thy victory. Though our
ranks are full of gifted and famous men, in all the tribes
of our Israel, there is no Elisha upon whom the mantle of
this translated Elijah can descend.</p>

<p class='c022'>My fellow Georgians, how shall I speak to you of him?
It is meet that sympathy should veil her weeping eyes,
when she mourns the darling child who bore her gentle
image ever mirrored in his life. As well may the tongue
speak when the soul has departed, as Southern oratory
declaim when Southern eloquence is buried in the grave of
Grady. Even American patriotism is voiceless as she
stands beside the coffined chieftain of her fast-assembling
host. Was he good? Let his neighbors answer. To-night
Atlanta is shrouded in as deep a pall as that which
wrapped Egypt in gloom when the angel of the Lord
smote the first-born in every house. In the busiest city of
the State the rattle of commerce to-day was suspended, the
hum of industry was hushed, and in that gay capital
bright pleasure hath stayed her shining feet to drop a tear
upon the grave of him the people loved so well. Was he
great? From the pinnacle of no official station has he
fallen; the pomp and circumstance of war did not place
him upon a pedestal of prominence; no book has he given
to the literature of the nation; no wealth has he amassed
with which to crystallize his generosity into fame; and yet
to-night a continent stands weeping by his new-made
grave, and as the waves come laden with the message of
the Infinite to the base of the now twice historic Plymouth
Rock, the sympathetic sobbing of the sea can only
whisper to the stricken land, “Peace, be still; my everlasting
arms are round you.”</p>

<p class='c022'>His greatness cannot be measured by his speeches,
though they were so masterful that they form a portion of
his country’s history. It will rather be gauged by that
patient, brilliant daily work, which made it possible for
him to command the nation’s ear, that power of which
<span class='pageno' id='Page_411'>411</span>these public utterances were but the exponents; his daily
toil in his private sanctum in the stately building of the
<i>Constitution</i>, that magnificent manufactory of public
thought, which he wielded as a weaver does his shuttle.
A small and scantily furnished room, with nothing in it
save Grady, his genius and his God,—and yet thus illumined,
it warmed with the light of fraternal love both
sections of a Republic, compared to which that of historic
Greece was but as a perfumed lamp to the noontide splendor
of the sun. As a journalist Mr. Grady had no superior
in America. As a writer he exercised the princely
prerogative of genius which is to create and not obey
the laws of rhetoric. As well attempt to teach the nightingale
to sing by note, or track the summer lightning as
we do the sun, as measure Grady’s style by any rhetorician’s
rule. I have thought that Mr. Grady was more of
an orator than a writer, and brilliant as his success in
journalism was, it was but the moonlight which reflected
the sun that dawned only to be obscured by death. Certainly
no man in any country or in any age, ever won fame
as an orator faster than he. With a wide reputation as a
writer, but scarcely any as a speaker, even in his own
State, he appeared one night at a banquet in New York,
made a speech of twenty minutes, and the next day was
known throughout the United States as the foremost of
Southern orators. No swifter stride has been made to
fame since the days of David, for like that heroic stripling,
with the sling of courage and the stone of truth, he
slew Sectionalism, the Goliath which had so long threatened
and oppressed his people.</p>

<p class='c022'>Since Appomattox two historic speeches have been made
by Southern men; the one was that delivered in the Congress
of the United States upon the proposition to strike
from the general amnesty of the government the name of
Jefferson Davis, when Benjamin H. Hill broke the knightliest
lance ever shivered in a people’s honor, full on the
haughty crest of the plumed knight; the other was the
Boston speech of Mr. Grady which, like a magic key, will
<span class='pageno' id='Page_412'>412</span>yet unlock the shackles that have so long manacled a
people who, strangest paradox in history, were enslaved by
the emancipation of their slaves. The logic of Hill was
powerful as the club of Hercules; the eloquence of Grady
was irresistible as the lyre of Orpheus.</p>

<p class='c022'>My countrymen, if it shall be written in the history of
America that by virtue of the genius of her Toombs and
Cobb and Brown, on the breast of our native State was
cradled a revolution which rocked a continent, upon
another page of that history it will be recorded that
Georgia’s Grady was the Moses who led the Southern
people through a wilderness of weakness and of want at
least to the Pisgah whence, with prophetic eye, he could
discern a New South true to the traditions of the past as
was the steel which glittered on the victorious arm, at
Manassas, but whose hopeful hearts and helpful hands
shall transform desolation into wealth and convert the
defeat of one section of our common country into the
haughty herald of that country’s future rank in the civilization
of the world.</p>

<p class='c022'>Even, when prompted by the tender relations of the
fraternity which I represent, I cannot trust myself to speak
of Mr. Grady’s private and social life. He was my friend.
Nearly ten years since his kindly glowing words revealed
to me an ambition, which I had scarcely dared to confess
unto myself. As the summer days still linger with us, so
does the daily intercourse which it was my fortune to enjoy
with him some three months since—seem yet to “compass
me about.” By the royal right of intellect he commanded
the homage of my admiration; with the clarion voice of
patriotism he challenged my reverence, but with the magnetism
of his munificent manhood he bade Confidence, that
sentry which guards the human heart, surrender this citadel
at discretion. I trust that it will not be deemed inappropriate
for me, man of the world as I am, to bear my
public testimony to the power of Christianity illustrated in
his life. Familiar in his youth with every phase of pleasure,
with the affluent blood of early manhood yet running
<span class='pageno' id='Page_413'>413</span>riot through his veins, with the temptations of a continent
spread like a royal feast, to which his talent and his fame
gave him easy access, yet when he bowed his head in reverence
to the meek and lowly Nazarene, his life was the
unimpeachable witness of his creed. A thousand sermons
to me were concentrated in the humanized Christianity of
his faith and his works. And God was good to him.—The
magnificent success of the Piedmont Exposition was to him
the exponent of that industrial progress which he had
labored to establish. The bountiful harvest of this closing
year had seemed to set the seal of God’s commendation
upon his labors for the agricultural interests of the South.
Such was his fame that sixty million Americans revered
him as a patriot. With a wife beautiful and brilliant,
adoring him as only a woman can love a genius whom she
comprehends; with two children just verging into adolescence,
and reverencing him as an neophyte does his faith;
with the highest official station within his grasp; with the
curule chair of the Governorship already opening its arms
to receive him; with the future lifting the senatorial toga
to drape his eloquence; with possibilities of the White
House flashing through the green vista of the coming
years,—with all of these he made no murmur at the summons
of his God.</p>

<p class='c022'>A widow weeps where yesterday a wife adored. Two
orphans mourn to-day where yesterday two children leaned
upon a father’s arm. A nation’s hope is turned to mourning.
It needed the great heart of Grady to gently murmur,
“Thy will, not mine, be done.”</p>

<p class='c022'>But by all that he has accomplished, and by all that he
has projected, which the coming years will yet work out, I
tell you to-night, my fellow Georgians, that Henry Grady
still lives an abiding influence in the destinies of his
country. Greatest enemy of monopoly while he lived, the
grandest of all monopolies shall be his after death, for
every industrial enterprise hereafter inaugurated in the
South must pay its royalty of fame to him. Sleep on, my
friend, my brother, brilliant and beloved; let no distempered
<span class='pageno' id='Page_414'>414</span>dream of unaccomplished greatness haunt thy long
last sleep. The country that you loved, that you redeemed
and disenthralled, will be your splendid and ever growing
monument, and the blessings of a grateful people will be
the grand inscription, which shall grow longer as that
monument rises higher among the nations of the earth.
Wherever the peach shall blush beneath the kisses of the
Southern sun, wherever the affluent grape shall don the
royal purple of Southern sovereignty, a votive offering from
the one and a rich libation from the other, the grateful
husbandman will tender unto you. The music of no
machinery shall be heard within this Southland which does
not chant a pæan in your praise. Wherever Eloquence,
the deity whom this people hath ever worshiped, shall
retain a temple, no pilgrim shall enter there, save he bear
thy dear name as a sacred shibboleth on his lips. So long
as patriotism shall remain the shining angel who guards
the destinies of our Republic, her starry finger will point to
Grady on Plymouth Rock, for Fame will choose to chisel
his statue there, standing as the sentinel whom God had
placed to keep eternal watch over the liberties of a re-united
people!</p>
<hr class='c044' />

<p class='c018'>The exercises were concluded with the benediction
by the Rev. G. A. Nunnally, D.D., President of Mercer
University.</p>
<div class='pbb'>
 <hr class='pb c007' />
</div>

<div class='nf-center-c0'>
<div class='nf-center c001'>
    <div><span class='pageno' id='Page_415'>415</span><span class='c029'>PERSONAL TRIBUTES.</span></div>
  </div>
</div>

<div class='pbb'>
 <hr class='pb c001' />
</div>
<div class='chapter'>
  <span class='pageno' id='Page_417'>417</span>
  <h2 class='c012'>THOUGHTS ON H. W. GRADY.</h2>
</div>

<div class='nf-center-c0'>
<div class='nf-center c007'>
    <div><span class='sc'>By B. H. Samett.</span></div>
  </div>
</div>

<hr class='c028' />
<p class='drop-capa0_25_0_7 c020'>MEN of genius often die early. Keats died at twenty-six,
Shelly at thirty, Byron at thirty-six, and Burns
at thirty-seven. Henry Grady was born May 24th, 1850,
and hence was a little more than thirty-nine years of age
at his death.</p>

<p class='c018'>In the opinion of many, no more brilliant man has lived
since Byron died. In the power of intense, beautiful and
striking expression he has had no equal among us. Had
he turned his attention to poetry he would have written
something as beautiful as Childe Harold.</p>

<p class='c018'>Take, for instance, a sentence or two, written eight or
ten years ago, in an article from New York to the <i>Constitution</i>,
entitled “The Atheistic Tide.” The whole article
is exceptionally brilliant. I select at random a paragraph
or two:</p>

<p class='c018'>“We have stripped all the earth of mystery and
brought all its phenomena under the square and compass,
so that we might have expected science to doubt the mystery
of life itself, and to plant its theodolite for a measurement
of the Eternal, and pitch its crucible for an analysis
of the Soul. It was natural that the Greek should be led
to the worship of his physical Gods, for the earth itself
was a mystery that he could not divine, a vastness and a
vagueness that he could not comprehend. But we have
fathomed its uttermost secret—felt its most hidden pulse,
girdled it with steel, harnessed and trapped it to our
liking. What was mystery is now demonstration—what
was vague is now apparent. Science has dispelled illusion
after illusion, struck down error after error, made plain all
<span class='pageno' id='Page_418'>418</span>that was vague on earth and reduced every mystery to
demonstration. It is little wonder then that, at last,
having reduced all the illusions of matter to an equation,
and anchored every theory to a fixed formula, it should
assail the mystery of life itself and warn the world that
science would yet furnish the key to the problem of the
soul. The obelisk, plucked from the heart of Egypt, rests
upon a shore that was as vaguely and infinitely beyond
the knowledge or aspiration of its builders, as the shores
of a star that lights the spaces beyond our vision are to us
to-day. The Chinaman jostles us in the streets, and the
centuries that look through his dreamy eyes have lost all
sense of wonder—ships that were freighted in the heart of
Africa lie in our harbors, and our market-places are vocal
with more tongues than bewildered the builders of Babel—a
letter slips round the earth in ninety days and the messages
of men flash along the bed of the ocean—we tell the
secrets of the universe as a woman tells her beads, and
the stars whirl serenely through orbits that science has
defined—we even read of the instant when the comet that
plunged in dim illimitable distance, where even the separate
stars are lost in mist and vapor, shall whirl again into
the vision of man, a wanderer that could not shake off the
inexorable supervision of science, even in the chill and
measureless depths of the universe.”</p>

<p class='c018'>This brilliancy, this dazzling, meteoric imagination, made
against his reputation in the earlier years of his career.
The impression got abroad that he was simply fanciful and
superficial—that he could paint his productions in the
gorgeous imagery of poetry, but that he had no great intellectual
strength and force. It took some time to dispel
this illusion. It was only after the great breadth of his
mind displayed itself in his powerful speeches in New
York, Dallas, Tex., Augusta, Ga., and Boston, that the
public began to see that, back behind his rich and brilliant
imagination, there was a masterful intellect, able to comprehend
the profoundest questions of social and political
policy.</p>

<p class='c018'><span class='pageno' id='Page_419'>419</span>His development as an orator was indeed phenomenal.
Nothing has ever been known like it since Sheridan quit
play-writing to enter the English House of Commons, and
delivered, according to the judgment of Fox and Burke, the
most eloquent oration ever spoken to an English auditory.
Grady’s whole preparation had been in the line of journalism.
He had never practiced at the bar, in the forum, or
on the hustings. Yet such was his genius, that, from the
very moment he got before the American public, he leaped
from the base to the very summit of oratorical fame.</p>

<p class='c018'>His oratory was <i>sué generis</i>. Like all great men he
had no prototype. There was nothing sonorous in
his tones of voice—he had nothing of the declamatory
pomp of Toombs, the stately periods of Hill, the slow,
measured cadences of Stephens. Like Mark Antony he
talked along; but such talk—as sweet as the harp of Orpheus
whose melody swayed the trees of the forest and rent
asunder the solid rocks. Like a fountain unsealed, his
thought flowed forth in gushing opulence, and in every
rhythmic period his soul voiced itself in perfect music. He
could awake all the sleeping passions of the heart and set
them astir with his own enthusiasm. Like a pendulum,
he swung betwixt a smile and a tear, now convulsing all
with his humor and anon melting all with his pathos.</p>

<p class='c018'>Added to such brilliant gifts as a writer and a speaker,
he had the genius of common sense. He could project a
movement of great practical interest, and perfect and
accomplish it with the same marvellous facility that he
could indite a morning editorial. He saw in our uncut
quarries the marble halls and palaces of the rich—in our
mountains of ore the matchless steam engines and their
tracks of steel along which our growing commerce was to
be borne to the distant marts of the world—in our waving
forests of pine, the cities of majestic splendor and beauty
that were to adorn and enrich our vast domain. As
Webster said of Hamilton, in reference to the public credit,
he touched the dead corpse of our industries and they arose
and stood upon their feet.</p>

<p class='c018'><span class='pageno' id='Page_420'>420</span>To all these gifts of head, there was an added heart of
boundless sympathies. In his writings there is always an
undertone of sentiment, bespeaking a moral nature as
opulent as was his intellectual endowment. His imagination
caught up the good, the beautiful and the true.
With the alchemy of his genius he could transmute the
simplest flower into a preacher of righteousness, and get
from it some lessons of wisdom and truth. To lift up and
crown humanity was the supremest aspiration of his life.
This ruling passion was strong in death, and even in the
delirium preceding dissolution, his brain was rife with its
own desiring phantasies, and he died in the midst of
dreams born of yearnings to help and bless the needy and
the heavy laden.</p>

<p class='c018'>Perhaps no one has lived among us who possessed more
of the elements which go to make up the hero, the popular
idol. Noble in presence, gracious in manner, gentle in
spirit, manly in everything, he commanded not only the
admiration but the love of all. If all who tenderly loved
him could lay a garland upon his grave his ashes would
rest beneath a mountain of flowers.</p>

<p class='c018'>To die so wept and mourned were more to be desired
than the glittering honors of splendid obsequies. To live,
as he will live, embalmed in the immortality of love, is
better far than enshrinement in the cold emblazonry of
marble.</p>

<p class='c018'>Loving hands and hearts will erect to his memory the
granite shaft, cut and chiselled with words of eulogy, but
his most enduring monument is his grand, historic life,
standing out imperishably based upon the affections and
the love of a grateful people, and pointing unborn generations
to the same heights of purity and honor he so
worthily attained.</p>
<hr class='c047' />
<div class='pbb'>
 <hr class='pb c007' />
</div>
<div class='chapter'>
  <span class='pageno' id='Page_421'>421</span>
  <h2 class='c012'>SEARGENT S. PRENTISS AND HENRY W. GRADY.</h2>
</div>

<div class='nf-center-c0'>
<div class='nf-center c007'>
    <div><i>SIMILARITY OF GENIUS AND PATRIOTISM.</i></div>
    <div class='c000'><span class='sc'>By Joseph F. Pon.</span></div>
  </div>
</div>

<hr class='c028' />
<p class='drop-capa0_25_0_7 c017'>HISTORY repeats itself, and genius does the same.
The light which shines with electric brilliancy in one
portion of a country, though suddenly extinguished, soon
blazes forth with life and hope, in genial air and under
propitious skies.</p>

<p class='c018'>Eminent in illustration of this truth, is the very great
similarity in the mental structure, the physical temperament
and the personal qualities of Seargent S. Prentiss
and Henry W. Grady. The first was born in bleak and
sterile Maine, and yet his great heart was not hemmed in
by the hills around which clung the memories of his Pilgrim
fathers. It took within its spacious chambers, and
nurtured in patriotic affection the new-found friends of his
adopted home, in the semi-tropical valleys of the lower
Mississippi. The other was born on Georgia soil, and
Southern traditions, memories and methods of thought
seemed but a second nature with him. It did not prevent
his fullness to the brim with that Promethean flame and
“milk of human kindness,” which caused him in boundless
Americanism, to wear a constant smile, born of infinite
hope and faith in the future of a great Republic, stretching
from the rugged coast of Maine to the broad plazas of
Texas—from the noble forests of Oregon to the coral reefs
of Florida.</p>

<p class='c018'>Each of these men combined with deep research and
intuitive perception, an imagination as luxuriant as a tropical
garden, and while each put forth “thoughts that
breathed in words that burned,” he was ever careful in the
exercise of his great gifts, that they should always be
<span class='pageno' id='Page_422'>422</span>directed in the promotion of human happiness, and to stimulate
the loftiest human exertion. When Prentiss or
Grady spoke every listener felt the touch of the master hand
as it played upon his heart-strings—felt the tingling
of the blood in his fingers’ ends, and could not fail to enjoy
the delightful silence of universal and spontaneous admiration.
The eloquence of these two men was not of that
school which deals in thundergusts of word-painting,
devoid of reason, sense, or consistency. Their ideas are
always comely, well-proportioned, clear in outline and yet
not angular in structure. They spoke for God and humanity—for
liberty—for love—for law. They did not pervert
their great gifts from the purposes that Nature intended.
They used their magic power to smooth and soften the
rough, hard places of human life, to promote all ends and
objects catholic, worthy, commendable—to charm and persuade
the morose and unwilling—to denounce like Nathan—to
warn like Cassandra—to encourage like an angel of light.
When either of them spoke, he seemed to realize the sublimest
purpose of his mission; and condensed his giant
electric power, as the heat charges the summer cloud with
the bolts that are soon to flash and shiver.</p>

<p class='c018'>Prentiss died in the same year that Grady was born;
and when he first closed his brilliant career at forty-two
years of age, the second was but a smiling infant six weeks
old. Each, cut off before he had reached the zenith, was</p>

<div class='lg-container-b c031'>
  <div class='linegroup'>
    <div class='group'>
      <div class='line'>A mighty vessel foundered in the calm,</div>
      <div class='line'>Its freight half given to the world.</div>
    </div>
  </div>
</div>

<p class='c048'>The glorious sun of each “went down while it was yet day.”</p>
<p class='c018'>Some extracts are here given, from an address delivered
by Prentiss before the New England Society of New Orleans,
on December 22, 1845. These will be followed by some from
Grady’s Boston speech. Prentiss at the time named, was
about the same age that Grady was when he died. In
opening Prentiss said: “This is a day dear to the sons of
New England, and ever held by them in sacred remembrance.
On this day, from every quarter of the globe, they
<span class='pageno' id='Page_423'>423</span>gather in spirit around the Rock of Plymouth, and hang
upon the urn of their Pilgrim fathers, the garlands of
filial gratitude and affection. We have assembled for the
purpose of participating in this honorable duty—of performing
this pious pilgrimage. To-day we will visit that
memorable spot. We gaze upon the place where a feeble
band of persecuted exiles founded a mighty nation; and
our hearts will exult with proud gratification, as we remember
that on that barren shore our ancestors planted not only
empire, but freedom.</p>

<p class='c018'>“Of the future but little is known; clouds and darkness
rest upon it. We yearn to become acquainted with its
hidden secrets—we stretch out our arms toward its shadowy
inhabitants—we invoke our posterity, but they answer us
not. We turn for relief to the past, that mighty reservoir
of men and things. There we are introduced into Nature’s
vast laboratory, and witness her elemental labors. We
mark with interest the changes in continents and oceans,
by which she has notched the centuries. With curious
wonder we gaze down the long aisles of the past, upon the
generations that are gone. We behold as in a magic glass,
men in form and feature like ourselves, actuated by the
same motives, urged by the same passions, busily engaged
in shaping out both their own destinies and ours. We
approach them, and they refuse not our invocation. We
hold converse with the wise philosophers, the sage legislators,
and divine poets. But most of all among the
innumerable multitudes that peopled the past, we seek our
own ancestors, drawn toward them by an irresistible sympathy.
With reverent solicitude we examine into their
character and actions, and as we find them worthy or
unworthy, our hearts swell with pride or our cheeks glow
with shame.”</p>

<p class='c018'>Speaking of the simplicity of the Pilgrim habits, Prentiss
goes on: “In founding their colony they sought neither
wealth nor conquest; but only peace and freedom. From
the moment they touched the shore, they labored with
orderly, systematic and persevering industry. They cultivated,
<span class='pageno' id='Page_424'>424</span>without a murmur, a poor and ungrateful soil, which
even now yields but a stubborn obedience to the dominion
of the plow. They brought with them neither wealth nor
power, but the principles of civil and religious freedom.
They cherished, cultivated and developed them to a full
and luxuriant maturity; and furnished them to their posterity
as the only sure and permanent foundations for
free government. We are proud of our native land, and
turn with fond affection to its rocky shores. Behold the
thousand temples of the Most High, that nestle in its happy
valleys and crown its swelling hills. See how their glittering
spires pierce the sky—celestial conductors ready to
avert the lightning of an angry heaven!”</p>

<p class='c018'>Himself the son of a ship-builder, he thus speaks of
the enterprise of the Pilgrims: “They have wrestled with
Nature, till they have prevailed against her, and compelled
her reluctantly to reverse her own laws. The sterile soil
has become productive under their sagacious culture, and
the barren rock, astonished, finds itself covered with luxuriant
and unaccustomed verdure. Upon the banks of every
river they build temples of industry, and stop the squanderings
of the spendthrift waters. They bind the Naiades
of the brawling stream; they drive the Dryades from
their accustomed haunts, and force them to desert each
favorite grove: for from river, creek, and bay they are
busy transforming the crude forests into staunch and gallant
vessels. From every inlet and indenture along the
rocky shore, swim forth these ocean-birds—born in the
wildwood—fledged upon the wave. Behold how they
spread their white pinions to the favoring breeze, and wing
their flight to every quarter of the globe—the carrier pigeons
of the world!”</p>

<p class='c018'>But lastly how brimming with pathos, how pregnant
with patriotic ardor, is the following: “Glorious New
England! Thou art still true to thy ancient fame, and
worthy of thy ancestral honors. We thy children have
assembled in this far-distant land to celebrate thy birthday.
A thousand fond associations throng upon us, roused
<span class='pageno' id='Page_425'>425</span>by the spirit of the hour. On thy pleasant valleys rest,
like sweet dews of the morning, the gentle recollections of
our early life; around thy hills and mountains cling like
gathering mists the mighty memories of the Revolution;
and far away on the horizon of the past, gleam like thine
own Northern lights, the awful virtues of our Pilgrim sires.
But while we devote this day to the remembrance of our
native land, we forget not that in which our happy lot is
cast. We exult in the reflection that, though we count by
thousands the miles which separate us from our birthplace,
still our country is the same. We have but changed
our chamber in the paternal mansion; in all its rooms we
are at home, and all who inhabit it are our brothers. We
are no exiles meeting upon the banks of a foreign river, to
swell its waters with our home-sick tears. Here floats the
same banner which nestled above our boyish heads, except
that its mighty folds are wider, and its glittering stars
increased in number.”</p>

<p class='c018'>The sound of this eloquent tongue was stilled, but the
“divine afflatus” with which it was tuned was transferred
to, and continued in another. Near the birthplace of the
noble Prentiss, and surrounded by those who were proud
of his fame, Grady referred to those surroundings and the
objects of his visit, when he said: “Happy am I that this
mission has brought my feet at last to press New England’s
historic soil, and my eyes to the knowledge of her beauty
and her thrift. Here within touch of Plymouth Rock and
Bunker Hill—where Webster thundered and Longfellow
sang, Emerson thought, and Channing preached—here in
the cradle of American letters, and almost of American
liberty, I hasten to make the obeisance that every American
owes New England, when first he stands uncovered in
her mighty presence. Strange apparition! This stern and
unique figure, carved from the ocean and the wilderness,
its majesty kindling and growing amid the storms of winters
and of wars,—until at last the gloom was broken, its
beauty disclosed in the sunshine, and the heroic workers
rested at its base,—while startled kings and emperors gazed
<span class='pageno' id='Page_426'>426</span>and marveled that from the rude touch of this handful,
cast on a bleak and unknown shore, should have come the
embodied genius of human government, and the perfected
model of human liberty! God bless the memory of those
immortal workers, and prosper the fortunes of their living
sons, and perpetuate the inspiration of their handiwork.”</p>

<p class='c018'>Faithful to the memories of his childhood, and to the
devotion of his mature years, visions of his distant home
rise to his mental eye, and with a master’s magic touch he
spreads the picture on the glowing canvas: “Far to the
South, Mr. President, separated from this section by a line
once defined in irrepressible difference, once traced in fratricidal
blood, and now, thank God, but a vanishing shadow,
lies the fairest and richest domain of this earth. It is the
home of a brave and hospitable people. There is centered
all that can please or prosper human kind. A perfect climate
above a fertile soil, yields to the husbandman every
product of the temperate zone. There, by night, the cotton
whitens beneath the stars, and the wheat locks the sunshine
in its bearded sheaf. In the same field the clover steals the
fragrance of the wind, and the tobacco catches the quick
aroma of the rains.”</p>

<p class='c018'>In speaking of southern citizenship, and the perils of its
present environment, Grady says: “The resolute, clear-headed,
broad-minded men of the South, the men whose
genius made glorious every page of the first seventy years of
American history—whose courage and fortitude you tested
in five years of the fiercest war—whose energy has made
bricks without straw, and spread splendor amidst the ashes
of their war-wasted homes—these men wear this problem
in their hearts and their brains, by day and by night.
They realize, as you cannot, what this problem means,
what they owe to this kindly and dependent race, the
measure of their debt to the world in whose despite they
defended and maintained slavery. And though their feet
are hindered in its undergrowth, and their march encumbered
with its burdens, they have lost neither the patience
from which comes clearness, nor the faith from which comes
courage. Nor, sir, when in passionate moments is disclosed
<span class='pageno' id='Page_427'>427</span>to them that vague and awful shadow, with its lurid abysses
and its crimson stains, into which I pray God they may
never go, are they struck with more of apprehension than
is needed to complete their consecration!”</p>

<p class='c018'>The conclusion of that grand address, so powerful in
scope and faultless in diction, is a forcible reminder of
Webster’s great peroration in his reply to Hayne on Foot’s
Resolution. Grady here says: “A mighty duty, sir, and
a mighty inspiration impels every one of us to-night to
lose in patriotic consecration whatever estranges, whatever
divides. We, sir, are Americans, and we fight for human
liberty. The uplifting force of the American idea is under
every throne on earth. France, Brazil—these are our victories.
To redeem the earth from kingcraft and oppression,
this is our mission. And we shall not fail. God has sown
in our soil the seed of his millennial harvest, and he will
not lay the sickle to the ripening crop until his full and
perfect day has come. Our history, sir, has been a constant
and expanding miracle from Plymouth Rock and
Jamestown, all the way, aye, even from the hour when,
from the voiceless and trackless ocean, a new world rose to
the sight of the inspired sailor. As we approach the fourth
centennial of that stupendous day—when the old world will
come to marvel and to learn, amid our gathered treasures—let
us resolve to crown the miracles of our past with the
spectacle of a Republic compact, united, indissoluble in the
bonds of love—loving from the Lakes to the Gulf—the
wounds of war healed in every heart as on every hill,
serene and resplendent at the summit of human achievement
and earthly glory, blazing out the path and making
clear the way up which all the nations of the earth must
come in God’s appointed time!”</p>

<p class='c018'>The love and respect of the Mississippians and Louisianans,
and of the entire Southwest for Prentiss was only
equaled by the admiration of the North for Grady. All
honor to their memories, and peace to their patriot shades!
The “clods of the valley will be sweet unto them” until
the resurrection morn.</p>

<p class='c018'><span class='sc'>Columbus, Ga.</span>, Feb. 5, 1890.</p>
<div class='pbb'>
 <hr class='pb c007' />
</div>
<div>
  <span class='pageno' id='Page_428'>428</span>
  <h3 class='c003'>SERMON BY T. DE WITT TALMAGE,</h3>
</div>
<hr class='c019' />
<p class='drop-capa0_25_0_7 c017'>THE great Academy of Music, Brooklyn, N.Y., was
crowded to-day, February 23, as it never had been
before. Prominent in the congregation were most of the
gentlemen who had attended the banquet of the Southern
Society. Their presence was due to the intimation that
Dr. Talmage was going to preach on the life and character
of the <i>Constitution’s</i> late editor, Mr. Henry W. Grady.
Dr. Talmage was at his best, in splendid voice, and his
rounded periods made a deep impression upon all present.
Taking for his text Isaiah viii., 1, “Take thee a great roll,
and write in it with a man’s pen,” the preacher said:</p>

<p class='c018'>To Isaiah, with royal blood in his veins and a habitant
of palaces, does this divine order come. He is to take a
roll, a large roll, and write on it with a pen, not an angel’s
pen, but a man’s pen. So God honored the pen and so he
honored the manuscript. In our day the mightiest roll is
the religious and secular newspaper, and the mightiest pen
is the editor’s pen, whether for good or evil. And God
says now to every literary man, and especially to every
journalist: “Take thee a great roll and write in it with a
man’s pen.”</p>
<h3 class='c016'>THE NEWS ON THE MEDITERRANEAN.</h3>

<p class='c024'>Within a few weeks one of the strongest, most vivid
and most brilliant of those pens was laid down on the editorial
desk in Atlanta, never again to be resumed. I was
far away at the time. We had been sailing up from the
Mediterranean Sea, through the Dardanelles, which region
is unlike anything I ever saw for beauty. There is not any
other water scenery on earth where God has done so many
picturesque things with islands. They are somewhat like
the Thousand Islands of our American St. Lawrence, but
<span class='pageno' id='Page_429'>429</span>more like heaven. Indeed, we had just passed Patmos, the
place from which John had his apocalyptic vision. Constantinople
had seemed to come out to greet us, for your
approach to that city is different from any other city. Other
cities as you approach them seem to retire, but this city,
with its glittering minarets and pinnacles, seems almost to
step into the water to greet you. But my landing there,
that would have been to me an exhilaration, was suddenly
stunned with the tidings of the death of my intimate friend,
Henry W. Grady. I could hardly believe the tidings, for
I had left on my study table at home letters and telegrams
from him, those letters and telegrams having a warmth
and geniality, and a wit such as he alone could express.
The departure of no public man for many years has so
affected me. For days I walked about as in a dream, and
I resolved that, getting home, I would, for the sake of his
bereaved household, and for the sake of his bereaved profession,
and for the sake of what he had been to me, and
shall continue to be as long as memory lasts, I would speak
a word in appreciation of him, the most promising of
Americans, and learn some of the salient lessons of his
departure.</p>

<p class='c018'>I have no doubt that he had enemies, for no man can
live such an active life as he lived, or be so far in advance
of his time without making enemies, some because he
defeated their projects, and some because he outshone them.
Owls and bats never did like the rising sun. But I shall
tell you how he appeared to me, and I am glad that I told
him while he was in full health what I thought of him.
Memorial orations and gravestone epitaphs are often mean
enough, for they say of a man after he is dead that which
ought to have been said of him while living. One garland
for a living brow is worth more than a mountain of japonicas
and calla lilies heaped on a funeral casket. By a
little black volume of fifty pages, containing the eulogiums
and poems uttered and written at the demise of Clay and
Webster and Calhoun and Lincoln and Sumner, the world
tried to pay for the forty years of obloquy it heaped upon
<span class='pageno' id='Page_430'>430</span>those living giants. If I say nothing in praise of a man
while he lives I will keep silent when he is dead. Myrtle
and weeping willow can never do what ought to have been
done by amaranth and palm branch. No amount of
“Dead March in Saul” rumbling from big organs at the
obsequies can atone for non-appreciation of the man before
he fell on sleep. The hearse cannot do what ought to have
been done by chariot. But there are important things that
need to be said about our friend, who was a prophet in
American journalism, and who only a few years ago heard
the command of my text: “Take thee a great roll, and
write in it with a man’s pen.”</p>
<h3 class='c016'>A RETROSPECT OF LIFE.</h3>

<p class='c024'>His father dead, Henry W. Grady, a boy fourteen years
of age, took up the battle of life. It would require a long
chapter to record the names of orphans who have come to
the top. When God takes away the head of the household
He very often gives to some lad in that household a special
qualification. Christ remembers how that His own father
died early, leaving Him to support Himself and His mother
and His brothers in the carpenter’s shop at Nazareth, and
He is in sympathy with all boys and all young men in the
struggle. You say: “Oh, if my father had only lived I
would have had a better education and I would have had a
more promising start, and there are some wrinkles on my
brow that would not have been there.” But I have noticed
that God makes a special way for orphans. You would
not have been half the man you are if you had not been
obliged from your early days to fight your own battles.
What other boys got out of Yale and Harvard you got in
the university of hard knocks. Go among successful merchants,
lawyers, physicians and men of all occupations and
professions, and there are many of them who will tell you:
“At ten, or twelve, or fifteen years of age, I started for
myself; father was sick, or father was dead.” But somehow
they got through and got up. I account for it
by the fact that there is a special dispensation of God
<span class='pageno' id='Page_431'>431</span>for orphans. All hail, the fatherless and motherless!
The Lord Almighty will see you through. Early obstacles
for Mr. Grady were only the means for development of his
intellect and heart. And lo! when at thirty-nine years of
age he put down his pen and closed his lips for the perpetual
silence, he had done a work which many a man who
lives on to sixty and seventy and eighty years never
accomplishes. There is a great deal of senseless praise of
longevity, as though it were a wonderful achievement to
live a good while. Ah, my friends, it is not how long we
live, but how well we live and how usefully we live. A
man who lives to eighty years and accomplishes nothing for
God or humanity might better have never lived at all.
Methuselah lived nine hundred and sixty-nine years, and
what did it amount to? In all those more than nine centuries
he did not accomplish anything which seemed worth
record. Paul lived only a little more than sixty, but how
many Methuselahs would it take to make one Paul? Who
would not rather have Paul’s sixty years than Methuselah’s
nine hundred and sixty-nine? Robert McCheyne died at
thirty years of age and John Summerfield at twenty-seven
years of age, but neither earth nor heaven will ever hear the
end of their usefulness. Longevity! Why, an elephant
can beat you at that, for it lives a hundred and fifty and
two hundred years. Gray hairs are the blossoms of the
tree of life if found in the way of righteousness, but the
frosts of the second death if found in the way of sin.</p>
<h3 class='c016'>MR. GRADY AS A CHRISTIAN.</h3>

<p class='c024'>One of our able New York journals last spring printed
a question and sent it to many people, and, among others,
to myself: “Can the editor of a secular journal be a
Christian?” Some of the newspapers answered no. I
answered yes; and, lest you may not understand me, I say
yes again. Summer before last, riding with Mr. Grady
from a religious meeting in Georgia on Sunday night, he
said to me some things which I now reveal for the first
time, because it is appropriate now that I reveal them.
<span class='pageno' id='Page_432'>432</span>He expressed his complete faith in the gospel, and expressed
his astonishment and his grief that in our day so many young
men were rejecting Christianity. From the earnestness
and the tenderness and the confidence with which he spoke
on these things I concluded that when Henry W. Grady
made public profession of his faith in Christ, and took his
place at the holy communion in the Methodist Church, he
was honestly and truly Christian. That conversation that
Sunday night, first in the carriage and then resumed in the
hotel, impressed me in such a way that when I simply
heard of his departure, without any of the particulars, I
concluded that he was ready to go. I warrant there was
no fright in the last exigency, but that he found what is
commonly called “the last enemy” a good friend, and
from his home on earth he went to a home in heaven. Yes,
Mr. Grady not only demonstrated that an editor may be a
Christian, but that a very great intellect may be gospelized.
His mental capacity was so wonderful it was almost startling.
I have been with him in active conversation while at
the same time he was dictating to a stenographer editorials
for the Atlanta <i>Constitution</i>. But that intellect was not
ashamed to bow to Christ. Among his last dying utterances
was a request for the prayers of the churches in his
behalf.</p>

<p class='c018'>There was that particular quality in him that you do not
find in more than one person out of hundreds of thousands—namely,
personal magnetism. People have tried to define
that quality, and always failed, yet we have all felt its power.
There are some persons who have only to enter a room
or step upon a platform or into a pulpit, and you are thrilled
by their presence, and when they speak your nature responds
and you cannot help it. What is the peculiar influence with
which such a magnetic person takes hold of social groups
and audiences? Without attempting to define this, which
is indefinable, I will say it seems to correspond to the waves
of air set in motion by the voice or the movements of the
body. Just like that atmospheric vibration is the moral or
spiritual vibration which rolls out from the soul of what we
<span class='pageno' id='Page_433'>433</span>call a magnetic person. As there may be a cord or rope
binding bodies together, there may be an invisible cord
binding souls. A magnetic man throws it over others as a
hunter throws a lasso. Mr. Grady was surcharged with
this influence, and it was employed for patriotism and
Christianity and elevated purposes.</p>
<h3 class='c016'>GREAT MEN MAY BE CHRISTIANS.</h3>

<p class='c024'>You may not know why, in the conversation which I
had with Mr. Gladstone a few weeks ago, he uttered these
memorable words about Christianity, some of which were
cabled to America. He was speaking in reply to this
remark: I said: “Mr. Gladstone, we are told in America
by some people that Christianity does very well for weak-minded
men and children in the infant class, but it is not
fit for stronger minded men; but when we mention you, of
such large intellectuality, as being a pronounced friend of
religion, we silence their batteries.” Then Mr. Gladstone
stopped on the hillside where we were exercising, and said:
“The older I grow, the more confirmed I am in my faith in
religion.” “Sir,” said he, with flashing eye and uplifted
hand, “talk about the questions of the day, there is but
one question, and that is the Gospel. That can and will
correct everything. Do you have any of that dreadful
agnosticism in America?” Having told him we had, he
went on to say: “I am profoundly thankful that none of
my children or kindred have been blasted by it. I am glad
to say that about all the men at the top in Great Britain are
Christians. Why, sir,” he said, “I have been in public
position fifty-eight years, and forty-seven years in the
cabinet of the British government, and during those forty-seven
years I have been associated with sixty of the master
minds of the century, and all but five of the sixty were
Christians.” He then named the four leading physicians
and surgeons of his country, calling them by name and
remarking upon the high qualities of each of them and
added: “They are all thoroughly Christian.” My friends,
I think it will be quite respectable for a little longer to be
<span class='pageno' id='Page_434'>434</span>the friends of religion. William E. Gladstone, a Christian;
Henry W. Grady, a Christian. What the greatest of Englishmen
said of England is true of America and of all
Christendom. The men at the top are the friends of God
and believers in the sanctities of religion, the most eminent
of the doctors, the most eminent of the lawyers, the most
eminent of the merchants, and there are no better men in
all our land than some of those who sit in editorial chairs.
And if that does not correspond with your acquaintanceship,
I am sorry that you have fallen into bad company.
In answer to the question put last spring, “Can a secular
journalist be a Christian?” I not only answer in the
affirmative, but I assert that so great are the responsibilities
of that profession, so infinite and eternal the consequences
of their obedience or disobedience of the words of my text,
“Take thee a great roll and write in it with a man’s pen,”
and so many are the surrounding temptations, that the
men of no other profession more deeply need the defenses
and the reinforcements of the grace of God.</p>
<h3 class='c016'>THE OPPORTUNITIES OF JOURNALISM.</h3>

<p class='c024'>And then look at the opportunities of journalism. I
praise the pulpit and magnify my office, but I state a fact
which you all know when I say that where the pulpit
touches one person the press touches five hundred. The
vast majority of people do not go to church, but all intelligent
people read the newspapers. While, therefore, the
responsibility of the minister is great, the responsibilities
of editors and reporters is greater. Come, brother journalist,
and get your ordination, not by the laying on of
human hands, but by the laying on of the hands of the
Almighty. To you is committed the precious reputation
of men and the more precious reputation of women.
Spread before our children an elevated literature. Make
sin appear disgusting and virtue admirable. Believe
good rather than evil. While you show up the hypocrisies
of the church, show up the stupendous hypocrisies
outside of the church. Be not, as some of you are,
<span class='pageno' id='Page_435'>435</span>the mere echoes of public opinion; make public opinion.
Let the great roll on which you write with a man’s pen be
a message of light and liberty, and kindness and an awakening
of moral power. But who is sufficient for these
things! Not one of you without Divine help. But get
that influence and the editors and reporters can go up and
take this world for God and the truth. The mightiest
opportunity in all the world for usefulness to-day is open
before editors and reporters and publishers, whether of
knowledge on foot, as in the book, or knowledge on the
wing, as in the newspaper; I pray God, men of the newspaper
press, whether you hear or read this sermon, that
you may rise up to your full opportunity and that you may
be divinely helped and rescued and blessed.</p>

<p class='c018'>Some one might say to me: “How can you talk thus of
the newspaper press when you yourself have sometimes
been unfairly treated and misrepresented?” I answer that
in the opportunity the newspaper press of this country and
other countries have given me week by week to preach the
gospel to the nations, I am put under so much obligation
that I defy all editors and reporters, the world over, to
write anything that shall call forth from me one word of
bitter retort from now till the day of my death. My opinion
is that all reformers and religious teachers, instead of
spending so much time and energy in denouncing the press,
had better spend more time in thanking them for what they
have done for the world’s intelligence, and declaring their
magnificent opportunity and urging their employment of it
all for beneficent and righteous purposes.</p>
<h3 class='c016'>A TYPE OF CHRISTIAN PATRIOTISM.</h3>

<p class='c024'>Again, I remark that Henry W. Grady stood for
Christian patriotism irrespective of political spoils. He
declined all official reward. He could have been Governor
of Georgia, but refused it. He could have been Senator
of the United States, but declined it. He remained
plain Henry Grady. Nearly all the other orators of the
political arena, as soon as the elections are over, go to
<span class='pageno' id='Page_436'>436</span>Washington, or Albany, or Harrisburg, or Atlanta, to get
in city or state or national office, reward for their services,
and not getting what they want spend the rest of the time
of that administration in pouting about the management
of public affairs or cursing Harrison or Cleveland. When
the great political campaigns were over Mr. Grady went
home to his newspaper. He demonstrated that it is possible
to toil for principles which he thought to be right,
simply because they were right. Christian patriotism is too
rare a commodity in this country. Surely the joy of living
under such free institutions as those established here
ought to be enough reward for political fidelity. Among
all the great writers that stood at the last Presidential
election on Democratic and Republican platforms, you
cannot recall in your mind ten who were not themselves
looking for remunerative appointments. Aye, you can
count them all on the fingers of one hand. The most illustrious
specimen of that style of man for the last ten years
was Henry W. Grady.</p>

<p class='c018'>Again, Mr. Grady stood for the New South, and was
just what we want to meet three other men, one to speak
for the New North, another for the New East, and another
for the New West. The bravest speech made for the last
quarter of a century was that made by Mr. Grady at the
New England dinner in New York about two or three
years ago. I sat with him that evening and know something
of his anxieties, for he was to tread on dangerous
ground, and might by one misspoken word have antagonized
both sections. His speech was a victory that thrilled all
of us who heard him and all who read him. That speech,
great for wisdom, great for kindness, great for pacification,
great for bravery, will go down to the generations with
Webster’s speech at Bunker Hill, William Wirt’s speech
at the arraignment of Aaron Burr, Edmund Burke’s speech
on Warren Hastings, Robert Emmett’s speech for his own
vindication.</p>

<p class='c018'>Who will in conspicuous action represent the New
North as he did the New South? Who will come forth
<span class='pageno' id='Page_437'>437</span>for the New East and who for the New West? Let old
political issues be buried, let old grudges die. Let new
theories be launched. With the coming in of a new nation
at the gates of Castle Garden every year, and the wheat
bin and corn crib of our land enlarged with every harvest,
and a vast multitude of our population still plunged in
illiteracy to be educated, and moral questions abroad
involving the very existence of our Republic, let the old
political platforms that are worm-eaten be dropped, and
platforms that shall be made of two planks, the one
the Ten Commandments, and the other the Sermon on the
Mount, lifted for all of us to stand on. But there is a lot
of old politicians grumbling all around the sky who don’t
want a New South, a New North, a New East, or a New
West. They have some old war speeches that they prepared
in 1861, that in all our autumnal elections they feel
called upon to inflict upon the country. They growl louder
and louder in proportion as they are pushed back further
and further and the Henry W. Gradys come to the front.
But the mandate, I think, has gone forth from the throne
of God that a new American Nation shall take the place of
the old, and the new has been baptized for God and liberty,
and justice and peace and morality and religion.</p>
<h3 class='c016'>THE APOTHEOSIS.</h3>

<p class='c024'>And now our much lamented friend has gone to give
account. Suddenly the facile and potent pen is laid down
and the eloquent tongue is silent. What? Is there no
safeguard against fatal disease? The impersonation of
stout health was Mr. Grady. What compactness of muscle!
What ruddy complexion! What flashing eye!
Standing with him in a group of twenty or thirty persons
at Piedmont, he looked the healthiest, as his spirits were
the blithest. Shall we never feel again the hearty grasp
of his hand or be magnetized with his eloquence? Men of
the great roll, men of the pen, men of wit, men of power,
if our friend had to go when the call came, so must you
when your call comes. When God asks you what have
<span class='pageno' id='Page_438'>438</span>you done with your pen, or your eloquence, or your wealth,
or your social position, will you be able to give satisfactory
answer? What have we been writing all these years?
If mirth, has it been innocent mirth, or that which tears
and stings and lacerates? From our pen have there come
forth productions healthy or poisonous! In the last great
day, when the warrior must give account of what he has
done with his sword, and the merchant what he has done
with his yard stick, and the mason what he has done with
his trowel, and the artist what he has done with his pencil,
we shall have to give account of what we have done
with our pen. There are gold pens and diamond pens, and
pens of exquisite manufacture, and every few weeks I see
some new kind of pen, each said to be better than the other;
but in the great day of our arraignment before the Judge
of the quick and dead, that will be the most beautiful pen,
whether gold or steel or quill, which never wrote a profane
or unclean or cruel word, or which from the day it
was carved or split at the nib, dropped from its point
kindness and encouragement, and help and gratitude to
God and benediction for man.</p>

<p class='c018'>May God comfort that torn up Southern home, and all
the homes of this country, and of all the world, which have
been swept by this plague of influenza, which has deepened
sometimes into pneumonia and sometimes into typhus, and
the victims of which are counted by the ten thousand,
Satan, who is the “prince of the power of the air,” has
been poisoning the atmosphere in all nations. Though it
is the first time in our remembrance, he has done the same
thing before. In 1696 the unwholesome air of Cairo, Egypt,
destroyed the life of ten thousand in one day, and in Constantinople
in 1714 three hundred thousand people died of
it. I am glad that by the better sanitation of our cities and
wider understanding of hygienic laws and the greater skill
of physicians these Apollyonic assaults upon the human
race are being resisted, but pestilential atmosphere is still
abroad. Hardly a family here but has felt its lighter or
heavier touch. Some of the best of my flock fell under its
<span class='pageno' id='Page_439'>439</span>power and many homes here represented have been crushed.
The fact is the biggest failure in the universe is this world,
if there be no heaven beyond. But there is, and the friends
who have gone there are many, and very dear. Oh, tearful
eyes, look up to the hills crimsoning with eternal morn!
That reunion kiss will more than make up for the parting
kiss, and the welcome will obliterate the good-by. “The
Lamb which is in the midst of the throne shall lead them
to living fountains of water and God shall wipe away all
tears from their eyes.” Till then, O departed loved ones,
promise us that you will remember us, as we promise to
remember you. And some of you gone up from this city
by the sea, and others from under southern skies and others
from the homes of the more rigorous North and some from
the cabins on great western farms, we shall meet again when
our pen has written its last word and our arm has done its
last day’s work and our lips have spoken their last adieu.</p>

<p class='c018'>And now, thou great and magnificent soul of editor and
orator! under brighter skies we shall meet again. From
God thou camest, and to God thou hast returned. Not
broken down, but ascended. Not collapsed, but irradiated.
Enthroned one! Coroneted one! Sceptered one! Emparadised
one! Hail and farewell!</p>
<div class='pbb'>
 <hr class='pb c007' />
</div>

<div class='nf-center-c0'>
<div class='nf-center c001'>
    <div><span class='pageno' id='Page_441'>441</span><span class='c029'>TRIBUTES</span></div>
    <div class='c000'>OF THE</div>
    <div class='c000'><span class='c029'>NORTHERN PRESS.</span></div>
  </div>
</div>

<div class='pbb'>
 <hr class='pb c001' />
</div>
<div>
  <span class='pageno' id='Page_443'>443</span>
  <h3 class='c016'>HE WAS THE EMBODIMENT OF THE SPIRIT OF THE NEW SOUTH.</h3>
</div>
<hr class='c019' />

<div class='nf-center-c0'>
  <div class='nf-center'>
    <div><i>From the “New York World.”</i></div>
  </div>
</div>

<p class='drop-capa0_25_0_7 c017'>AS the soldier falls upon the battle-field in the line of
duty, so died Henry Woodfin Grady, the progressive
editor of the Atlanta <i>Constitution</i>. Mr. Grady came
to the North twelve days ago, with his fatal illness
upon him, against the entreaties of his family, to speak
a word for the South, to the mind and conscience of
New England. He performed his task in splendid spirit,
and with the effective and moving eloquence that were
always his, and then returned home to die. It is
highly probable that if he had not gone to Boston he
would be living and writing to-day. It is as more
than a journalist or an orator, that Mr. Grady is to be
counted. He was admirable as both, but he was more
than a Southerner, a peacemaker between the sections.
He was intensely Southern, filled full of all the traditions
of his people, proud of them and their past, but he accepted
the new order with the magnificent enthusiasm of his intense
nature, and became the embodiment of the spirit of
the New South. More than any other man of this section,
he had the ear of the people of the North. They believed
the patriotic assurances which he made in behalf of his
people, because they knew him to be honest and sincere
and thoroughly devoted to all that makes for the best in
public affairs. His influence in Atlanta and throughout
the South was deservedly great. No Southerner could
have been so ill-spared as this young man, whose future
only a day or two ago seemed brilliant to a degree. His
death is a wonderfully great bereavement, and not only
to his family and the community in which he lived and
labored, but the whole country, whose peace and unity and
kindly sentiment he did so much to promote.</p>
<div>
  <span class='pageno' id='Page_444'>444</span>
  <h3 class='c016'>A THOROUGHLY AMERICAN JOURNALIST.</h3>
</div>
<hr class='c019' />

<div class='nf-center-c0'>
  <div class='nf-center'>
    <div><i>From the “New York Herald.”</i></div>
  </div>
</div>

<p class='c018'><span class='sc'>Mr. Grady’s</span> death will be deeply and justly regretted
all over the country. He had, though still a young
man, made for himself a national reputation, and by
his steadfast counsels for peace and good will, and by his
intelligent devotion to the development of his State and
of the South, had won the good will of North and South
alike.</p>

<p class='c018'>It is seldom that so good a journalist is at the same time
so brilliant and effective an orator as Mr. Grady was. The
reason probably is that when he spoke he had something to
say, and that he was of so cheerful and hopeful a spirit
that he was able to affect his hearers with his own optimism.
In that he was a thorough American, for, as one of the
shrewdest New Yorkers once said, “This is a bull country,
and the bears have the wrong philosophy for the American
people.”</p>

<p class='c018'>For that training which made him not only a brilliant
and successful, but, what is better, a broadly intelligent
and useful journalist, the <i>Herald</i> claims a not inconsiderable
share of credit, which Mr. Grady himself was accustomed
to give it. The <i>Herald</i> was his early and best school.
As a correspondent of this journal he first made his mark
by the fearless accuracy of his reports of some exciting
scenes in the reconstruction period. He showed in those
days so keen an eye as an observer, united with such rapid
and just judgment of the bearings of facts, that his reports
in the <i>Herald</i> attracted general attention and were recognized
freely, even by those whom they inconvenienced, as
the clearest, the most truthful, and the most just reports
<span class='pageno' id='Page_445'>445</span>made of those events. He was then still a very young man;
but he quickly saw that the province of a newspaper, and
of a reporter of events for it, is to tell the exact truth, to
tell it simply and straightforwardly, and without fear,
favor or prejudice. This is what he learned from his connection
with the <i>Herald</i>, and this lesson he carried into his
own able journal, the Atlanta <i>Constitution</i>.</p>

<p class='c018'>It does not often happen that so young a man as Mr.
Grady was makes so great and widespread a reputation,
and this without any of the tricks of self-puffery which
are the cheap resort of too many young men ambitious of
fame, or what they mistake for fame—notoriety.</p>

<p class='c018'>In Mr. Grady’s untimely death the country loses one
of its foremost and most clear-headed journalists, and his
State one of its most eminent and justly admired citizens.</p>
<hr class='c049' />
<h3 class='c016'>A LOSS TO THE WHOLE COUNTRY.</h3>
<hr class='c019' />

<div class='nf-center-c0'>
  <div class='nf-center'>
    <div><i>From the “New York Tribune.”</i></div>
  </div>
</div>

<p class='c018'><span class='sc'>The</span> death of Henry Grady is a loss to the whole country,
but there is some consolation in the general recognition
of this fact. During his brief career as a public man he
has said many things that it was profitable for both North
and South to hear, and he has said them in such a way as
to enhance their significance. As editor of one of the few
widely influential papers of the South, he possessed an
opportunity, which he had also in great measure created, of
impressing his opinions upon Southern society, but it was
to a few occasional addresses in Northern cities that he
chiefly owed his national reputation. His rhetorical gifts
were not of the highest order, but he had command of a
style of speaking which was most effective for his purposes.
It was marked by the Celtic characteristic of exuberance,
but it was so agreeable and inspiring that he was able to
<span class='pageno' id='Page_446'>446</span>command at will audiences at home and abroad. When
so endowed he has also a significant message to deliver, and
is, moreover, animated by a sincere desire to serve his
generation to the full measure of his ability, the loss which
his death inflicts is not easily repaired. The whole
country will unite in deploring the sudden extinction of a
faithful life. Mr. Grady’s zeal, activity and patriotism
were fully recognized in the North, as we have said, but
yet it was pre-eminently to his own people that he was an
example and inspiration. His loyalty to the cause in which
his father fell was untinged with bitterness, and he never
permitted himself to imagine that vain regrets were more
sacred than present obligations. He was an admirable
illustration of that sagacious and progressive spirit which
is gradually, but surely, renewing the South, and which,
though it still lacks something of being altogether equal to
its opportunities, does nevertheless recognize the fact that
“new occasions teach new duties, time makes ancient good
uncouth.”</p>
<hr class='c049' />
<h3 class='c016'>WHAT HENRY W. GRADY REPRESENTED.</h3>
<hr class='c019' />

<div class='nf-center-c0'>
  <div class='nf-center'>
    <div><i>From the “New York Commercial Advertiser.”</i></div>
  </div>
</div>

<p class='c018'><span class='sc'>What</span> undoubtedly interested and fascinated people
most in the late Henry W. Grady was the fact that he
represented an order of genius now almost extinct in our
country, and yet one in which some of the favorite episodes
of its history are entwined. The orator who appealed at
once to the reason and the feelings was beyond question
the foremost power of our early national century of history.
He was not predominant in the councils which founded our
government, nor in the first decade of its administration;
because the duties of that period called for the calm deliberations
of statesmen rather than the arousing of voters to
action. As this era of national infancy drew to its close,
<span class='pageno' id='Page_447'>447</span>and the gigantic problems, destined at a later day to involve
the nation in civil war, came forth into sudden prominence,
the orator became the central figure of the national
stage. The rank and file gave their allegiance to their
chosen oratorical leader. He spoke in their behalf in Congress;
he defined in all political gatherings the will and
purposes of his constituents; and not less powerfully was
his influence exerted to shape those opinions and purposes.
Indeed, the speeches of Clay, Calhoun and Webster, and
at a later day of Douglas and Lincoln, are better understood
when regarded as shaping public opinion than as following
the popular will already formed. The speeches of
these leaders supplied the need which is now met by the
newspaper editorial in journals of influence and public
spirit. Like the newspaper of this later day, the American
orator of half a century ago was quick to note a change
in the trend of public sentiment, and at his best fearless in
leading the movement even before the popular mind had
given assent.</p>

<p class='c018'>The civil war brought to a close the epoch in which
flourished this interesting and impressive figure of our earlier
politics. To-day, partly because of the greater diffusion
of news and intelligence, partly by reason of the more
technical and analytical character of the national problems
which confront us, he has quite disappeared from the
political stage. One need only recall the congressional or
campaign speeches of our ablest public speakers to appreciate
the truth of this. It was Mr. Grady’s good fortune
that he, equipped with the keen insight and fervid eloquence
of our old public leaders, was placed in an epoch
and a community where the reconciling of the North and
the South called for just these powers. Presently, when
the wave of closer commercial intercourse and the better
mutual understanding shall have swept with unprecedented
rapidity over the whole nation, the feelings which made
such mediation necessary will be quite dead. But the
work of the men who led the way is not likely to be forgotten.</p>
<hr class='c047' />
<div>
  <span class='pageno' id='Page_448'>448</span>
  <h3 class='c016'>A FAR-SIGHTED STATESMAN.</h3>
</div>
<hr class='c019' />

<div class='nf-center-c0'>
  <div class='nf-center'>
    <div><i>From the “New York Star.”</i></div>
  </div>
</div>

<p class='c018'><span class='sc'>The</span> death of Henry W. Grady is a very much greater
national loss than the public will at first concede; and
while his death will be regretted, not only by the Democracy
of the country, but by all patriotic citizens, few will
recognize that he was one of the few prominent young men,
who were children during the War, who labored to obliterate
absolutely the animosity it engendered. We believe
that if the circumstance of his prominent position had not
silenced Jefferson Davis, who died almost simultaneously
with this youth, he, too, would have been found advocating
the truth that the Union of these States is homogeneous,
and that Union is worth all the sacrifices it cost.</p>

<p class='c018'>The young Atlanta editor has, during the past few years,
done as much as any other public man toward the accomplishment
of perfect reunion and for the prosperity of his
State and section. His later addresses had been specially
characterized by a broad grasp of political and industrial
problems that entitled him to high rank as an accomplished
and far-sighted statesman.</p>

<p class='c018'>There have been few more interesting personalities in the
life of the country in the past decade, and there was no
man of his years with brighter prospects than Grady at the
time of his last visit to the North, which will be memorable
as the occasion of his most comprehensive and effective
address on his constant theme of American prosperity
through fraternity.</p>
<hr class='c049' />
<h3 class='c016'>AN APOSTLE OF THE NEW FAITH.</h3>
<hr class='c019' />

<div class='nf-center-c0'>
  <div class='nf-center'>
    <div><i>From the “New York Times.”</i></div>
  </div>
</div>

<p class='c018'><span class='sc'>Few</span> men who have never entered the public service
were more widely known throughout the country than
Henry W. Grady, who died at Atlanta, and the death of only
<span class='pageno' id='Page_449'>449</span>a few even of those who have won the honors and the prominence
of public life would be more sincerely deplored. Ten
years ago Mr. Grady had made himself known in the South
by the fervency of his devotion to her interests and by the
unusual ability he displayed in his newspaper work, and
the people of the South met his devotion with characteristic
warmth of affection and generosity of praise. A little
later he was recognized in the North as an eloquent
interpreter of the new spirit which had awakened and
possessed the South. His speech at the dinner of the New
England Society three years ago was only an expression
from a more conspicuous platform of the sentiments which
had long inspired his daily writing. And it was not merely
as an interpreter of Southern feeling that Mr. Grady was
entitled to recognition. In a large measure he was the
creator of the spirit that now animates the South. He was
an apostle of the new faith. He exhorted the people of the
Southern States to concern themselves no longer about what
they had lost, but to busy themselves with what they might
find to do, to consecrate the memories of the war if they
would, but to put the whole strength of their minds and
bodies into the building up of the New South. To his
teaching and his example, as much as to any other single
influence perhaps, the South owes the impulses of material
advancement, of downright hard work, and that well-nigh
complete reconciliation to the conditions and duties of the
present and the future that distinguish her to-day.</p>
<hr class='c049' />
<h3 class='c016'>THE FOREMOST LEADER.</h3>
<hr class='c019' />

<div class='nf-center-c0'>
  <div class='nf-center'>
    <div><i>From the “New York Christian Union.”</i></div>
  </div>
</div>

<p class='c018'><span class='sc'>The</span> death of Henry W. Grady, at Atlanta, on Monday
of this week, was a loss, not only to his own section, but
to the country. Although a young man, and not in political
life, Mr. Grady had already acquired a national reputation.
It is only three years since he delivered the speech
at the New England dinner in this city, which gave a sudden
<span class='pageno' id='Page_450'>450</span>expansion to a reputation already rapidly extending,
and made his name known in every State in the Union.
Mr. Grady was a typical Southern man, ardent in his love
for his own section, loyal to the memory of those who
fought in the struggle of a quarter of a century ago, but
equally loyal to the duties and the nation of to-day.
Warm-hearted, generous, and of a fervid imagination, Mr.
Grady’s oratory recalled the best traditions of the Southern
style; and the sincerity and geniality of his nature
evoked the confidence and regard of his audience, while
his eloquence thrilled them. His latest speech was delivered
in Boston two weeks ago, on the race question, and
was one of those rare addresses which carry with them an
immediate broadening of the views of every auditor.
Among the men of his own section Mr. Grady was probably
the foremost leader of progressive ideas, and his death
becomes for that reason a national loss.</p>
<hr class='c049' />
<h3 class='c016'>A GLORIOUS MISSION.</h3>
<hr class='c019' />

<div class='nf-center-c0'>
  <div class='nf-center'>
    <div><i>From the Albany, N.Y., “Argus.”</i></div>
  </div>
</div>

<p class='c018'><span class='sc'>All</span> who admire true patriotism, brilliant talents, golden
eloquence and ripe judgment, will regret the untimely
taking off of the gifted Southern journalist and orator,
Henry W. Grady, in the very zenith of his powers and
fame. His eloquent address at the annual banquet of the
Boston Merchants’ Association is still fresh in the minds
of those who listened to him or read his glowing words in
the columns of the press. It was the last and grandest
effort of the brilliant young Southerner. It was the
defense of his beloved South against the calumnies cast
upon her, and the most lucid, convincing exposition of the
race question ever presented at a public assemblage. Impassioned
and heartfelt was his plea for Union and the
abandonment of all sectionalism. These closing words of
<span class='pageno' id='Page_451'>451</span>his address might fitly be inscribed upon his tomb: “Let
us resolve to crown the miracles of our past with the spectacle
of a Republic, compact, united, indissoluble in the
bonds of love—loving from the Lakes to the Gulf—the
wounds of war healed in every heart as on every hill—serene
and resplendent at the summit of human achievement
and earthly glory—blazing out the path, and making
clear the way up which all the nations of the earth must
come in God’s appointed time.” The words were all the
more emphatic and convincing because they were spoken
in the presence of an ex-president whose entire administration
had been consecrated to such a Union of all sections,
and who accomplished more in the grand work of obliterating
the last traces of sectional strife and division than
any other man who sat in the national executive chair.</p>

<p class='c018'>Well may the South mourn over this fervid advocate of
her honor, her rights, her interests, and regard his death a
public calamity. Eloquence such as his is rarely given to
men, and it was devoted wholly to his beloved land. It
has done more to break down the barriers of prejudice and
passion than a decade of homilies, dry arguments and
elaborate statistics could effect. His was a most glorious
mission, the bringing together in the closest bonds of fraternal
love and confidence the sections which partisan
malice, political selfishness and unconscionable malignity
would keep apart. Whenever he spoke, the earnestness
of his convictions, expressed in the noblest language,
impressed itself upon the intelligence of his hearers. His
last appeal, made, as he described it, “within touch of
Plymouth Rock and Bunker Hill, where Webster thundered
and Longfellow sang, and Emerson thought and
Channing preached,” melted away the most hardened
prejudice and enkindled in the New England heart the
spirit of respect and sympathy for the brave, single-minded
people of the South, who are so patiently and determinedly
working out their destiny to make their beautiful land the
abode of unalloyed peace and prosperity. Journalism will
also mourn the loss of one of its brightest representatives.
<span class='pageno' id='Page_452'>452</span>Henry W. Grady shone in the columns of his newspaper,
the Atlanta <i>Constitution</i>, with no less brilliancy than he
did as an orator. Under his guidance that paper has
become one of the brightest in the land. It will be difficult
for the South to supply his place as patriot, journalist
and orator. He was an effective foil to the Eliza Pinkston
class of statesmen in and out of Congress.</p>
<hr class='c049' />
<h3 class='c016'>HIS LOFTY IDEAL.</h3>
<hr class='c019' />

<div class='nf-center-c0'>
  <div class='nf-center'>
    <div><i>From the “Philadelphia Press.”</i></div>
  </div>
</div>

<p class='c018'><span class='sc'>Few</span> men die at thirty-eight whose departure is felt
as a national loss, but Henry W. Grady was one. At an
age when most men are just beginning to be known in
their own States and to be recognized in their own section,
he was known to the nation and recognized by the American
people. At the South he represented the new pride in
the material revival of a section desolated by the war. At
the North he stood for loyal and enthusiastic support by
the South of the new claims of the Union. His every
appearance before the public was one more proof to the
nation that the sons of those who fought the war were
again one people and under one flag, cherishing different
memories in the past, but pressing forward to the same
lofty ideal of a homogeneous democratic society under
republican institutions.</p>

<p class='c018'>If Henry W. Grady spoke at the North he spoke for
the South; if he spoke at the South he stood for Northern
ideas in his own land. He was none the less true in both
attitudes that his utterances were insensibly modified by
his audiences. Eloquent, magnetic, impressionable, sharing
to the full the sympathy every great speaker always has
with his audience, his sentiment swung from extreme to
extreme as he stood on a Northern or a Southern platform.
It was always easy to pick flaws in them. Now and then
<span class='pageno' id='Page_453'>453</span>his rhetorical sympathies placed him in a false position.
But it was the inevitable condition of work like his that he
should express extremes. If he had not felt and voiced
the pride with which every Southerner must and should
look back to the deathless valor of men we all rejoice to
claim as Americans, he would have been worthless as a
representative of the South. If he had not thrilled earlier
than his fellows to the splendid national heritage with
which defeat had dowered his people, he could never have
awakened the applause of Northern audiences by expressions
of loyalty and devotion to our common nation.</p>

<p class='c018'>This service to both sections sprang from something
more than sympathy. A moral courage Northern men
can little understand was needed for him to oppose
Southern treatment of the negro. Energy and industry,
unknown among his fellows, were needed in the leadership
he undertook in the material development of his State
and section. It is easy now to see the enormous profit
which lay in the material development of Georgia. Far-sighted
provision was needed to urge the policy and aid
the combination which made it possible ten years ago.</p>

<p class='c018'>No one but a journalist, we are proud to say, could
have done Mr. Grady’s work, and he brought to the work
of journalism some of its highest qualifications. Ability
as a writer, keen appreciation of “news,” and tireless
industry, which he had, must all be held second to the
power he possessed in an eminent degree of divining the
drift and tendency of public feeling, being neither too
early to lead it nor too late to control it. This divination
Mr. Grady was daily displaying and he never made better
use of it than in his last speech in Boston, the best of his
life, in which he rose from mere rhetoric to a clear, earnest
and convincing handling of fact. A great future was
before him, all too soon cut off. He leaves to all journalists
the inspiring example of the great opportunities which
their profession offers to serve the progress of men and aid
the advance of nations, by speaking to the present of the
bright and radiant light of the future, and rising above the
<span class='pageno' id='Page_454'>454</span>claims of party and the prejudice of locality to advocate
the higher claims of patriotism and humanity.</p>
<hr class='c049' />
<h3 class='c016'>HIS PATRIOTISM.</h3>
<hr class='c019' />

<div class='nf-center-c0'>
  <div class='nf-center'>
    <div><i>From the “Philadelphia Ledger.”</i></div>
  </div>
</div>

<p class='c018'><span class='sc'>The</span> death of Henry W. Grady, which occurred almost
at the dawning of this beneficent Christmas time, did not
“eclipse the gayety of nations,” as it was long ago said the
death of another illustrious person did, but it still casts a
shadow over his native land—a shadow which falls heavily
upon all those of his countrymen who knew, honored and
loved the man.</p>

<p class='c018'>Henry W. Grady was one of the youngest, the most
brilliant, the best beloved of the young men of his country
who, since the war of secession, won distinction in public
life. Whether considered as a writer or an orator, his
talents were extraordinary. His language was strong,
refined, and, in its poetic warmth and elegance, singularly
beautiful. But that which gave to it its greatest value and
charm was the wisdom of the thought, the sincerity of the
high conscience of which it was the expression. It was
given to him as it is to so few—the ability to wed noble
thoughts to noble words—to make the pen more convincing
than the sword in argument, to make the tongue proclaim
“the Veritas that lurks beneath the letter’s unprolific
sheath.”</p>

<p class='c018'>Henry W. Grady was, in the truest sense, an American;
his love of country, his unselfish devotion to it, were unquestioned
and unquestionable; but he sought to serve it
best by best serving the South, which he so greatly loved
and which so loved and honored him. It was the New South
of human freedom, material progress—not the Old South of
chattel slavery and material sluggishness—of which he was
the representative, the prophet. It was the South of to-day,
<span class='pageno' id='Page_455'>455</span>which has put off the bitternesses, defeats and animosities
of the war; which has put on the sentient spirit of real
union, of marvelous physical development, which advances
day by day to wealth, dignity and greatness by gigantic
strides. This was the South that he glorified with pen and
tongue, and which he sought with earnest, zealous love to
bring into closer, warmer fraternity with the North and the
North with it.</p>

<p class='c018'>The story of the shield which hung in the forest, and
which, to the traveler coming from the North, seemed to
be made of gold, and to the traveler journeying from the
South, to be made of silver, is an old one. But it has its
new significance in every great matter to which there are
two sides, and which is looked at by those approaching it
from different directions from their respective points of
view. He saw but one side of the race question—the
Southern side, and for that he strenuously contended only
a few days before his death, in the very shadow of Faneuil
Hall, or, as he finely said: “Here, within touch of Plymouth
Rock and Bunker Hill—where Webster thundered
and Longfellow sang, Emerson thought and Channing
preached—here, in the cradle of American letters and of
American liberty.” It was in the house of his antagonists
that he fought for the side which he thought good and just,
and if in doing so he did not convince, he was listened to
with respect and admiration.</p>

<p class='c018'>That is a question not to be discussed here and now, and
it is referred to only to show the courage of Mr. Grady in
defence of his convictions, for they were convictions, and
honest ones, and not mere political or sectional opinions.
Apart from the race question, Mr. Grady was a man of
peace, who, whether writing in his own influential journal
in the South, or speaking in Boston, his tongue and voice
were alike for peace, good will, unity of interest, thought
and feeling. In his address of the 13th instant, at the
Boston banquet, Mr. Grady said:</p>

<p class='c018'>“A mighty duty, sir, a mighty inspiration impels every
one of us to-night to lose in patriotic consecration whatever
<span class='pageno' id='Page_456'>456</span>estranges, whatever divides. We, sir, are Americans,
and we stand for human liberty! The uplifting force of
the American idea is under every throne on earth. France,
Brazil—these are our victories. To redeem the earth from
kingcraft and oppression, this is our mission! And we
shall not fail. God has sown in our soil the seed of His
millennial harvest, and He will not lay the sickle to the
ripening crop until His full and perfect day has come. Our
history, sir, has been a constant and expanding miracle
from Plymouth Rock and Jamestown all the way—aye,
even from the hour when, from the voiceless and trackless
ocean, a new world rose to the sight of the inspired sailor.
As we approach the fourth centennial of that stupendous
day—when the Old World will come to marvel and to learn,
amid our gathered treasures—let us resolve to crown the
miracles of our past with the spectacle of a republic, compact,
united, indissoluble in the bonds of love—loving from
the Lakes to the Gulf—the wounds of war healed in every
heart as on every hill—serene and resplendent at the
summit of human achievement and earthly glory—blazing
out the path and making clear the way up which all the
nations of the earth must come in God’s appointed time.”</p>

<p class='c018'>The fine expression of these lofty sentiments shows the
eloquence of the man, but, better than that, they themselves
show the broad and noble spirit of his patriotism.
And the man that his countrymen so admired and honored
is dead, his usefulness ended, his voice silent, his pen idle
forever, and he so young. There are no accidents, said
Charles Sumner, in the economy of Providence; nor are
there. The death of Henry W. Grady, which seems so
premature, is yet part of the inscrutable design the perfectness
of which may not be questioned, and out of it good
will come which is now hidden. He was of those great
spirits of whom Lowell sang:</p>

<div class='lg-container-b c031'>
  <div class='linegroup'>
    <div class='group'>
      <div class='line'>“We find in our dull road their shining track;</div>
      <div class='line in2'>In every noble mood</div>
      <div class='line'>We feel the Orient of their spirit glow,</div>
      <div class='line in2'>Part of our life’s unalterable good,</div>
      <div class='line'>Of all our saintlier aspirations!”</div>
    </div>
  </div>
</div>

<p class='c024'><span class='pageno' id='Page_457'>457</span>He was of those who even through death do good, and so
posthumously work out the economy of Providence, for</p>

<div class='lg-container-b c031'>
  <div class='linegroup'>
    <div class='group'>
      <div class='line in2'>“As thrills of long-hushed tone</div>
      <div class='line'>Live in the viol, so our souls grow fine</div>
      <div class='line'>With keen vibrations from the touch divine</div>
      <div class='line in2'>Of Nobler natures gone.”</div>
    </div>
  </div>
</div>

<hr class='c049' />
<h3 class='c016'>ORATORY AND THE PRESS.</h3>
<hr class='c019' />

<div class='nf-center-c0'>
  <div class='nf-center'>
    <div><i>From the “Boston Advertiser.”</i></div>
  </div>
</div>

<p class='c018'><span class='sc'>The</span> lamented death of Mr. H. W. Grady affords a fit
occasion for saying that oratory is not one of “the lost
arts.” A great deal is said from time to time about the
decadence of oratory as caused by the competition of the
press. We are told that public address is held in slight
esteem because the public prints are much more accessible
and equally interesting. It is said that this operates in two
ways, that the man who has something to say will always
prefer to write rather than speak, because the printed page
reaches tens of thousands, while the human voice can at
most be heard by a few hundreds, and that not many people
will take the trouble to attend a lecture when they can
read discussions of the same subject by the lecturer himself,
or others equally competent, without stirring from the
evening lamp or exchanging slippers for boots. But there
is a great deal of fallacy in such arguments. The press is
the ally, not the supplanter of the platform. The functions
of the two are so distinct that they cannot clash, yet
so related that they are mutually helpful. Oratory is very
much more than the vocal utterance, of fitting words. One
of the ancients defined the three requisites of an orator as
first, action; second, action; and third, action. If by
action is meant all that accompanies speech, as gesture,
emphasis, intonation, variety in time, and those subtle
expressions that come through the flushing cheek and the
<span class='pageno' id='Page_458'>458</span>gleaming eye, the enumeration was complete. Mr. Grady
spoke with his lips not only, but with every form and
feature of his bodily presence. Such oratory as his, and
such as that of the man whose lecture on “The Lost Arts”
proved that oratory is not one of them, will never be out of
date while human nature remains what it is. There is,
indeed, one class of public speakers whose occupation the
press has nearly taken away. They are the “orators,”
falsely so called, whose speech is full of sound and fury,
signifying nothing. Cold type is fatal to their pretensions.</p>
<hr class='c049' />
<h3 class='c016'>THE LESSON OF MR. GRADY’S LIFE.</h3>
<hr class='c019' />

<div class='nf-center-c0'>
  <div class='nf-center'>
    <div><i>From the “Philadelphia Times.”</i></div>
  </div>
</div>

<p class='c018'><span class='sc'>Henry W. Grady</span> is dead, but the lesson of his life
will live and bear fruits for years to come. The young
men of the South will not fail to note that the public journals
of every faith in the North have discussed his life and
death in the sincerest sympathy, and that not only his
ability but his candor and courage have elicited universal
commendation. Had Mr. Grady been anything less than
a sincere Southerner in sympathy and conviction, he could
have commanded the regulation praise of party organs in
political conflicts, but he would have died little regretted
in either section. He was a true son of the South; faithful
to its interests, to its convictions, to its traditions; and
he proved how plain was the way for the honest Southerner
to be an honest patriot and a devoted supporter of the
Union.</p>

<p class='c018'>There are scores of men in the South, or who have lived
there, and who have filled the highest public trusts within
the gifts of their States, without commanding the sympathy
or respect of any section of the country. Of the
South, they were not in sympathy with their people
or interests, and they have played their brief and accidental
<span class='pageno' id='Page_459'>459</span>parts only to be forgotten when their work was
done. They did not speak for the South; they were
instruments of discord rather than of tranquility, and they
left no impress upon the convictions or pulsations of either
section.</p>

<p class='c018'>But Mr. Grady was a true, able, candid, courageous
son of the South, and he was as much respected under the
shadows of Bunker Hill as in Georgia. Sincerely Southern
in every sympathy, he was welcomed North and South as
a patriot; and long after the Mahones and the Chalmers
shall have been charitably forgotten, the name of Grady
will be fresh in the greenest memories of the whole people
of the country.</p>

<p class='c018'>There is no better lesson for the young men of the South
to study than the life, the aims and the efforts of Mr. Grady
and the universal gratitude he commanded from every
section. He was beloved in the South, where his noble
qualities were commonly known, but he was respected in
the North as an honest Southerner, who knew how to be
true to his birthright and true to the Republic. The
Northern press of every shade of political conviction has
united in generous tribute to the young patriot of Georgia,
and if his death shall widen and deepen the appreciation
of his achievement among the young men of the South who
must soon be the actors of the day, he may yet teach even
more eloquently and successfully in the dreamless sleep of
the grave than his matchless oratory ever taught in Atlanta
or Boston.</p>
<hr class='c049' />
<h3 class='c016'>HIS LOSS A GENERAL CALAMITY.</h3>
<hr class='c019' />

<div class='nf-center-c0'>
  <div class='nf-center'>
    <div><i>Front the “St. Louis Globe-Democrat.”</i></div>
  </div>
</div>

<p class='c018'><span class='sc'>The</span> sudden and lamentable death of Henry W. Grady
will eclipse the gayety of the Christmas season in the South.
He was a popular favorite throughout that section, and his
loss is a general calamity. His public career was yet in its
<span class='pageno' id='Page_460'>460</span>beginning. He had distinguished himself as an editor and
as an orator, and high political honors awaited him quite
as a matter of course. His qualities of head and heart
fitted him admirably for the service of the people, and they
trusted and loved him as they did no other of the younger
Southern leaders. He believed in the new order of things,
and was anxious to see the South redeemed from the blunders
and superstitions of the past, and started on a career
of rational and substantial progress. In the nature of
things, he was obliged now and then to humor sectional
prejudice, but he did it always in a graceful way, and set
an example of moderation and good temper that was
greatly to his credit. Without sacrificing in the least his
honor or his sincerity as a devoted son of the South, he
gave candid and appreciative recognition to the virtues of
the North, and made himself at home in Boston the same
as in Atlanta. The war was over with him in the best
sense. He looked to the future, and all his aspirations
were generous and wholesome.</p>

<p class='c018'>If the political affairs of the South were in the control
of men of the Grady pattern, a vast improvement would
soon be made. He did not hesitate to denounce the
methods which have so often brought deserved reproach
upon the Southern people. He was not in sympathy with
the theory that violence and fraud may be properly invoked
to decide elections and shape the course of legislation.
His impulses as a partisan stopped short of the feeling
that everything is fair in politics. He did much to
mollify and elevate the tone of public sentiment; and he
would have done a great deal more if he had been spared
to continue his salutary work. His loss is one of that kind
which makes the decrees of fate so hard to understand.
There was every reason why he should live and prosper.
His opportunities of usefulness were abundant; his State
and his country needed him; there was certain distinction
in store for him. Under such circumstances death comes
not as a logical result, but as an arbitrary interference with
reasonable conditions and conceptions. We are bound to
<span class='pageno' id='Page_461'>461</span>believe that the mystery has been made plain to the man
himself; but here it is insoluble. The lesson of his sterling
integrity, his patriotism and his cheerfulness is left, however,
for his countrymen to study and enforce. Let us
hope that in the South particularly it will not be neglected.</p>
<hr class='c049' />
<h3 class='c016'>SADDEST OF SEQUELS.</h3>
<hr class='c019' />

<div class='nf-center-c0'>
  <div class='nf-center'>
    <div><i>From the “Manchester, N.H., Union.”</i></div>
  </div>
</div>

<p class='c018'><span class='sc'>The</span> death of Henry W. Grady, the brilliant journalist
and eloquent orator, will be sincerely deplored throughout
the country. It is especially untimely, coming as it does
as the saddest of sequels to a tour which promised much
in the beginning, and which, in all save this ending, more
than fulfilled the expectations of his friends. His brilliant
speech in Boston was his last great effort, and it will long
be remembered as one of his best. In it he plead, as it
now proves, with the lips of a dying man, for true fraternity
between the North and South. Had he lived, his burning
appeals would have moved the country deeply. Now
that it is known that the effort cost him his life, his words
will have a touch of pathos in them as they are recalled by
the men of all parties and all sections to whom they were
so earnestly addressed. But even this increased effect
given to his last appeal to the North will not compensate
for the loss of such a man at this time. Henry W. Grady
was distinctively the representative of the New South.
Too young to have had an active part in the great struggle
between the states, he came into active life at just the time
when men like him were needed. His face was set toward
the future. He belonged to and was identified with the
progressive element which has already accomplished so
much of positive achievement in the Southern States. He
was a Southern man, recognized as a leader by Southern
men, but with a breadth of mind and purpose which made
<span class='pageno' id='Page_462'>462</span>him a part of the entire country. Under his leadership
the South was sure to make progress, but its rapid march
was to be to the music of the Union, and with every step
the North and South were to be nearer together than at
any previous time since the adoption of the Constitution.
But his part in the great work is ended. His passionate
voice is stilled and his active brain is at rest at a time in
life when most men are entering upon their most effective
work. Had he lived, a brilliant future was already assured
to him, a future of leadership and of tremendous influence
in public affairs. But his untimely death ends all. Others
will take up his work as best they may; the New South
will go forward with the development of its material interests,
old animosities will fade away and the North and
South will gradually come together in harmony of spirit
and purpose, but the man of all others who seemed destined
to lead in the great movement will have no further
share in it. The South will mourn his early death most
deeply, and the North will throw off its reserve sufficiently
to extend its sincere sympathy, feeling that when such a
man dies the loss is the nation’s rather than that of a
single state or of a group of states.</p>
<hr class='c049' />
<h3 class='c016'>A LIFE OF PROMISE.</h3>
<hr class='c019' />

<div class='nf-center-c0'>
  <div class='nf-center'>
    <div><i>From the “Chicago Inter-Ocean.”</i></div>
  </div>
</div>

<p class='c018'><span class='sc'>In</span> the death of Henry W. Grady, which occurred yesterday,
journalism, the South, and the whole country suffered
serious loss. He had come to occupy a large place,
and one which cannot be filled. He was a connecting link
between the old and the new South, with his face toward
the East, albeit the shadows of the setting sun could be
clearly discerned in his discussions of the vital questions
of the day. His life seemed just begun, and big in the
promise of usefulness. Two years ago he was known only
<span class='pageno' id='Page_463'>463</span>as a journalist. He addressed the New England Society of
New York on the evening of December 29, 1887. That
speech made him famous. Since then his name has been
a household word. For him to be stricken down at the
early age of thirty-nine is little if any short of a public
calamity.</p>

<p class='c018'>It is a dangerous thing for a man of serious purpose to
win renown as an after-dinner speaker. Post-prandial
oratory is generally a kind of champagne, as effervescent
as it is sparkling, but Mr. Grady struck a vein of thought at
that New England banquet which had in it all the earnestness
of patriotism. A Southerner with a strong sectional
flavor, his influence, as a whole, was broadening. He
never rose superior to the prejudice of race, but it may
well be doubted if any Southerner could do so in these
days without cutting himself off from all influence over
his own people. There is nowhere visible in the Southern
heavens the dawn of the day of equal justice, irrespective
of race. In that regard Mr. Grady was neither better nor
worse than his white neighbors. But with that exception
his patriotism had largely outgrown its provincial environments.</p>

<p class='c018'>Mr. Grady was a native of Georgia. His father seems
to have been a follower of Alex. H. Stephens, for he was a
Union man until the final test came, when he took up arms
for the Confederacy, meeting death for the cause of his
reluctant espousal. A graduate of the University of Georgia
and later of the University of Virginia, the son had the best
education the South could give. His newspaper life began
early and was never interrupted. For several years he was
co-editor and co-proprietor of the Atlanta Constitution,
confessedly one of the leading newspapers of the country.
Previous to his connection with the <i>Constitution</i> he was
the correspondent of the <i>Inter-Ocean</i> and the New York
<i>Herald</i>. Both as editor and correspondent he excelled.
Both as editor and orator he has at different times spoken
eloquently of both Abraham Lincoln and Jefferson Davis
his point of view being intermediate, and that fact, rather
<span class='pageno' id='Page_464'>464</span>than any conscious vacillation, explains his seeming contradictions.</p>

<p class='c018'>A few days ago the Southern people stood with
uncovered heads by the grave of Jefferson Davis, the most
conspicuous representative of the Old South, and now,
before they had fairly returned from that funeral, they are
called upon to attend the obsequies of the most conspicuous
representative of the New South. These two notable
men present much the same blending of resemblance and
contrast, as do the evening and the morning stars. Certainly
Mr. Grady, young, enthusiastic, and patriotic, was
to the South a harbinger of brighter, more prosperous
days.</p>
<hr class='c049' />
<h3 class='c016'>ELECTRIFIED THE WHOLE COUNTRY.</h3>
<hr class='c019' />

<div class='nf-center-c0'>
  <div class='nf-center'>
    <div><i>From the “Pittsburgh Dispatch.”</i></div>
  </div>
</div>

<p class='c018'><span class='sc'>The</span> Christmas holidays, North and South, are saddened
by the death of Henry W. Grady, the interesting
young journalist of Atlanta, whose words of patriotism
and of manly hope and encouragement for all sections, have
more than once within a few years electrified the whole
country. Mr. Grady won fame early, and in an uncommon
manner. Though locally known in the South as a capable
newspaper man, his name was not familiar to the general
public until a few years ago, when, by a single speech at a
banquet in a northern city, he attracted universal attention.
Since then his utterances have carried weight, and
scarcely a man speaking or writing on public topics has
been more respectfully heard.</p>

<p class='c018'>The key-note of Mr. Grady’s speeches on the South was
that the past belief of its people in the “Lost Cause,”
and their continued personal admiration for their leaders,
should not and did not prevent them from accepting fully
and in perfect good faith the results as they stand. He
argued that the best elements, including the new generation,
<span class='pageno' id='Page_465'>465</span>were only too willing and anxious to treat of the past
as a condition wholly and irrevocably past—and, at that,
a past which they would not recall if they could. From
the North he asked a recognition of this new feeling, and
the magnanimous consideration which would not assume
that the South was still disloyal or rebellious merely
because it refused to condemn itself and its leaders for the
mistakes which brought it disaster.</p>

<p class='c018'>The efforts of the deceased were to promote patriotic
devotion to the Union in the South, and to induce the
North to believe that the feeling existed. His evident sincerity
and his eloquence in presenting the situation won
cordial approval in the North, while in his own section he
was applauded with equal warmth. His death will be very
widely and deeply regretted, as that of a man of high and
generous feeling whose influence, had he lived, promised
to make for whatever was noble and good.</p>
<hr class='c049' />
<h3 class='c016'>A LARGE BRAIN AND A LARGE HEART.</h3>
<hr class='c019' />

<div class='nf-center-c0'>
  <div class='nf-center'>
    <div><i>From the “Elmira, N.Y., Advertiser.”</i></div>
  </div>
</div>

<p class='c018'><span class='sc'>Throughout</span> the entire North as well as in the South
will there be heartfelt and sincere mourning over the death
of this most distinguished editor on the other side of
Mason and Dixon’s line. It was only ten days ago that
he came North and delivered an address at the annual dinner
of the Merchant’s Club of Boston, following it on the
next evening with a speech before the Bay State Club, a
Democratic organization. While on this trip Mr. Grady
contracted a severe cold which was the immediate cause of
his death yesterday morning.</p>

<p class='c018'>The dead editor was a man of large brain and large
heart. His hope was in the future of the South and he
worked for the results which his prophetic ken perceived
ahead of its present with great earnestness and great judgment.
<span class='pageno' id='Page_466'>466</span>Since he became the editor of the Atlanta <i>Constitution</i>
he has labored unceasingly to remedy the unfortunate
conditions which operated against the progress and
development of the South. Under his inspiring leadership
and wise counsel many enterprises have been started and
encouraged. There is no other one man to whom the New
South owes so much as to Henry W. Grady. When he
came to New York City two years ago, and in a notable
address there told the people what this New South had
done and was trying to do, the public was astonished at
his statistics. The speech was so eloquent, so earnest, so
broadly American in tone and spirit that it attracted wide
attention and sent a thrill of admiration to the heart of
every gratified reader. It made him not only famous but
popular all through the North. This fame and popularity
were increased by his recent excellent addresses in Boston.
The <i>Advertiser</i> published, on Thursday last, on the
fourth page, an extract from one of these speeches, entitled
“The Hope of the Republic,” and we can do the dead man
no better honor than to recommend to our readers that
they turn back and read that extract again. It expresses
the purest sentiment and highest appreciation of the foundation
principles of the Republic.</p>

<p class='c018'>Mr. Grady was a Democrat and a Southern Democrat.
Yet he was a protectionist and believed that the development
of the South depended upon the maintenance of the
protective tariff. Under it the iron manufactures and various
products of the soil in that section of our country have
been increased to a wonderful extent while the general
business interests have strengthened to a remarkable degree.
Mr. Grady has encouraged the incoming of Northern
laborers and capitalists and aided every legitimate
enterprise. He has been a politician, always true to his
party’s candidates, though he has been somewhat at variance
with his party’s tariff policy. He has been a good
man, a noble, true Christian gentleman, an earnest, faithful
editor and a model laborer for the promotion of his
people’s interests.</p>
<hr class='c049' />
<div>
  <span class='pageno' id='Page_467'>467</span>
  <h3 class='c016'>THE MODEL CITIZEN.</h3>
</div>
<hr class='c019' />

<div class='nf-center-c0'>
  <div class='nf-center'>
    <div><i>From the “Boston Globe.”</i></div>
  </div>
</div>

<p class='c018'><span class='sc'>Henry W. Grady</span> dead? It seems almost impossible.</p>

<p class='c018'>Only ten days ago his fervid oratory rang out in a Boston
banquet hall, and enchanted the hundreds of Boston’s
business men who heard it. Only nine days ago the newspapers
carried his glowing words and great thoughts into
millions of homes. And now he lies in the South he loved
so well—dead!</p>

<p class='c018'>“He has work yet to do,” said the physician, as the
great orator lay dying. “Perhaps his work is finished,”
replied Mr. Grady’s mother. She was right. To the physician,
as to many others, it must have seemed that Mr.
Grady’s work was just beginning; that not much had yet
been accomplished. For he was young; only thirty-eight
years old. He had never held a public office, and there is
a current delusion that office is the necessary condition of
success for those endowed with political talents. But Mr.
Grady had done his work, and it was a great work, too.
He had done more, perhaps, than any other man to destroy
the lingering animosities of the war and re-establish cordial
relations between North and South. His silvery speech
and graphic imagery had opened the minds of thousands
of influential men of the North to a truer conception of the
South. He had shown them that the Old South was a
memory only; the New South a reality. And he had done
more than any other man to open the eyes of the North
to the peerless natural advantages of his section, so that
streams of capital began to flow southward to develop those
resources.</p>

<p class='c018'>He was a living example of what a plain citizen may do
for his country without the aid of wealth, office or higher
position than his own talents and earnest patriotism gave
him.</p>

<p class='c018'>Boston joins with Atlanta and the South in mourning
the untimely death of this eloquent orator, statesmanlike
<span class='pageno' id='Page_468'>468</span>thinker, able journalist and model citizen. He will long
be affectionately remembered in this city and throughout
the North.</p>
<hr class='c049' />
<h3 class='c016'>A LOYAL UNIONIST.</h3>
<hr class='c019' />

<div class='nf-center-c0'>
  <div class='nf-center'>
    <div><i>From the “Chicago Times.”</i></div>
  </div>
</div>

<p class='c018'><span class='sc'>Mr. Grady</span> was a loyal Unionist. The son of a Union
veteran, proud of his sire’s part in the battle-fields of the
rebellion, could not be more so. He stood manfully against
the race prejudice which would lash the negro or plunder
or terrorize him, but he recognized fully the difficulties of
the race problem, and would not blink the fact, which
every Northern man who sojourns in the South soon learns,
that safety, progress, peace, and prosperity for that section
forbid that the mere numerical superiority of the blacks
should authorize them to push the white man, with his
superior capability for affairs, from the places where laws
are made and executed. Mr. Grady looked upon the situation
dispassionately and told the truth about it to Northern
audiences.</p>

<p class='c018'>He was an active force in the journalism of the South,
where the journal is still regarded largely as an organ of
opinion and the personality of the editor counts for much.
He entered the newspaper field when the modern idea of
news excellence had obtained a full lodgment at the North
and at one or two places South of the Ohio, and while he
loved to occupy the pulpit of the fourth page he was not
unmindful of the demand for a thorough newspaper.</p>
<hr class='c049' />
<h3 class='c016'>HIS WORK WAS NOT IN VAIN.</h3>
<hr class='c019' />

<div class='nf-center-c0'>
  <div class='nf-center'>
    <div><i>From the “Cleveland, O., Plaindealer.”</i></div>
  </div>
</div>

<p class='c018'><span class='sc'>The</span> death of Henry W. Grady of the Atlanta <i>Constitution</i>
is a loss to journalism, to the South and to the nation.
<span class='pageno' id='Page_469'>469</span>He had done good work for each, and still more could reasonably
be expected of him but for his untimely death at
the comparatively early age of thirty-eight. His fatal
illness was contracted when serving the cause of the whole
country by pleading in the North for a more generous and
just judgment of the Southern people and of their efforts
to solve the race problem. He has done much toward
bringing about a better understanding by his brilliant,
earnest and logical addresses to Northern audiences, in
which he abated nothing of that intense love for that
part of the Union of which he was a native, but at the
same time appealed to them as citizens of the same country,
as brothers, to bury past differences, make allowance
for conditions that were not desired and could not be
avoided, and substitute friendly confidence for prejudiced
suspicion. More of the same good work was expected
of him, but as his mother said when speaking of his dangerous
condition: “May be his work is finished.” Under
his management the <i>Constitution</i> worked unceasingly for
the physical and moral regeneration of the South. It
preached the gospel of the “New South,” redeemed by
work, by enterprise and by devotion to the Union of which
the South is an integral part, and its preaching has not
been in vain. With pen and tongue, equally eloquent with
both, Mr. Grady labored in behalf of the cause he had so
much at heart, and, although dying thus early, he had the
satisfaction of knowing that his work was not in vain;
that it is certain to bring forth good fruit.</p>
<hr class='c049' />
<h3 class='c016'>THE BEST REPRESENTATIVE OF THE NEW SOUTH.</h3>
<hr class='c019' />

<div class='nf-center-c0'>
  <div class='nf-center'>
    <div><i>From the “Albany, N.Y., Journal.”</i></div>
  </div>
</div>

<p class='c018'><span class='sc'>By</span> the death of Henry Woodfin Grady the country
loses one of its most brilliant journalists.</p>

<p class='c018'><span class='sc'>Throughout</span> the country his death will be deplored as
most untimely, for the future was bright before him. He
<span class='pageno' id='Page_470'>470</span>had already, although only thirty-eight years old, reached
the front rank in his profession, and he had been talked of
as nominee for the vice-presidency. This eminence he won
not only by his brilliant writing, but also by his integrity
and high purposes. He never held an office, for though he
could make and unmake political destinies, he never took
for himself the distinctions he was able to bestow upon
others. Though he inherited many ante-bellum prejudices
and feelings, yet no editor of the South was more earnest,
more fearless in denouncing the outrages and injustices
from time to time visited upon the negro. So the American
people have come to believe him the best representative
of the “New South,” whose spokesman he was—an
able journalist and an honest man who tried according to
his convictions to make the newspaper what it should be,
a living influence for the best things in our political, industrial
and social life.</p>
<hr class='c049' />
<h3 class='c016'>A LAMENTABLE LOSS TO THE COUNTRY.</h3>
<hr class='c019' />

<div class='nf-center-c0'>
  <div class='nf-center'>
    <div><i>From the “Cincinnati Commercial Gazette.”</i></div>
  </div>
</div>

<p class='c018'><span class='sc'>He</span> was a man of high faculties and purposes, and of
great breadth of sympathy. He had courage of heart equal
to capacity of brain, and placed in the core of the South,
in her most busy city, and the undoubted representative
man of her ambition and progress, it is lamentable that he
should be lost to the country.</p>

<p class='c018'>It seemed to be in no man’s grasp to do more good than
he had appointed for his task. He has done that which
will be memorable. It is something forever, to plow one
deep furrow in fertile land for the seed that is in the air.</p>

<p class='c018'>He is dead, as the poets that are loved must die, still
counting his years in the thirties; and there is this compensation,
that it may yet be said of him in the South, as
<span class='pageno' id='Page_471'>471</span>was so beautifully sung by Longfellow of Burns in Scotland,
that he haunts her fields in “immortal youth.”</p>

<div class='lg-container-b c031'>
  <div class='linegroup'>
    <div class='group'>
      <div class='line'>And then to die so young, and leave</div>
      <div class='line'>Unfinished what he might achieve.</div>
      <div class='line'>... He haunts his native land</div>
      <div class='line'>As an immortal youth; his hand</div>
      <div class='line in8'>Guides every plow,</div>
      <div class='line'>He sits beside each ingle-nook;</div>
      <div class='line'>His voice is in each rushing brook,</div>
      <div class='line in8'>Each rustling bough.</div>
    </div>
  </div>
</div>

<hr class='c049' />
<h3 class='c016'>A SAD LOSS.</h3>
<hr class='c019' />

<div class='nf-center-c0'>
  <div class='nf-center'>
    <div><i>From the “Buffalo, N.Y., Express.”</i></div>
  </div>
</div>

<p class='c018'><span class='sc'>The</span> death of no other man than Henry Woodfin Grady
could have plunged Georgia into such deep mourning as
darkens all her borders to-day. Atlanta is the center of
Georgia life, and Grady was the incarnation of Atlanta
vitality. His was a personality difficult to associate with
the idea of death. He was so thoroughly alive, bodily and
mentally, he was so young, the fibers of his being reached
out and were embedded in so many of the living interests
of Georgia and the whole South, that no thought of his
possible sudden end would rise in the minds of any who
knew him. And his friends were legion. Everybody
called him Henry.</p>

<p class='c018'>In ten years he rose from obscurity to a prominence
that made him the foremost figure of his day in the South,
and had already linked his name with the second office in
the gift of the American people. As an orator he was the
pride of the South, as Chauncey M. Depew is of the North.
As a journalist no Northern man bears the relation to his
section that Grady did to the South. As a public-spirited
citizen it seemed only necessary for Grady to espouse a
project for it to succeed beyond all expectations. Yet but
a few years ago he started three newspapers in succession
<span class='pageno' id='Page_472'>472</span>and they all failed! Failure was the alphabet of his
success.</p>

<p class='c018'>When Mr. Grady bought a quarter interest in the
Atlanta <i>Constitution</i> he had had but slender training in
journalism. He had written a great deal, which is quite
another thing. Though the <i>Constitution</i> has remained
intensely provincial in its methods ever since, he has given
it an influence in the South unrivalled by any other paper,
with possibly one exception. Under his inspiration the
<i>Constitution</i> viewed everything Georgian, and especially
Atlantian, as better than similar things elsewhere. It
backed up local enterprises with a warmth that shames the
public spirit of most Northern cities. It boasted of local
achievements with a vehemence that was admirable while
it sometimes was amusing. Florid in his own speech and
writing, Mr. Grady gathered about him on the <i>Constitution</i>
men of similar gifts, who often wrote with pens
dipped, as it were, in parti-colored inks, and filled its columns
with ornate verbal illuminations. Yet amid much
that was over-done and under-done there often appeared
work of genuine merit. For the <i>Constitution</i> under Grady
has been the vehicle by which some of the most talented
of the late Southern writers have become familiar to the
public. Grady was proud of them, and of his paper. “I
have the brightest staff and the best newspaper in the
United States,” he once remarked to this writer. And
Mr. Grady firmly believed what he said.</p>

<p class='c018'>It was as a speech-maker that Grady was best known
at the North. Echoes of his eloquence had been heard
here from time to time, but soon after the Charleston earthquake
he made the address on “The New South,” before
the New England Society at New York, that won for him
the applause of the entire country, and must now stand as
the greatest effort of his life. His recent speech in Boston
is too fresh in mind to need attention here. Mr. Grady’s
style was too florid to be wholly pleasing to admirers of
strong and simple English. He dealt liberally in tropes
and figures. He was by turns fervid and pathetic. He
<span class='pageno' id='Page_473'>473</span>made his speeches, as he conducted his newspaper, in a
manner quite his own. It pleased the people in Georgia,
and even when he and his partner, Capt. Howell, ran the
<i>Constitution</i> on both sides of the Prohibition question it
was regarded as a brilliant stroke of journalistic genius.</p>

<p class='c018'>Personally Mr. Grady was one of the most companionable
and lovable of men. His hand and his purse were
always open. His last act in Atlanta, when waiting at the
depot for the train that bore him to the Boston banquet,
was to head a subscription to send the Gate City Guard to
attend Jefferson Davis’s funeral. His swarthy face was
lighted by a bright, moist, black eye that flashed forth the
keen, active spirit within. The impression left upon the
mind after meeting him was of his remarkable alertness.</p>

<p class='c018'>He will be a sad loss to Georgia, and to the South.
There is none to take his place. His qualities and his usefulness
must be divided henceforth among a number. No
one man possesses them all.</p>
<hr class='c049' />
<h3 class='c016'>WORDS OF VIRGIN GOLD.</h3>
<hr class='c019' />

<div class='nf-center-c0'>
  <div class='nf-center'>
    <div><i>From the “Oswego, N.Y., Palladium.”</i></div>
  </div>
</div>

<p class='c018'><span class='sc'>The</span> peaceful serenity of the Christmas festival is sadly
married by the intelligence flashed over the wires from the
fair Southern city of Atlanta to-day. “Death loves a
shining mark,” and without warning it came and took away
Henry W. Grady, the renowned orator and the brilliant
editor, the man above all others who could least be spared
by the South at this time. A week ago last Thursday
night he stood up in the banquet hall at Boston and with
charming eloquence delivered to the people of the North a
message from the loyal South—a message that went out
over the land and across the sea in words of pure, virgin
gold, that will live long after he from whose lips they fell
<span class='pageno' id='Page_474'>474</span>has returned to dust. Mr. Grady’s effort on that occasion
attracted the admiration of the whole country. He spoke
as one inspired, and his pathetic words at times moved
strong men to tears and made a lasting impression upon all
who were privileged to hear him. When he resumed his
seat exhausted and perspiring, he became a prey to the
chilling draughts and took a very severe cold. The evening
next following he was banqueted by the Bay State Club
of Boston, and when he arose to respond to a happy sentiment
offered by the toastmaster in honor of the guest of the
evening, he could scarcely speak. He apologized for his
condition and spoke but briefly, and when he had finished
the company arose and gave him a double round of cheers.
Among the fine sentiments of his closing words, the last of
his public utterances, were these: “There are those who
want to fan the embers of war, but just as certain as there
is a God in the heaven, when these uneasy insects of the
hour perish in the heat that gave them life, the great clock
of this Republic will tick out the slow moving and tranquil
hour and the watchmen in the street will cry, ‘All is well!
All is well!’” His last words were these: “We bring to
your hearts that yearn for your confidence and love, the
message of fellowship from our home, and this message
comes from consecrated ground—ground consecrated to us
by those who died in defeat. It is likely that I shall not
again see Bostonians assembled together, therefore I want
to take this occasion to thank you and my excellent friends
of last night, and those friends who accompanied us this
morning to Plymouth, for all that you have done for us
since we have been here, and to say that whenever you come
South, just speak your name and remember that Boston
and Massachusetts is the watchword, and we will meet you
at the gate.”</p>

<p class='c018'>Mr. Grady returned home immediately, and his friends,
who had prepared to greet him with a great reception, met
him at the train only to learn that he was sick unto death.
He was carried home suffering with pneumonia and at 3:40
<span class='fss'>A.M.</span> to-day breathed his last. The nations will stop amid
<span class='pageno' id='Page_475'>475</span>the Christmas festivities to lay upon the bier of the dead
Southerner a wealth of tenderness and love.</p>

<p class='c018'>It was as an editor that Grady was best known. His
brilliant and forceful contributions made the Atlanta <i>Constitution</i>
famous from one end of this broad land to the
other. As an orator he was master of an accurate and
rhythmical diction which swept through sustained flights
to majestic altitudes. We will deal with the statistical
record of his life at another time, and can only add here
that it is a matter for sincere regret that he has been taken
away before he had reached the summit of his fame or the
meridian of his usefulness.</p>
<hr class='c049' />
<h3 class='c016'>SAD NEWS.</h3>
<hr class='c019' />

<div class='nf-center-c0'>
  <div class='nf-center'>
    <div><i>From the “Boston Advertiser.”</i></div>
  </div>
</div>

<p class='c018'><span class='sc'>The</span> untimely death yesterday of Henry Woodfin Grady
is sad news. He was predisposed to lung diseases, and the
circumstances of his visit to Boston were most unfortunate.
The weather was very mild when he arrived here, but
became suddenly chill and wintry just before his departure.
Half our native population seemed to have caught cold
owing to the sudden and severe change in temperature, and
Mr. Grady contracted pneumonia in its most violent form,
so that he grew steadily worse to the end. His trip to
Boston was eagerly anticipated, both because he had never
been in New England, and also for the reason that the
greatest interest had been created both North and South
over the announcement that he would speak on the race
problem. The impression made by his address—for it rose
far above the ordinary after-dinner speech—is still strong,
and the expectation created in the South is attested by the
fact that a body-guard, as it were, of admiring friends
from among leading representative Southerners made the
trip with Mr. Grady for the express purpose of hearing his
exposition of the race problem.</p>

<p class='c018'><span class='pageno' id='Page_476'>476</span>Of Mr. Grady’s address there is nothing new to add.
It was one of the finest specimens of elegant and fervid
oratory which this generation has heard. It met the fondest
anticipations of his friends, and the people of his
native State had planned to pay him extraordinary honors
for the surpassing manner in which he plead their cause.
The address, considered in all respects, was superior to
that which he delivered in New York and which won
national reputation for him. His treatment of the race
problem was in no respect new, and it met with only a
limited approval, but while he did not convince, Mr. Grady
certainly won from the North a larger measure of intelligent
appreciation of the problem laid upon the South. It
was impossible not to perceive his sincerity, and we recognized
in him and in his address the type and embodiment
of the most advanced sentiment in the generation which
has sprung up at the South since the war. Mr. Grady’s
father lost his life in the Confederate army; Mr. Grady
himself spoke in the North to Union veterans and their
sons. It was perhaps impossible, from the natural environments
of the situation, that he should speak to the
entire acceptance of his auditors, or that he should give
utterance to the ultimate policy which will prevail in the
settlement of the race problem. But we of the North can
and do say that Mr. Grady has made it easier for one of
another generation, removed from the war, to see with
clearer vision and to speak to the whole country on the
race problem with greater acceptance than would now be
possible. To have done this is to do much, and it is in
striking contrast with the latter-day efforts of that other
great figure in Southern life who has but lately gone down
to the grave unreconciled.</p>

<p class='c018'>The North laments the death of Mr. Grady, and sincerely
trusts that his mantle as an apostle of the New
South will fall upon worthy shoulders. Business interests
are bringing the North and South together at a wonderfully
rapid rate. This is not the day nor the generation in
which to witness perfect that substantial agreement for
<span class='pageno' id='Page_477'>477</span>which we all hope. But we are confident that if to the
firmness of the Northern views upon the civil rights of the
black man there be added a fuller measure of sympathy
for those who must work out the problem, and if Mr.
Grady’s spirit of loyalty, national pride and brotherly
kindness becomes deeply rooted in the South, the future
will be promising for the successful solution of that problem
which weighs so heavily upon every lover of his
country.</p>
<hr class='c049' />
<h3 class='c016'>A LEADER OF LEADERS.</h3>
<hr class='c019' />

<div class='nf-center-c0'>
  <div class='nf-center'>
    <div><i>From the “Philadelphia Times.”</i></div>
  </div>
</div>

<p class='c018'><span class='sc'>The</span> death of Henry W. Grady, chief editor of the
Atlanta <i>Constitution</i>, is an irreparable loss to the South.
Of all the many and influential newspaper men of that section,
Mr. Grady can only be compared with Mr. Watterson,
of the Louisville <i>Courier-Journal</i>, in point of distinction;
and while Watterson is the better equipped journalist,
Grady was the greater popular leader. He was not
only a brilliant and forceful writer, but a most eloquent
and impressive speaker, and one of the most sagacious in
council.</p>

<p class='c018'>Mr. Grady was only ten years old when the civil war
spread its terrible pall over the land, and he was only a
school-boy when his native South was left defeated, desolated
and despairing by the failure of the Confederacy.
He grew up with the new generation that is so rapidly
succeeding the actors of that great conflict in both sections.
He escaped the luxury and effeminacy of fortune; he had
to grapple with poverty amidst an almost hopeless people;
and he was one of the earliest of the new generation to
rise to the full stature of manly duty. Thoroughly Southern
in sympathy, and keenly sharing the memories which
are sacred to all who wore and supported the gray, he saw
<span class='pageno' id='Page_478'>478</span>the new occasion with its new duties as the latent wealth
of the South, that so long slumbered under the blight of
slavery, gave promise of development; and alike in his own
Empire State of the South, and in the great metropolis of
the Union and in the Bay State citadel of opposite political
views, he ever declared the same sentiments and cemented
the bond of common brotherhood.</p>

<p class='c018'>And no other young man of the South gave so much
promise of future honors and usefulness as did Mr. Grady.
He has fallen ere he had reached the full noontide of life,
and when his public career was just at its threshold. He
could have been United States Senator at the last election
had he not given his plighted faith to another; and even
with the office left to go by default, it was with reluctance
that the Legislature, fresh from the people, passed him by
in obedience to his own command. That he would have
been leader of leaders in the South, yea, in the whole
Union, is not doubted; and he was the one man of the
present in the South who might have been called to the
Vice-Presidency had his life been spared. He was free
from the blemish of the Confederate Brigadier, that is
ever likely to be an obstacle to a popular election to the
Presidency or Vice-Presidency, and he was so thoroughly
and so grandly typical of the New South, with its new
pulsations, its new progress, its new patriotism, that his
political promotion seemed plainly written in the records
of fate.</p>

<p class='c018'>But Henry W. Grady has fallen in the journey with his
face yet looking to the noonday sun, and it is only the vindication
of truth to say that he leaves no one who can fully
take his place. Other young men of the South will have
their struggling paths brightened by the refulgence his
efforts and achievements reflect upon them, but to-day his
death leaves a gap in Southern leadership that will not be
speedily filled. And he will be mourned not only by those
who sympathized with him in public effort. He was one
of the most genial, noble and lovable of men in every relation
of life, and from the homes of Georgia, and from the
<span class='pageno' id='Page_479'>479</span>by-ways of the sorrowing as well as from the circles of ambition,
there will be sobbing hearts over the grave of Henry
W. Grady.</p>
<hr class='c049' />
<h3 class='c016'>A FORCEFUL ADVOCATE.</h3>
<hr class='c019' />

<div class='nf-center-c0'>
  <div class='nf-center'>
    <div><i>From the “Springfield, Mass., Republican.”</i></div>
  </div>
</div>

<p class='c018'><span class='sc'>The</span> death of Henry Woodfin Grady, the brilliant
young Southern editor and orator, which took place at
Atlanta, Ga., was almost tragic in its suddenness; it will
make a profound impression at the South, and will be
deeply deplored here at the North, where he had come to
be known as a florid yet forceful advocate and apologist of
his section. He had lately caught the ear of the country,
and while his speeches provoked critical replies, it may be
said in his honor that he, more than any other Southerner,
had lifted the plane of sectional debate from that of futile
recriminations to more dignified and candid interchanges
of opinion. That is saying much for a man who was a lad
during the rebellion, and who had not passed his thirty-ninth
birthday. He was a man of pronounced views, perhaps
given more to pictures of prosperity than to the
methods of its attainment, and when upon the platform
he carried the crowd by the force of that genius for passionate
appeals which his Irish ancestry and Southern
training had given him in full measure. No Southerner
had put the conflict of races in so reassuring a light; but
he was not old enough or far-seeing enough to realize that
the problem can and will be solved,—and that by Southerners.</p>

<p class='c018'>Mr. Grady called about him a formidable group of
young Democrats filled with the spirit of the New South.
They believed that Georgia would rise and the South be
reconstructed in the broadest sense by the multiplication
of factories and the advancement of trade. These young
men selected Gov. Colquitt for their standard-bearer in the
<span class='pageno' id='Page_480'>480</span>State election of 1880, and Mr. Grady was made chairman
of the campaign committee. Colquitt during his first
term had offended the Democratic regulars, and the young
men carried the war into the back country. The vote at
the primaries was unprecedentedly heavy. Colquitt carried
the State and was the first governor elected under the new
constitution. Grady never held public office, but it was
supposed that he had been selected by the Democratic
leaders as Gov. Gordon’s successor, and many thought
that he was angling for the second place on the Democratic
national ticket in 1892.</p>

<p class='c018'>The attention of the North was first called to the brilliant
Georgian by his address at New York in June, 1887,
at the annual dinner of the New England Society. His
speech at the Washington Centennial banquet last spring
was rather a disappointment, but he fully recovered his
prestige the other day at Boston, where he shared the
honors of a notable occasion with Grover Cleveland. Mr.
Grady found time from his editorial work to write an occasional
magazine article, but his subject was his one absorbing
study—the South and its future.</p>
<hr class='c049' />
<h3 class='c016'>HIS GREAT WORK.</h3>
<hr class='c019' />

<div class='nf-center-c0'>
  <div class='nf-center'>
    <div><i>From the “Boston Post.”</i></div>
  </div>
</div>

<p class='c018'><span class='sc'>The</span> death of the brilliant young Southerner whose
eloquence yet rings in our ears followed so closely upon
his visit to Boston that it doubtless arouses a keener sense
of regret and a clearer realization of loss here than in other
communities. Mr. Grady, moreover, in speaking for the
New South, whose aspirations he so ably represented, while
addressing the whole nation, yet brought himself more
closely to New England in his arguments, his contrasts and
his fervid appeals; and, whether it was admiration of his
courage in combating the remnants of traditional prejudices
<span class='pageno' id='Page_481'>481</span>in the heart of the section in which this feeling once was
the strongest, or a sympathy with the sentiments which
he expressed in such captivating language, it cannot be
doubted that the warmest recognition which he has received
outside his own State is that which he won from this community.</p>

<p class='c018'>In all his efforts to spread that knowledge of the sentiments
and the purposes of the South which would tend to
make the restored union of the States more secure and more
harmonious, Mr. Grady has addressed himself especially to
New England. It was at the meeting of the New England
Society in New York, in 1886, that he made the first notable
speech which evoked such a ready and generous response
from all sections of the country; and the last public words
which he spoke in furtherance of the same purpose were
those delivered upon Plymouth Rock at the end of the
recent visit which he described as a pilgrimage.</p>

<p class='c018'>It is seldom, indeed, that a people or an idea has the
fortune to possess such an advocate as Mr. Grady. He not
only knew where to carry his plea, but he had a rare gift
of eloquence in presenting it. Whether Mr. Grady, as his
field of effort enlarged, would have developed a more varied
talent as an orator, can never be known; but in the illustration
of the one subject on which he made himself heard
before the people he showed himself a master of the art.
On this topic, full of inspiration for him, he spoke with a
brilliancy and power which were unapproachable. Since
Wendell Phillips, there is none possessed of such a strength
of fervid eloquence as that which this young man displayed.
Much of the effect produced by his speeches, of
course, must be attributed to the existence of a sentiment
seldom aroused, but ready to respond to such an appeal;
but when every allowance is made for the circumstances
under which he achieved his triumphs of oratory, there
remains the inimitable charm which gave power and effect
to his words.</p>

<p class='c018'>If Mr. Grady had been simply a rhetorician, his place in
the public estimation would be far different from that which
<span class='pageno' id='Page_482'>482</span>is now accorded him. Without the talent which he possessed
in so remarkable degree, he could not have produced
the effect which he did; but back of the manner in which
he said what he had to say, which moved men to tears and
to applause, were the boldness, the frankness and the entire
sincerity of the man. His words brought conviction as his
glowing phrases stirred the sentiment of his hearers, and
amid all the embellishments of oratory there was presented
the substantial fabric of fact. His last speech in Boston
was as strong in its argument as it was delightful in its
rhetoric.</p>

<p class='c018'>The influence which Mr. Grady has exerted upon the
great movement which has consolidated the Union and
brought the South forward in the march of industrial development
cannot now be estimated. He has not lived to
see the realization of what he hoped. But there can be no
doubt that his short life of activity in the great work will
have far-reaching results.</p>
<hr class='c049' />
<h3 class='c016'>NEW ENGLAND’S SORROW.</h3>
<hr class='c019' />

<div class='nf-center-c0'>
  <div class='nf-center'>
    <div><i>From the “Boston Herald.”</i></div>
  </div>
</div>

<p class='c018'><span class='sc'>The</span> death of Henry W. Grady comes at a time and
under conditions which will cause a deep feeling of sorrow
and regret in the minds of the people of New England.
He came to us only a few days ago as a representative of our
Southern fellow-countrymen, grasping the hand of good
will that was extended to him, and professing, in the eloquent
addresses that he made, a desire to do all that he
could to allay any differences of opinion or prejudices that
might exist between the people of the North and those
of the South. One means of doing this, and one which
appealed particularly to the inhabitants of New England,
was the unquestioned admiration that he had for our traditions
and institutions, an admiration which he owned
<span class='pageno' id='Page_483'>483</span>was so far cherished in the South as to lead many of its
people to copy our methods. The New South was a
change from the Old South, for the reason that its people
were discarding their former theories and opinions, and
were to a large degree copying those which we have always
held.</p>

<p class='c018'>It is needless at this time to speak of Mr. Grady’s
attempt to defend the Southern method of settling the race
problem, but, although there were many who believed that
he did not fully make out his case, his statement of it threw
a light upon the question which was probably new to a
large number of those who heard or read his words.</p>

<p class='c018'>Of Mr. Grady’s eloquence it can be said that it was
spontaneity itself. Rarely has a man been gifted with so
remarkable a command of language and so complete a
knowledge of its felicitous use. There was in his address
an exuberance of fancy which age and a wider experience
of men and methods would have qualified, but no one
can doubt that this gift of his, combined as it was with
high intentions and honesty of purpose, would have made
of him in a few years more, if he had been spared, a man
of national importance in the affairs of our country.</p>

<p class='c018'>It is sad to think that this young and promising life
was thus unexpectedly cut off, and by causes which seem
to have been avoidable ones. It is probable that Mr. Grady
unconsciously overtaxed himself on his Northern trip. He
arrived in this city suffering from a severe cold, which
would probably have yielded to a day or two of complete
rest. But not only were there fixed appointments which
he had come here to meet, but new engagements and duties
were assumed, so that during his short stay here he was
not only in a whirl of mental excitement, but was undergoing
constant physical exposure.</p>

<p class='c018'>A man of less rugged strength would have yielded
under this trial before it was half over, but Mr. Grady’s
physique carried him through, and those who heard his
last speech, probably the last he ever delivered, at the dinner
of the Bay State Club, will remember that, though he
<span class='pageno' id='Page_484'>484</span>excused himself on account of his physical disabilities, the
extemporaneous address was full of the fire and pathos of
his native eloquence. But, although unaware of the sacrifice
he was making, it is probable that Mr. Grady weakened
himself by these over-exertions to an extent that made him
an easy prey to the subtle advance of disease.</p>

<p class='c018'>His death causes a vacancy that cannot easily be filled.
The South was in need, and in years to come may be in
still greater need, of an advocate such as he would have
been. She will, no doubt, find substitutes for this journalist-orator,
but we doubt whether any of these will, in so
short a time, win by their words the attention of the entire
American people or so deservedly hold their respect and
admiration.</p>
<hr class='c049' />
<h3 class='c016'>A NOBLE LIFE ENDED.</h3>
<hr class='c019' />

<div class='nf-center-c0'>
  <div class='nf-center'>
    <div><i>From the “Philadelphia Telegraph.”</i></div>
  </div>
</div>

<p class='c018'><span class='sc'>The</span> country will be startled to learn of the death of
Henry W. Grady. No man within the past three years
has come so suddenly before the American people, occupying
so large a share of interested attention not only in the
South but in the North. None has wielded a greater
influence or made for himself a higher place in the public
regard. The career of Mr. Grady reads like a romance.
Like a true Georgian, he was born with the instincts of his
people developed to a marked degree, and his rise to a
position of honor and usefulness was certain, should his
life be spared. But like the average man, even in this
country of free opportunities, he had to fight his way over
obstacles which would have discouraged if not crushed out
the spirit of a less courageous and indomitable man. He
was too young to take any part in the late great internal
strife, but as a bright-minded boy he emerged from that
contest with vivid and bitter memories, an orphan, his
father having fallen beneath the “Stars and Bars.” His
<span class='pageno' id='Page_485'>485</span>young manhood, while not altogether clouded by poverty,
started him upon the battle of life without any special
favoring circumstances, and without the support of influential
friends to do for him in a measure what doubtless
would gladly have been done could his future have been
foreseen. But he started out for himself, and in the rugged
school of experience was severely taught the lessons
of self-reliance and individual energy which were to prepare
him for the responsibilities of intellectual leadership
amongst a people in a sadly disorganized condition, who
were groping in the dark, as it were, seeking the light of
prosperity. He never but for a short time left his own
State, and as his field of observation and work enlarged
and his influence extended, his love for it seemed to grow
more intense. It became with him, indeed, a passion that
was always conspicuous, and upon which he loved to dwell,
with pen or tongue, and some of his tributes to the Empire
Commonwealth of the South, as he loved to call it, will
proudly be recorded by the future historian of the annals
of the time.</p>

<p class='c018'>It was as an active editor of the Atlanta <i>Constitution</i>
that Mr. Grady found the sphere of labor in which he was
to win high honor, and from which he was to send out an
influence measured only by the boundaries of the South
itself, if it did not extend, in fact, to the borders of the
nation. He wrote and spoke, when appearing in public,
from a patriotic and full heart. His utterances were those
of a man deeply in love with his country, and earnestly
desirous of promoting her highest prosperity and happiness.
Some of his deliverances were prose poems that will
be read with delight by future generations of Southern
youth. They came forth flashing like meteors, doubtless
to the astonishment of their author himself, for he seemed
to reach national prominence at a single bound. There
were times when Mr. Grady seemed to falter and slip aside
in discussing some of the burning questions of the hour,
but this was due to his great sympathy with his own people,
his toleration of their prejudices, and his desire to keep step
<span class='pageno' id='Page_486'>486</span>with them and be one with them throughout his work in
their behalf. But he was an ardent young patriot, a zealous
and true friend of progress, and the New South will
miss him as it would miss no other man of the time. He
set a brilliant example to the younger men as well. He
reached for and grasped with a hearty grip the hand of the
North in the spirit of true fraternity, and it is a pathetic
incident that the climax to his career should have been an
address in the very center of the advanced thought of New
England. His death seems almost tragic, and doubtless
was indirectly, at least, due to the immense pace at which
he had been traveling within the past three years; a victim
of the prevailing American vice of intellectual men, driving
the machine at a furious rate, when suddenly the silver
cord is loosed, the golden bowl is broken, and the people
of the Southland will go mourning for one who ought, they
will sadly think, to have been spared them for many years,
to help them work out their political, industrial, and social
salvation. The name of Henry W. Grady is sure of an
enduring and honored place in the history of the State of
Georgia, and in the annals of the public discussions in the
American press, during a time of great importance, of
questions of vast concern to the whole people.</p>
<hr class='c049' />
<h3 class='c016'>A TYPICAL SOUTHERNER.</h3>
<hr class='c019' />

<div class='nf-center-c0'>
  <div class='nf-center'>
    <div><i>From the “Chicago Tribune.”</i></div>
  </div>
</div>

<p class='c018'><span class='sc'>In</span> the death of Henry W. Grady the South has lost one
of its most eminent citizens and the newspaper press of the
whole country one of its most brilliant and dashing editors.
He was a typical Southerner, impulsive, sentimental, emotional,
and magnetic in his presence and speech, possessing
those qualities which Henry Watterson once said were
characteristic of Southerners as compared with the reasoning,
reflective, mathematical nature of Northern men. His
<span class='pageno' id='Page_487'>487</span>death will be a sad loss to his paper and to the journalism
of the whole country. He was a high-toned, chivalrous
gentleman, and a brilliant, enthusiastic, and able editor,
who worked his way to the top by the sheer force of his
native ability and gained a wide circle of admirers, not alone
by his indefatigable and versatile pen but also by the magnetism
and eloquence of his oratory. It is a matter for
profound regret that a journalist of such abilities and
promise should have been cut off even before he had
reached his prime.</p>
<hr class='c049' />
<h3 class='c016'>HIS NAME A HOUSEHOLD POSSESSION.</h3>
<hr class='c019' />

<div class='nf-center-c0'>
  <div class='nf-center'>
    <div><i>From the “Independence, Mo., Sentinel.”</i></div>
  </div>
</div>

<p class='c018'><span class='sc'>A few</span> years ago there shot athwart the sky of Southern
journalism a meteor of unusual brilliancy. From its first
flash to its last expiring spark it was glorious, beautiful,
strong. It gave light where there had been darkness,
strength where there had been weakness, hope where there
had been despair. To the faint-hearted it had given cheer,
to the timid courage, to the weary vigor and energy.</p>

<p class='c018'>The electric wires yesterday must have trembled with
emotion while flashing to the outside world the startling
intelligence that Henry W. Grady, the editor of the Atlanta
<i>Constitution</i>, was dead. It was only last week this same
world was reading the touching and pathetic tribute his
pen had paid to the dead Southern chief; or less than a
week, listening with pleased and attentive ears to the silver
tones of his oratory at the base of Plymouth Rock, as he
plead for fair play for the people of his own sunny Southland.</p>

<p class='c018'>Henry W. Grady was one of the foremost journalists of
the day. He was still numbered among the young men of
the Republic, yet his name and fame had already become
a household possession in every part of the Union. Not
<span class='pageno' id='Page_488'>488</span>only was he a writer of remarkable vigor, but he was also
a finished orator and a skillful diplomat. As a writer he
combined the finish of a Prentiss with the strength and
vigor of a Greeley. Not so profuse, possibly, as Watterson,
he was yet more solid and consistent. By force of
genius he had trodden difficulty and failure under foot and
had climbed to the highest rung of the ladder.</p>

<p class='c018'>By his own people he was idolized—by those of other
sections highly esteemed. Whenever he wrote all classes
read. When he spoke, all people listened.</p>

<p class='c018'>He was a genuine product of the South, yet he was
thoroughly National in his views. The vision of his intelligence
took in not only Georgia and Alabama, but all the
States; for he believed in the Republic and was glad the
South was a part of it.</p>

<p class='c018'>His death is not only a loss to Atlanta and Georgia, to
the South and the North, but a calamity to journalism.</p>
<hr class='c049' />
<h3 class='c016'>EDITOR, ORATOR, STATESMAN, PATRIOT.</h3>
<hr class='c019' />

<div class='nf-center-c0'>
  <div class='nf-center'>
    <div><i>From the “Kansas City Globe.”</i></div>
  </div>
</div>

<p class='c018'><span class='sc'>In</span> the death of Henry W. Grady the South has lost one
of its foremost and best men. He was pre-eminently the
foremost man of the South, and to the credit of the section
it can be said that he had not attained to such a position
by services in the past, but by duty conceived and well discharged
in the present. He was not a creature of the war,
but was born of the events succeeding the war and which,
in turn, he has helped to shape for the good of the South,
in a way that has represented a sentiment which has
induced immigration and the investment of capital, so
that, short as has been the span of his life of usefulness,
it has been long enough to see the realization of his greatest
ambition and hopes—the South redeemed from the despair
<span class='pageno' id='Page_489'>489</span>of defeat and made a prosperous part of a great nation and
a factor in working out a glorious future for a reunited
people.</p>

<p class='c018'>Intensely Southern in his sentiments, devotedly
attached to his section and as proud of it in poverty and
defeat as in the day of its present prosperity, to which he
much contributed, Henry W. Grady comprehended the situation
as soon as man’s estate allowed him to begin the
work of his life, and he set about making a New South, in
no sense, as he claimed in his famous Boston speech, in
disparagement of the Old South, but because new ideas
had taken root, because of new conditions; and the new
ideas he cultivated to a growth that opened a better sentiment
throughout the South, produced a better appreciation
of Southern sentiment in the North, and helped to
harmonize the difference between the sections that war
sought to divide, but which failing still left “a bloody
chasm” to be spanned or filled up. That it is obliterated
along with the ramparts of fortresses and the earthworks
of the war, is as much due, or more, to Henry W. Grady
than any man who has lived in the South, a survivor of the
war, or brought out of its sequences into prominence.</p>

<p class='c018'>Early appreciating the natural advantages, the undeveloped
resources of the South, he has advocated as editor
and orator the same fostering care of Southern industry
that has enabled the North to become the manufacturing
competitor with any people of the world. He sought,
during his life, to allay the political prejudice of the South
and the political suspicion of the North, and to bring each
section to a comprehension of the mutual advantages that
would arise from the closest social and business relations.
He fought well, wrote convincingly and spoke eloquently
to this end, and dying, though in the very prime of his
usefulness, he closed his eyes upon work well done, upon
a New South that will endure as a nobler and better monument
to his memory than would the Confederacy, if it
had succeeded, have been for Jefferson Davis.</p>

<p class='c018'>The South has lost its ablest and best exponent, the representative
<span class='pageno' id='Page_490'>490</span>of the South as it is, and the whole country has
lost a noble character, whose sanctified mission, largely
successful, was to make the country one in sentiment, as it
is in physical fact.</p>
<hr class='c049' />
<h3 class='c016'>A SOUTHERN BEREAVEMENT.</h3>
<hr class='c019' />

<div class='nf-center-c0'>
  <div class='nf-center'>
    <div><i>From the “Cincinnati Times-Star.”</i></div>
  </div>
</div>

<p class='c018'><span class='sc'>The</span> loss which the <i>Daily Constitution</i> sustains in the
death of Mr. Grady is not a loss to a newspaper company
only; it is a loss to Atlanta, to Georgia, to the whole
South. Mr. Grady belonged to a new era of things south
of the Ohio River. He was never found looking over his
shoulder in order to keep in sympathy with the people
among whom he had always lived. He was more than
abreast of the times in the South, he kept a little in
advance, and his spirit was rapidly becoming contagious.
He wasted no time sighing over the past, he was getting
all there is of life in the present and preparing for greater
things for himself and the South in the future. His life
expectancy was great, for though already of national reputation
he had not yet reached his prime.</p>

<p class='c018'>There was much of the antithetical in the lives of the
two representative Southern men who have but just passed
away. The one lived in the past, the other in the future.
The one saw but little hope for Southern people because
the “cause” was “lost,” the other believed in a mightier
empire still because the Union was preserved. The one,
full of years, had finished his course, which had been full
of mistakes. The other had not only kept the faith, but
had barely entered upon a course that was full of promise.
The one was the ashes of the past, the other, like the
orange-tree of his own sunny clime, had the ripe fruit of
the present and the bud of the future. The death of the
<span class='pageno' id='Page_491'>491</span>one was long since discounted, the death of the other comes
like a sudden calamity in a happy Christmas home. The
North joins the South to-day in mourning for Grady.</p>
<hr class='c049' />
<h3 class='c016'>A MAN WHO WILL BE MISSED.</h3>
<hr class='c019' />

<p class='c018'><span class='sc'>The</span> death of Mr. Henry W. Grady, of the Atlanta <i>Constitution</i>,
is a loss to South and North alike. The section
which poured out a few days ago its tributes of regret for
the leader of the Southern Confederacy may well dye its
mourning a deeper hue in memory of this greater and better
man, whose useful life is cut short before he had
reached his prime. Mr. Grady has held a peculiar and
trying position; and in it he has done more, perhaps, than
any other one man to make the two sections separated by
the War of the Rebellion understand each other, and to
bring them from a mere observance of what we might call
a political <i>modus vivendi</i> to a cordial and real union. It
was not as a journalist, although in his profession he was
both strong and brilliant, it was rather as the earnest and
eloquent representative of the New South, and as the
spokesman of her people that he had acquired national
prominence. He was one of the few who both cared and
dared to tell to the people of either section some truths
about themselves and about the other that were wholesome
if they were not altogether palatable. He was wholly and
desperately in earnest. He had much of the devotion to
his own section and his own State that characterized the
Southerner before the war. But he had what they had
not: a conception of national unity; of the power and
glory and honor of the nation as a whole, that made him
respected everywhere. Whether he appeared in Boston
or in Atlanta, he was sure of an interested and sympathetic
audience; and his fervid orations, if they sometimes
<span class='pageno' id='Page_492'>492</span>avoided unpleasant issues and decked with flowers the
scarred face of the ugly fact, did much, nevertheless, to
turn the eyes of the people away from the past and toward
the future.</p>

<p class='c018'>We have been far from agreeing with Mr. Grady’s
opinions, either socially or politically. The patriotic people
of the North can have no sympathy with the attempt
to cover with honor the memory of treason, which found
in him an ardent apologist. We believe that we have
gone to the limit of magnanimity when we agree to forego
question and memory, and simply treat the men who led
and the men who followed in the effort to destroy the
nation as if that effort had never been made. And we do
not hold that man as guilty of sectionalism and treason to
a reunited country who talks hotly of “rebels” and sneers
at “brigadiers,” as that man who speaks of these leaders
of a lost cause as “patriots,” obedient to the call of duty.
To that error Mr. Grady, in common with other leaders of
his time, inclined the people of his section. Politically he
was, of course, through good or through evil report, an
uncompromising Democrat. Nor can we think his treatment
of the race issue a happy one. The North has come,
at last, to do justice to the South in this respect, and to
acknowledge that the problem presented to her for solution
in the existence there of two races, politically equal
before the law but forever distinct in social and sentimental
relations, is the gravest and most difficult in our history.
But the mere plea to let it alone, which is the substance
of Mr. Grady’s repeated appeal, is not the answer
that must come. It is not worthy of the people, either
North or South. It is not satisfactory, it is not final, and
the present demands more of her sons. But, in presenting
these points of difference, it is not intended to undervalue
the work which Mr. Grady did or underestimate the value
of the service that lay before him. With tongue and pen
he taught his people the beauty and the value of that
national unity into which we have been reborn. He
sought to lead them out of the bitterness of political strife,
<span class='pageno' id='Page_493'>493</span>to set their faces toward the material development that is
always a serviceable factor in the solution of political
problems, and to make of the new South something worthy
of the name. The work that he did was worthy, and there
is none who can take and fill his place. The death that
plunged the South in mourning a short time ago was
merely the passing of an unhealthful reminiscence. The
death of Grady is a sorrow and a loss in which her people
may feel that the regret and the sympathy of the North
are joined with theirs.</p>
<hr class='c049' />
<h3 class='c016'>AT THE BEGINNING OF A GREAT CAREER.</h3>
<hr class='c019' />

<div class='nf-center-c0'>
  <div class='nf-center'>
    <div><i>From the “Pittsburg Post.”</i></div>
  </div>
</div>

<p class='c018'><span class='sc'>The</span> death of Henry W. Grady will be received with
profound regret throughout the Northern States, while in
the South there will be deeper and more heartfelt sorrow
than the death of Jefferson Davis called forth. The book
of Mr. Davis’s life was closed before his death, but it
seemed as if we were but at the beginning of Mr. Grady’s
career, with a future that held out brilliant promise. He
had all the characteristics of warm-blooded Southern oratory,
and his magnetic periods, that touched heart and
brain alike, were devoted to the single purpose of rehabilitating
the South by an appeal to the generosity and justice
of the North. No speech of recent years had a greater
effect than his splendid oration at the New England
Society dinner in New York last year on the “New
South.” It was happily and appropriately supplemented
by his recent address to the merchants of Boston. He was
a martyr to the cause he advocated and personated, for it
was in the chill atmosphere of New England he contracted
the disease of which he died. Rarely has it been given to
any man to gain such reputation and appreciation as fell
to Mr. Grady as the outcome of his two speeches in New
York and Boston. He was only thirty-eight years old; at
<span class='pageno' id='Page_494'>494</span>the very beginning of what promised to be a great career,
of vast benefit to his section and country. He was essentially
of the New South; slavery and old politics were to
him a reminiscence and tradition. At home he was frank
and courageous in reminding the South of its duties and
lapses. At the North he was the intrepid and eloquent
defender and champion of the South. Both fields called
for courage and good faith.</p>
<hr class='c049' />
<h3 class='c016'>THE PEACE-MAKERS.</h3>
<hr class='c019' />

<div class='nf-center-c0'>
  <div class='nf-center'>
    <div><i>From the “New York Churchman.”</i></div>
  </div>
</div>

<p class='c018'><span class='sc'>The</span> premature death of Mr. Grady has taken from the
career of journalism one of its most brilliant followers. In
him has passed away also an orator of exceptional powers,
ready, versatile, and eloquent, a man of many gifts, a
student with the largest resources of literary culture, and
at the same time enabled by his practical experience and
training to use these resources to the best advantage.</p>

<p class='c018'>But the point we wish especially to note is that Mr.
Grady, while deeply attached to the South, and inheriting
memories of the great civil contest which made him early
an orphan, was one of those who both recognized the finality
of the issue and had the courage to say so.</p>

<p class='c018'>He will be remembered at the North as one who spoke
eloquent words of conciliation and friendship, who did his
share in healing the wounds of war, and in smoothing the
way toward complete national accord. “Blessed are the
peace-makers” is the inscription one would place above
his too-early opened grave.</p>

<p class='c018'>We have not the space at our command to do extended
justice to Mr. Grady’s great powers, or to picture at length
his bright history. That has been done in other places and
by other hands. But we cannot pass by the work he did
<span class='pageno' id='Page_495'>495</span>for reconciliation without some expression of acknowledgment.
Such words as his, offered in behalf of peace, will
survive not merely in their immediate effect, but in the
example they set.</p>
<hr class='c049' />
<h3 class='c016'>ONE OF THE BRIGHTEST.</h3>
<hr class='c019' />

<div class='nf-center-c0'>
  <div class='nf-center'>
    <div><i>From the “Seattle Press.”</i></div>
  </div>
</div>

<p class='c018'><span class='sc'>One</span> of the brightest men in America passed away on
Monday. Henry W. Grady, the editor of the Atlanta
<i>Constitution</i>, Georgia’s leading paper, and which has come
to be regarded by many as the ablest paper in the South,
had within a very brief period impressed his personality
upon the current history of the nation. Five years ago he
was little more than locally known. Being a guest at a
dinner of the New England Society at Boston, he made a
speech which was the happiest inspiration and effort of his
life. It was the right word spoken at the right time. It
lifted him at once to the dignity of a national figure. It
was the greeting of the New South to the new order of things.
It touched the great heart of the North by its warm tribute
to the patriotism and faithfulness of the martyred President,
Abraham Lincoln, being the first Southern utterance
which did full justice to the memory of that great man. It
was not a sycophantic nor an apologetic speech, but the
voice of one who accepts accomplished results in their fullness,
recognizes all the merits of his opponent, and bravely
faces the future without heart-burnings or vain regrets.
Mr. Grady’s speech was published in almost every paper in
the land, in whole or in part, and, to borrow an old phrase,
“he woke up one morning and found himself famous.”
Since then all that he has written, said or done has been in
the same line of patriotic duty. He has been no apologist
for anything done by the South during the war. He never
cringed. He was willing that he and his should bear all
the responsibility of their course. But he loved the whole
<span class='pageno' id='Page_496'>496</span>reunited country, and all that he spoke or wrote was
intended to advance good feeling between the sections and
the common benefit of all.</p>

<p class='c018'>Mr. Grady was a partisan, but in the higher sense. He
never descended to the lower levels of controversy. His
weapon was argument, not abuse. And he was capable of
rising above his party’s platform. He could not be shackled
by committees or conventions. He nervily and consistently
proclaimed his adhesion to the doctrine of protection to
American industry, although it placed him out of line with
his party associates.</p>
<hr class='c049' />
<h3 class='c016'>THE SOUTH’S NOBLE SON.</h3>
<hr class='c019' />

<div class='nf-center-c0'>
  <div class='nf-center'>
    <div><i>From the “Rockland, Me., Opinion.”</i></div>
  </div>
</div>

<p class='c018'><span class='sc'>The</span> whole country is deeply grieved and shocked by
the announcement of the death of Mr. Henry W. Grady of
Atlanta, Georgia, which occurred last Monday morning.
The land was yet ringing with the matchless eloquence of
his magnificent speech at the merchants’ dinner in Boston,
when the news of his illness came, closely followed by that
of his death. The press of the country was yet teeming
with the applause of its best representatives, when the
voice that evoked it is stilled in death, and one of the most
brilliant careers of this generation is suddenly and prematurely
closed. Mr. Grady caught a severe cold during his
visit to Boston, and grew ill rapidly during his return
journey. On his arrival home, he was found to be seriously
ill of pneumonia, and the dread disease took a rapid course
to a fatal termination. Mr. Grady was one of the most
popular men in the South. He was an eloquent orator and
brilliant writer. He was born in 1851 in Georgia, graduated
at the State University and also took a course at the
University of Virginia. On coming out of college, Mr.
Grady embarked in journalism and devoted a comfortable
<span class='pageno' id='Page_497'>497</span>fortune to gaining the experience of a successful newspaper
man. Under his management the <i>Constitution</i> of
Atlanta, Ga., has gained a very large circulation. Mr.
Grady has persistently refused to accept office. He won
National fame as an orator by his speech at the Pilgrims’
dinner in Brooklyn, two years ago, and has been in great
demand at banquets and similar occasions ever since. His
eloquence was of the warm, moving sort that appeals to
the emotions, his logic was sound and careful and all his
utterances were marked by sincerity and candor. He has
also no doubt done more than any one man to remove the
prejudices and misunderstandings that have embittered
the people of the North and South against each other
politically, and to raise the great race problems of the day
from the ruck of sectionalism and partisanship upon the
high plane of national statesmanship. The South has lost
a brave, noble and brilliant son, who served her as effectively
as devotedly; but his work was needed as much and
quite as useful at the North, and his death is indeed a
national misfortune.</p>
<hr class='c049' />
<h3 class='c016'>BRILLIANT AND GIFTED.</h3>
<hr class='c019' />

<div class='nf-center-c0'>
  <div class='nf-center'>
    <div><i>Dr. H. M. Field in “New York Evangelist.”</i></div>
  </div>
</div>

<p class='c018'><span class='sc'>It</span> is with a grief that we cannot express, that we write
the above name, and add that he who bore it is no longer
among the living. The most brilliant and gifted man in
all the South—the one who, though still young, had
acquired immense popularity and influence, which made
him useful alike to the South and to the whole country—has
gone to his grave. He has died in his prime, at the
early age of thirty-eight, in the maturity of his powers,
with the rich promise of life all before him.</p>

<p class='c018'>Our acquaintance with Mr. Grady began nine years
ago, when we saw him for the first time in the office of a
brother of ours, who was able to give him the help which
<span class='pageno' id='Page_498'>498</span>he needed to purchase a quarter of the Atlanta <i>Constitution</i>.
This at once made his position, as it gave him a
point of vantage from which to exercise his wonderful
gifts. From that moment his career was open before him;
his genius would do the rest. This kindness he never forgot,
and it led to his personal relations with us, which
afterwards became those of intimacy and friendship.</p>

<p class='c018'>When we first saw him, his face was almost boyish,
round and ruddy with health, his eyes sparkling with
intelligence, as well as with the wit and humor which he
perhaps inherited from some ancestor of Irish blood. His
face, like his character, matured with years; yet it always
had a youthful appearance, which was the outward token
of the immense vitality within him. We have seldom
known a man who was so intensely alive—alive to the very
tips of his fingers. As a writer, he was one of the very
best for the variety of work required in the office of a
great journal. His style was animated and picturesque,
and he had an infinite versatility; turning his pen now to
this subject and now to that; throwing off here a sharp
paragraph, and there a vigorous editorial; but never in
either writing a dull line. The same freshness and alertness
of mind he showed in conversation, where he was as
brilliant as with his pen. He would tell a story with all
the animation and mimicry of an actor, alternating with
touches of humor and pathos that were quite inimitable.
It was the chief pleasure of our visit to Atlanta to renew
this delightful acquaintance—a pleasure which we had
twice last winter in going to, and returning from, Florida.
Never shall we forget the last time that we sat before his
fire, with his charming family and several clergymen of
Atlanta, and listened to the endless variety of his marvelous
talk.</p>

<p class='c018'>Nor was his power confined to this limited circle. He
was not only a brilliant conversationalist and writer, but a
genuine orator. No man could take an audience from the
first sentence, and hold it to the last, more perfectly than
he. His speech before the New England Society in this
<span class='pageno' id='Page_499'>499</span>city three years ago gave him at once a national reputation.
It came to us when abroad, and even so far away,
on the shores of the Mediterranean, at Palermo, in Sicily,
we were thrilled by its fervid eloquence. A second
speech, not less powerful, was delivered but two weeks
since in Boston; and it was in coming on to this, and in a
visit to Plymouth Rock, where he was called upon to
make a speech in the open air, that he took the cold which
developed into pneumonia, and caused his death.</p>

<p class='c018'>But Mr. Grady’s chief claim to grateful remembrance by
the whole country is that he was a pacificator between the
North and the South. Born in the South, he loved it intensely.
His own family had suffered in the war an irreparable
loss. He once said to us as we came from his house,
where we had been to call upon his mother, whose gentle
face was saddened by a great sorrow that had cast a shadow
over her life, “You know my father was killed at Petersburg.”
But in spite of these sad memories, he cherished
no hatred, nor bitterness, but felt that the prosperity of
millions depended on a complete reconciliation of the two
sections, so that North and South should once more be
one country. This aim he kept constantly in view, both in
his speeches and in his writings, wherein there were some
things in which we did not agree, as our readers may see in
the letter published this very week on our first page. But
we always recognized his sincerity and manliness, and his
ardent love for the land of his birth, for all which we admired
him and loved him—and love him still—and on this
Christmas day approach with the great crowd of mourners,
and cast this flower upon his new-made grave.</p>
<hr class='c049' />
<h3 class='c016'>THE DEATH OF HENRY W. GRADY.</h3>
<hr class='c019' />

<div class='nf-center-c0'>
  <div class='nf-center'>
    <div><i>John Boyle O’Reilly, in the “Boston Pilot.”</i></div>
  </div>
</div>

<p class='c018'>“<span class='sc'>The</span> South is in tears!” said the sorrowful dispatch
from Atlanta on Monday last; and the grief and the sympathy
<span class='pageno' id='Page_500'>500</span>of the North went freely southward in response.
Next to his own city, indeed, this death strikes Boston most
deeply, for here with us, only a few days ago, he poured forth
the noblest stream of eloquence that ever flowed from his
gifted tongue. It matters not now that many New Englanders,
the <i>Pilot</i> included, dissented from his Southern
view of the colored question. We disagreed with the word,
but we honored the silver tongue and the heart of gold beneath
it. “He was the most eloquent man,” said the Hon.
P. A. Collins, one who knows what eloquence consists of,
“that I ever heard speak in Boston.”</p>

<p class='c018'>Since the olden times there has been no more striking
illustration of the power of oratory to appeal to the nation
and to make a man famous among his people than is found
in the career of Mr. Grady. Within ten years he leaped
from the position of a modest Georgian editor to that of
the best-known and the greatest orator on this continent.
So potent is the true gift of eloquence when the substructure
is recognized as solid in character and profoundly
earnest in purpose.</p>

<p class='c018'>To Irish-Americans, as to the State that has lost him,
the death of Mr. Grady is a special affliction. He represented
in a fine type the patriotism and the manly quality
of a citizen that every Irish-American ought to keep in
spiritual sight. He was a man to be trusted and loved.
He was a proud Georgian and a patriotic American, though
his father had died for “the Lost Cause.” He was, while
in Boston, introduced to the great audience by Colonel
Charles H. Taylor as “the matchless orator of Georgia.”
Playfully, and yet half seriously, he accounted for himself
thus: “My father was an Irishman—and my mother
was a woman. I come naturally by my eloquence.”</p>

<p class='c018'>North or South, it matters not the section—all men
must honor such a character. His brief life reached a high
achievement. He was a type of American to be hailed with
delight—courageous, ready of hand and voice, proudly sentimental
yet widely reserved, devoted to his State and loyal
to the Republic, public-spirited as a statesman, and industrious
<span class='pageno' id='Page_501'>501</span>and frugal as a townsman, and the head of a happy
family. His devotion to his parents and to his wife and
children was the last lesson of his life. In his Boston
speech he drew tears from thousands by the unnamed picture
of his father’s death for the bleeding South; from
Boston he went South, insisting on being taken to his home
when they told him in New York that he was dangerously
ill. He died surrounded by his own—mother, wife, and
children. Almost his last words to his mother were:
“Father died fighting for the South, and I am happy to
die talking for her.”</p>
<div class='pbb'>
 <hr class='pb c007' />
</div>

<div class='nf-center-c0'>
<div class='nf-center c001'>
    <div><span class='pageno' id='Page_503'>503</span><span class='c029'>TRIBUTES</span></div>
    <div class='c000'>OF THE</div>
    <div class='c000'><span class='c004'>SOUTHERN PRESS.</span></div>
  </div>
</div>

<div class='pbb'>
 <hr class='pb c001' />
</div>
<div class='chapter'>
  <span class='pageno' id='Page_505'>505</span>
  <h2 class='c012'>A NOBLE DEATH.</h2>
</div>
<hr class='c013' />

<div class='nf-center-c0'>
  <div class='nf-center'>
    <div><i>From the “Jacksonville, Fla., Times-Union.”</i></div>
  </div>
</div>

<p class='drop-capa0_25_0_7 c017'>ALAS, that the hero of the New South should follow,
and in so short a time, the typical hero and representative
of the Old! With hearts still bowed beneath
the shadow of the flags at half-mast all over the South
for Jefferson Davis, comes the sad and sudden message
announcing the death of Henry W. Grady.</p>

<p class='c018'>Poor Grady! Dead in the very summer time and blossom
and golden fruitage of a brilliant life! Fallen, while
yet so young and in the arms of his first overwhelming victory.
Fallen on the topmost crest of a grand achievement—on
the shining heights he had just so bravely won!
Hapless fate, that he could not survive to realize the full
fruition of his sublime endeavor! He went North only a
few days ago on a mission of love and reconciliation, his
great heart bearing the sorrows of the South, his big brain
pulsing with patriotic purpose. Of a nervous, sensitive
nature, his physical system, in sympathy with his intellectual
triumph, both strained to the utmost tension, rendered
him susceptible to the sudden change of climate, and
he contracted a severe cold which soon developed into
pneumonia, attended by a burning fever. Returning home
he was met at the depot by what had been arranged for a
grand ovation and a banquet at the Chamber of Commerce,
by the people of Atlanta, but instead of being carried on the
strong shoulders of the thousands who loved and honored
him, he was received into the gentle arms of his family and
physicians and borne tenderly home, to linger yet for a
little while with the fond circle whose love, deep, strong,
and tender as it was, appealed in vain against the hard
decree of the great conqueror.</p>

<p class='c018'><span class='pageno' id='Page_506'>506</span>As Mr. Grady so eloquently expressed in his last hours:
“Tell mother I died for the South, the land I love so well!”
And this was as true as it could be of any patriot who falls
on the field of battle.</p>

<div class='lg-container-b c031'>
  <div class='linegroup'>
    <div class='group'>
      <div class='line'>’Twas his own genius gave the final blow,</div>
      <div class='line'>And helped to plant the wound that laid him low.</div>
    </div>
  </div>
</div>

<hr class='c046' />
<div class='lg-container-b c031'>
  <div class='linegroup'>
    <div class='group'>
      <div class='line'>Yes, she too much indulged the fond pursuit;</div>
      <div class='line'>She sowed the seed, but death has reaped the fruit!</div>
    </div>
  </div>
</div>

<p class='c024'>But has death, indeed, reaped the fruit? May not the
very sacrifice, in itself, consecrate his last eloquent and
inspired words till they sink deeper into the hearts of the
North and South alike, thus linked with a more sacred
memory and a sublimer sorrow? If so, we shall find a
larger recompense even in the bitter bereavement.</p>

<p class='c018'>As far as his personal history is concerned, Henry
Grady could not have died a nobler death. The Greek
philosopher said: “Esteem no man happy while he lives.”
He who falls victorious, the citadel won, in a blaze of glory,
is safe; safe from all the vicissitudes of fortune; safe from
any act that might otherwise tarnish an illustrious name.
It descends a rich heritage to after time. During the presidential
campaign of 1844 the wonderful orator, Sargent S.
Prentiss, delivered at Nashville, to an immense audience,
the greatest campaign speech, perhaps, that was ever heard
in the United States. After speaking for several hours,
and just as he was closing an eloquent burst of oratory,
he fell fainting in the arms of several of the bystanders.
At once there was a rush to resuscitate him, but Governor
Jones, thoroughly inspired by the speech and occasion,
sprang from his seat, in a stentorian voice shouting: “Die!
Prentiss; <i>die</i>! You’ll never have a better time!”</p>

<p class='c018'>The <i>Times-Union</i> has heretofore commented on Mr.
Grady’s magnificent oration at Boston. It not only captured
New England and the South, but the entire country.
Nothing like it since the war has been uttered. In force,
power, eloquence, it has been but rarely excelled in any
time. Major Audley Maxwell, a leading Boston lawyer,
<span class='pageno' id='Page_507'>507</span>describes it in a letter to a friend in this city as “a cannon-ball
in full flight, fringed with flowers.” The occasion, the
audience, the surroundings, were all inspiring. He was
pleading for the South—for the people he loved—and to
say that he reached the topmost height of the great argument,
is comment and compliment enough. The closing
paragraphs are republished this morning, and no man ever
uttered a sublimer peroration. He spoke as one might have
spoken standing consciously within the circling wings of
death, when the mind is expanded by the rapid crowding
of great events and the lips are touched with prophetic fire.</p>

<p class='c018'>The death of Henry Grady was a public calamity. He
had the ear of the North as no other Southern man had, or
has. He was old enough to have served in the Confederate
armies, yet young enough, at the surrender, while cherishing
the traditions of the past, to still lay firm hold on the
future in earnest sympathy for a restored and reconciled
Union. In this work he was the South’s most conspicuous
leader.</p>

<p class='c018'>But his life-work is finished. Let the people of the South
re-form their broken ranks and move forward to the completion
of the work which his genius made more easy of
accomplishment and which his death has sanctified. In
the words he himself would have spoken, the words employed
by another brilliant leader on undertaking a great
campaign, each of the soldiers enlisted for the South’s continued
progress will cry: “Spurn me if I flee; support
me if I fall, but let us move on! In God’s name, let us
move on!”</p>
<hr class='c049' />
<h3 class='c016'>THERE WAS NONE GREATER.</h3>
<hr class='c019' />

<div class='nf-center-c0'>
  <div class='nf-center'>
    <div><i>From the “Birmingham, Mo., Chronicle.”</i></div>
  </div>
</div>

<p class='c018'><span class='sc'>The Chronicle</span> confesses to being a hero-worshiper.
There is no trait in the human heart more noble than that
which applauds and commemorates the feats of brains or
<span class='pageno' id='Page_508'>508</span>arms done by our fellow-man. We confess the almost holy
veneration we feel for the heroes of song and story from
the beginning of tradition. Nimrod to Joseph and Moses
to the Maccabees, from Alexander to Cæsar, taking in the
heroes of all nations from Cheops to Napoleon and Wellington,
Putnam, Sam Houston and Lee and Grant and
Lincoln, we do honor to them all.</p>

<p class='c018'>So too do we worship the sages and orators. Whatever
man the people worship is worthy of a place in our Pantheon.
The people are the best judges of a man, and
when the common people pay tribute to the worth of any
man well known to them, we are ready to lift our hats and
acknowledge his title to greatness. Any man who has the
enthusiastic admiration of his own people is worthy of any
honor.</p>

<p class='c018'>The South has many brilliant writers, but none of them
have ever made the columns of a newspaper glisten and
glow and hold in magnetic enchantment the mind of the
reader as Henry Grady did. In his life-work he was great,
and there is none greater. His writings are worthy of a
place beside those of Greeley and Watterson, and Grady
was still a young man.</p>

<p class='c018'>In the days gone by the South has sent many orators
North to present Southern thought to Northern hearers.
Henry Clay, Jefferson Davis, Robert Toombs and William
L. Yancey all went before Grady was invited to speak up
there. There were never four greater orators in the world’s
history, and the story of their speeches has come down to
us like music. Yet in this latter day when oratory does
not appeal to people as it used to, when the busy world
does not stop to read speeches, Grady went North to
speak. He was known to the North and had done nothing
to challenge the attention of the nation, yet his first
speech at the North did catch public attention most pleasantly.
His second speech, delivered but a few days ago,
was the greatest effort of his life, and all the nations
listened to it and all the newspapers commented upon his
utterances. His speech was the equal of any oration
<span class='pageno' id='Page_509'>509</span>ever delivered in America, and had as much effect on public
thought. No effort of Toombs or Yancey, even in the
days of public excitement, surpassed this last speech of
Grady.</p>

<p class='c018'>He deserves a place among the great men of America,
and the South must hold his memory in reverence. A
broken shaft must be his monument, for as sure as life had
been spared him new honors were in store for this young
man. He had made his place in the world, and he was
equal to any call made upon him, and the people were
learning to look to him as a leader. Few such men are
born, and too much honor cannot be done them.</p>
<hr class='c049' />
<h3 class='c016'>A GREAT LEADER HAS FALLEN.</h3>
<hr class='c019' />

<div class='nf-center-c0'>
  <div class='nf-center'>
    <div><i>From the “Raleigh, N.C., State-Chronicle.”</i></div>
  </div>
</div>

<div class='lg-container-b c031'>
  <div class='linegroup'>
    <div class='group'>
      <div class='line'>Good mother, weep, Cornelia of the South,</div>
      <div class='line in2'>For thou indeed has lost a jewel son;</div>
      <div class='line'>The Gracchi great were not so much beloved,</div>
      <div class='line in2'>Nor with more worthy deeds their honors won.</div>
      <div class='line'>Thy stalwart son deserves a Roman’s fame,</div>
      <div class='line in2'>For Cato was not more supremely just;</div>
      <div class='line'>Augustus was not greater in the State,</div>
      <div class='line in2'>Nor Brutus truer to the public trust.</div>
    </div>
  </div>
</div>

<p class='c024'><span class='sc'>In</span> the death of Mr. Henry W. Grady the South loses its
brightest and most useful man. He was the only Southern
man who really had the ear of the people of the whole
country, and he had just reached the position where he
could be useful in the largest sphere. It is inexplicable
why so young and robust a man—(he was not over thirty-nine
years of age)—a man so brilliant and so able, should
be taken just as he was entering upon the plane of wider
influence and greater usefulness. To the South it is the
greatest loss that it has sustained by death in a quarter of
a century. To the whole people of the country, which he
loved with his great-hearted devotion, it is nothing short
of a National calamity.</p>

<p class='c018'><span class='pageno' id='Page_510'>510</span>Mr. Grady had the ear and heart of the South because
he loved its history and its very soil, and because he was
the leading exponent of the idea that is working to build
up a prosperous manufacturing New South. He had the
ear of the North because, while he had no apologies to
make for Southern actions and was proud of Southern
achievements, he had turned his eyes to the morning and
lived in the busy world of to-day. He recognized changed
conditions and did not bemoan fate. He stood up in his
manliness and his faith and went to work to bring prosperity
where poverty cast its blight. He inspired others
in the South with faith in the future of his section, and
invited Northern men of money, brains, and brawn to come
South and make a fortune; and when they accepted his
invitation, as not a few did, he gave them a brotherly welcome
and made them feel that they were at home. In this
he showed practical patriotism. Under no temptation—even
when speaking in Boston—did he ever so far forget
his manhood as to</p>

<div class='lg-container-b c031'>
  <div class='linegroup'>
    <div class='group'>
      <div class='line'>Crook the pregnant hinges of the knee,</div>
      <div class='line'>Where thrift may follow fawning.</div>
    </div>
  </div>
</div>

<p class='c024'>The people of the North also heard him because of his
candor. He never deceived them about the race problem
or the difficulties in the way of the South’s future. He
admitted their gravity, and sought a peaceful solution in a
just, fair, and honest way. His speech in Boston was a
lamentation and an earnest appeal. He cried aloud for
sympathetic help, and his cry, sealed with his life, we must
believe, will not be heard in vain. God grant that his
prayer for Peace and Union may be answered!</p>

<p class='c018'>Mr. Grady’s most attractive quality was his warm great
heartedness. He was generous to a fault. No tale of suffering
or poverty was unheeded by him. He had a buoyant
spirit and a light heart and deep affections. He was
reverent in speech and with pen. He believed in God, had
learned the truth of the gospel at his mother’s knee, “The
truest altar I have yet found,” he said in his last speech.
<span class='pageno' id='Page_511'>511</span>He was a member of the Methodist church. He had profound
convictions, and his eloquent speeches in favor of
Prohibition in Atlanta will not be forgotten. No man
ever spoke more earnest words for what he conceived to be
the safety of the homes of Atlanta than he. They will long
be treasured up with fondness by those who mourn that
he was cut down in the zenith of what promised the most
brilliant career that lay out before any man in America.</p>

<p class='c018'>Henry W. Grady was a grandson of North Carolina.
His father was a native of Macon county, but early in life
emigrated to Rome, Georgia, to make his fortune, and he
made it. He was one of those men who succeed in every
undertaking. Everything he touched seemed to turn to
gold. He prospered and made a large estate. When the
war came on he had a presentiment that he would be killed.
But notwithstanding that idea took possession of him, he
raised and equipped <i>at his own expense</i> a regiment of
cavalry, and hastened to the front as its captain. His
company was attached as company G to the 25th N.C.
Regiment, commanded by Col. Thos. L. Clingman. Eventually
Capt. Grady was promoted to be major of the regiment.
In the first battle he fell mortally wounded, showing
how true was his presentiment of death. He was surrounded
by his men, some of them brave, sturdy North
Carolinians. He left a legacy of honor to his son, who
always called North Carolina his grandmother and had a
deep affection for its sons.</p>

<p class='c018'>Mr. Grady graduated with high honors at the University
of Georgia in Athens. Then he spent two years at the
University of Virginia, where he devoted himself rather to
the study of literature and to the work of the societies
than to the regular college course. He won high honors
there as an orator and as a debater. He was as well
equipped and as ready and as effective as a debater as he
became later on as an orator and editor. He was regarded
there as a universal genius and the most charming of men.
Leaving college he established a paper at Rome. Later in
connection with Mr. Alston (North Carolina stock) he
<span class='pageno' id='Page_512'>512</span>established the Atlanta <i>Herald</i>. It was a brilliant paper
but was not a financial success. Our readers will remember
that Mr. Alston was shot in the Capitol by State
Treasurer Cox. Upon the failure of the <i>Herald</i>, Mr. Grady
went to New York. He was without money and went there
looking for something to do. He went into the office of
the New York <i>Herald</i> and asked for a position.</p>

<p class='c018'>“What can you do?” asked the managing editor,
when Mr. Grady asked for a position. “Anything,” was
the reply of the young Georgian, conscious of his powers
and conscious of ability to do any kind of work that was to
be done in a great newspaper office. The editor asked him
where he was from, and learning that he was from Georgia,
said: “Do you know anything about Georgia politics?”
Now if there was any subject which he knew all about it
was Georgia politics, and he said so. “Then sit down,”
said the managing editor, “and write me an article on
Georgia politics.” He sat down and dashed off an article
of the brightest matter showing thorough insight into the
situation in Georgia and thorough knowledge of the leaders
in that State. He was always a facile writer, and all his
articles were printed without erasing or re-writing. The
article was put into the pigeon-hole, and Mr. Grady took
his departure. He left the office, so he said, very despondent,
thinking the article might be published after several
weeks, but fearing that it would never see the light. What
was his surprise and joy to see it in the <i>Herald</i> the next
morning. He went down to the office and was engaged as
correspondent for Georgia and the South. In this capacity
he wrote letters upon Southern topics of such brilliancy as
have never been surpassed, if equaled, in the history of
American journalism. They gained for him a wide reputation,
and made him a great favorite in Georgia. The public
men of that State recognized his ability, and saw how
much he might do to develop the resources and advance
the prosperity and fame of Georgia if at the head of a great
State paper. The late Alexander H. Stephens interested
himself in Mr. Grady and assisted to get him on the staff
<span class='pageno' id='Page_513'>513</span>of the <i>Constitution</i>. From the day he went to Atlanta on
the staff of the <i>Constitution</i> until his death his best energies
and his great abilities were directed toward making it
a great paper, and a powerful factor in developing the
resources of Georgia. It became the most successful of
Southern newspapers, and is to-day a competitor with the
great papers of the North. To have achieved this unprecedented
success in journalism were honor enough to win
in a life-time. He was confessedly the Gamaliel of Southern
journalism, and the best of it all was that he was, as
was said of Horace Greeley after his death, “a journalist
because he had something to say which he believed mankind
would be the better for knowing; not because he
wanted something for himself which journalism might
secure for him.”</p>

<p class='c018'>He was a Saul, and stood head and shoulders above all
his fellows as an orator as well as an editor. We cannot
dwell upon his reputation as an orator, or recount the
scenes of his successes. We had heard him only in
impromptu efforts and in short introductory speeches,
where he easily surpassed any man whom we ever heard.
He had a fine physique, a big, round, open, manly face,
was thick-set, was pleasing in style, and had a winning
and captivating voice. He could rival Senator Vance in
telling an anecdote. He could equal Senator Ransom in a
polished, graceful oration. He could put Governor Fowle
to his best in his classical illustrations. He could equal
Waddell in his eloquent flights. In a word he had more
talent as a public speaker than any man we ever knew;
and added to that he had <i>heart</i>, <i>soul</i>, <i>fire</i>—the essentials
of true oratory. We recall four speeches which gave him
greatest reputation. One was in Texas at a college commencement,
we think; another at the New York banquet
on “The New South”; the third at the University of
Virginia; and the last—(alas! his last words)—at the
Boston banquet just two weeks ago. These speeches, as
well as others he has made, deserve to live. The last
one—published in last week’s <i>Chronicle</i>—is emphasized by
<span class='pageno' id='Page_514'>514</span>his untimely death. In it he had so ably and eloquently
defended the South and so convincingly plead for a united
country based upon mutual confidence and sympathy that,
in view of his death, his words seem to have been touched
by a patriotism and a devoutness akin to inspiration. His
broad catholicity and his great patriotism bridged all sectional
lines, and he stood before the country the most eloquent
advocate of “a Union of Hearts” as well as a
“Union of Hands.” As the coming greatest leader of the
South, he sounded the key-note of sublimest patriotism.
Less profound than Daniel Webster, his burning words for
the perpetuity of the Union, with mutual trust and no
sectional antagonism, were not less thrilling nor impressive.
The Southern people ought to read and re-read this
great speech, which, doubtless, cost him his life, and make
it the lamp to their feet. If we heed his words and bury
sectionalism, it will be written of him that “though dead,
he yet speaketh.”</p>

<div class='lg-container-b c031'>
  <div class='linegroup'>
    <div class='group'>
      <div class='line'>Star of the South!</div>
      <div class='line in2'>To thee all eyes and hearts were turned,</div>
      <div class='line'>As round thy path, from plain to sea,</div>
      <div class='line in2'>The glory of thy greatness burned.</div>
    </div>
    <div class='group'>
      <div class='line'>Millions were drawn to thee and bound</div>
      <div class='line in2'>By mind’s high mastery, millions hailed</div>
      <div class='line'>In thee a guide-star—and ne’er found</div>
      <div class='line in2'>A ray in thee, that waned or failed.</div>
    </div>
    <div class='group'>
      <div class='line'>No night’s embrace for thee! nor pall,</div>
      <div class='line in2'>But such as mortal hand hath wrought,</div>
      <div class='line'>Thou livest still in mind—in all</div>
      <div class='line in2'>That breathes, or speaks, or lives in thought.</div>
    </div>
  </div>
</div>

<hr class='c049' />
<h3 class='c016'>HENRY W. GRADY.</h3>
<hr class='c019' />

<div class='nf-center-c0'>
  <div class='nf-center'>
    <div><i>From the “New Orleans Times-Democrat.”</i></div>
  </div>
</div>

<p class='c018'><span class='sc'>Henry W. Grady</span>, editor of the Atlanta <i>Constitution</i>,
died yesterday, after a short illness, from typhoid pneumonia,
at the early age of thirty-six. Perhaps no man in
<span class='pageno' id='Page_515'>515</span>the South has been more often mentioned in the last few
years or attracted more attention than he. His famous
speech before the New England Society had the effect of
bringing him before the country as the representative of
that New South which is building up into prosperity and
greatness.</p>

<p class='c018'>Mr. Grady was a native of Georgia. His father was
Colonel of a Confederate regiment during the late war, and
to that father he paid the highest tribute a son could pay
in several of his speeches. He had a hard struggle at first,
like nearly every Southern boy, but he fought his way up
to the top by pluck, energy and determination.</p>

<p class='c018'>Mr. Grady’s first journalistic venture was, we believe,
in his native town. He ran a small paper there, moved
thence to Atlanta, carrying on another newspaper venture
in the Georgia capital. In the course of events this paper
was swallowed up by the <i>Constitution</i>, then pushing itself
to the front of the Georgia press, and Mr. Grady was selected
as co-editor of the latter.</p>

<p class='c018'>Under him that paper became one of the leading exponents
of Southern opinion, a representative of the progressive
South, not lingering over dead memories, but living
in the light of the present and laboring to build up this
section.</p>

<p class='c018'>Mr. Grady and his paper were always the defenders of
the South, yet not afraid to expose and condemn its errors
and mistakes. He had the courage to speak out whenever
this was necessary, and when, some few months ago, regulators
attempted to introduce into Georgia, in the immediate
vicinity of Atlanta, the same practices as in Lafayette
parish in this State, Mr. Grady, through the <i>Constitution</i>,
denounced it vigorously. There were threats, but it did
not affect the <i>Constitution</i>, which insisted that the New
South must be a South of peace, law and order.</p>

<p class='c018'>We cannot at this time review Mr. Grady’s entire
journalistic career. It is sufficient to say that with his
colleagues he built up his paper to be a power in Georgia
and the South. His ability was recognized throughout
<span class='pageno' id='Page_516'>516</span>this section, but it was not until his famous speech at the
New England dinner that his reputation became national.</p>

<p class='c018'>When at that dinner, speaking for the New South he
so well represented, he pledged his brethren of the North
the patriotic devotion of the Southern people, he created
a sensation. Some of the most famous orators of the
country were present, but without a dissenting voice it was
declared that Mr. Grady’s speech was the event of the day.
It sent a thrill throughout the Union. The Southern people
rose to declare that Mr. Grady had fully explained
their views and ideas, and before his eloquent words the
prejudice which had lingered since the war in many portions
of the North disappeared. Perhaps no single event
tended more to bring the sections closer together than that
speech, which so eloquently voiced the true sentiments of
the Southern people. A wave of fraternal feeling swept
through the country, and although the Republican politicians
managed to counteract some of the good accomplished,
much of it remained. Mr. Grady deserves remembrance,
for in a few words, burning with eloquence, he
swept away the prejudices of years.</p>

<p class='c018'>The country discovered that it contained an orator of
whom it had known but little, a statesman who helped to
remove the sectional hatred which had so long retarded its
progress. Mr. Grady became at once one of the best-known
men in the Union. He was spoken of for United
States Senator, he was mentioned as Vice-President, and it
looked as though he could be elevated to any position to
which he aspired; but he wisely clung to his journalistic
career, satisfied that he could thereby best benefit his
State and section.</p>

<p class='c018'>Mr. Grady was not a one-speech man. He has made
many addresses since then, and while it is true that his
other speeches did not create the same sensation as his
first, they were all eloquent, able and patriotic.</p>

<p class='c018'>His career so auspiciously begun, which promised so
much to himself and the country, has been brought suddenly
and prematurely to a close. Mr. Grady was a
<span class='pageno' id='Page_517'>517</span>young man, and we had every reason to believe that he
would play a leading part in the South and in the country.
Although his career is thus cut short, he had accomplished
much, and the New South for which he spoke will carry
on the good work he began of uniting the entire country
on one broad and patriotic platform.</p>
<hr class='c049' />
<h3 class='c016'>SECOND TO NONE.</h3>
<hr class='c019' />

<div class='nf-center-c0'>
  <div class='nf-center'>
    <div><i>From the “Louisville Courier-Journal.”</i></div>
  </div>
</div>

<p class='c018'><span class='sc'>Henry W. Grady</span> died at his home in Atlanta yesterday.
There is that in the very announcement which is
heart-breaking. He was the rose and expectancy of the
young South, the one publicist of the New South, who,
inheriting the spirit of the old, yet had realized the present,
and looked into the future, with the eyes of a statesman
and the heart of a patriot. His own future was fully
assured. He had made his place; had won his spurs; and
he possessed the gifts, not merely to hold them, but greatly
to magnify their importance. That he should be cut down
upon the threshold of a career, for whose brilliant development
and broad usefulness all was prepared, is almost as
much a public calamity as it is a private grief. We tender
to his family, and to Georgia, whom he loved with the
adoration of a true son for a mother, the homage of our
respectful and profound sympathy.</p>

<p class='c018'>Mr. Grady became a writer for the <i>Courier-Journal</i>
when but little more than a boy and during the darkest
days of the Reconstruction period. There was in those
days but a single political issue for the South. Our hand
was in the lion’s mouth, and we could do nothing, hope for
nothing, until we got it out. The young Georgian was
ardent, impetuous, the son of a father slain in battle, the
offspring of a section, the child of a province; yet he rose
to the situation with uncommon faculties of courage and
<span class='pageno' id='Page_518'>518</span>perception; caught the spirit of the struggle against
reaction with perfect reach; and threw himself into the
liberal and progressive movements of the time with the
genius of a man born for both oratory and affairs. He was
not long with us. He wished a wider field of duty, and
went East, carrying letters in which he was commended in
terms which might have seemed extravagant then, but
which he more than vindicated. His final settlement in
the capital of his native State and in a position where he
could speak directly and responsibly, gave him the opportunity
he had sought to make a fame for himself, and an
audience of his own. Here he carried the policy with
which, in the columns of the <i>Courier-Journal</i>, he had
early identified himself, to its finest conclusions; coming
at once to the front as a champion of a free South and a
united country, second to none in efficiency, equaled by
none in eloquence.</p>

<p class='c018'>He was eager and aspiring, and, in the heedlessness of
youth, with its aggressive ambitions, may not have been
at all times discriminating and considerate in the objects of
his attacks; but he was generous to a fault, and, as he
advanced upon the highway, he broadened with it and to it,
and, if he had lived, would have realized the fullest measure
of his own promise and the hopes of his friends. The
scales of error, when error he felt he had committed, were
fast falling from his eyes, and he was frank to own his
changed, or changing view. The vista of the way ahead
was opening before him with its far perspective clear to his
mental sight. He had just delivered an utterance of exceeding
weight and value, at once rhetorically fine and
rarely solid, and was coming home to be welcomed by his
people with open arms, when the Messenger of Death summoned
him to his last account. The tidings of the fatal
termination of his disorder are startling in their suddenness
and unexpectedness, and will be received North and South
with sorrow deep and sincere, and far beyond the bounds
compassed by his personality.</p>

<p class='c018'>The <i>Courier-Journal</i> was always proud of him, hailed
<span class='pageno' id='Page_519'>519</span>him as a young disciple who had surpassed his elders in
learning and power, recognized in him a master voice and
soul, followed his career with admiring interest, and recorded
his triumphs with ever-increasing sympathy and
appreciation. It is with poignant regret that we record his
death. Such spirits are not of a generation, but of an
epoch; and it will be long before the South will find one to
take the place made conspicuously vacant by his absence.</p>
<hr class='c049' />
<h3 class='c016'>A LOSS TO THE SOUTH.</h3>
<hr class='c019' />

<div class='nf-center-c0'>
  <div class='nf-center'>
    <div><i>From the “Louisville Post.”</i></div>
  </div>
</div>

<p class='c018'><span class='sc'>The</span> death of Henry W. Grady, of Atlanta, after so
brief an illness and in the very prime of a vigorous young
manhood, will startle the whole country and will be an
especial affliction to the South. Mr. Grady was a brilliant
journalist, a man of brain and heart, and by his sensible
and enthusiastic policy has identified himself with the
interests of the New South. In fact, few men have been
more largely instrumental in bringing about that salutary
sentiment, now prevailing, that it is best for the South to
look with hope and courage to the future, rather than to
live in sad inactivity amid the ruins of the past. Mr.
Grady was a warm and confident advocate of industrial
advancement in the land of his birth. He wanted to see
the South interlaced with railroads, her rich mineral deposits
opened to development, her cities teeming with factories,
her people busy, contented and prosperous. This was his
mission as a man and as a journalist, and his influence has
been widespread. Just at this time his loss will be doubly
severe.</p>

<p class='c018'>One morning Henry Grady, who had possessed little
more than a sectional reputation, woke up to find himself
famous throughout the nation. By his speech at a New
York banquet he sounded the key-note of fraternal Union
<span class='pageno' id='Page_520'>520</span>between North and South, and his appeal for mutual trust
and confidence, with commerce and industry to cement
more strongly than ever the two great sections of the country,
met with a response from both sides of Mason and
Dixon’s line more hearty than ever before. Many another
man from the South felt the same sentiments and would
have expressed them gladly. Many a man in the North
felt that in the South those sentiments were sincerely held.
But Grady had a peculiar opportunity, and right well did
he improve it. He expressed eloquently and forcibly the
feelings, the purposes, the very spirit of the New South,
and in that very moment he made a reputation that is national.
It was his good fortune to express to the business
men as well as to the politicians of the nation the idea of an
indivisible union of interests, of sentiments and of purposes,
as well as of territory.</p>

<p class='c018'>In Mr. Grady’s own State his death will be most felt.
What he has done for Georgia can only be appreciated by
those who compare its present activity and prosperity with
the apathy and discontent which existed there a few years
ago. The dead man will be sincerely mourned, but the
idea which he made the fundamental one of his brief career
will continue to work out the welfare of the New South.</p>
<hr class='c049' />
<h3 class='c016'>THE DEATH OF HENRY W. GRADY.</h3>
<hr class='c019' />

<p class='c018'><span class='sc'>The</span> most brilliant journalist of the South is no more.
When the news was sent over the country yesterday morning
that Henry W. Grady, the editor of the Atlanta <i>Constitution</i>,
was dead, there were sighs of regret which, if
they could have been gathered together into one mass,
would have been heard across the Atlantic. He was peculiarly
gifted. With an imagery and wealth of language
that enabled him to clothe the most uninteresting subject
<span class='pageno' id='Page_521'>521</span>in a pleasing garb, he had at the same time the genius of
common sense more fully developed than most men now
prominently before the public. He was born in 1851 in the
town of Athens, Georgia, and was therefore less than forty
years of age. At college he was remarkable among his
fellows for those gifts of speech and pen which made him
famous. To his eternal honor, it can be said that in
neither the sanctum or the forum were his powers used in
a way to add to any one’s sorrow or distress. His writings
were clean and pure and in every line gave token of the
kind heart that beat in his bosom. Mr. Grady was a lovable
man. Those who knew him well entertained for him
the deepest affection. His face was itself a fair type of his
nature, which was essentially of the sunshine character.</p>

<p class='c018'>He was restlessly energetic and always agitating matters
that he believed would be promotive of the public
good. The Cotton States’ Exposition and the Piedmont
Exposition, both held in Atlanta, were literally the creations
of his energy and enthusiasm and pluck. It will no
doubt be readily admitted by his associates of the <i>Constitution</i>
that he was its moving spirit, and by his powers
largely made it the grand and magnificent success that it
undeniably is.</p>

<p class='c018'>The Young Men’s Christian Association building, costing
$100,000, arose as by magic under the persuasive powers
of his tongue and pen. The list of his works of a practical
kind that now add to Atlanta’s character and position
could be indefinitely extended. When he appealed to
Atlanta he never spoke in vain, for in addition to brains
and energy he had those rare qualities of personal magnetism,
which made his originality and zeal wonderfully effective.
He entered into everything his big head conceived
with his whole heart and soul.</p>

<p class='c018'>He was loyal to his city and State, and never missed an
opportunity for aiding in their advancement. He was
sought out by the young and the old, and enjoyed the full
confidence of all who knew him.</p>

<p class='c018'>His name and fame, however, were not confined to
<span class='pageno' id='Page_522'>522</span>Georgia. In the Lone Star State, thousands flocked to the
city of Dallas to hear his great speech at the Texas State
Fair. His New York speech, a year or two ago, fairly
thrilled the country and caused the enactment of scenes
never before witnessed on similar occasions. No orator
had ever received such an ovation in that great city, and
none such has been since extended to any speaker. His
recent speech at Boston was calculated to do more good
for the entire country than anything that has fallen from
the lips of any man in the last decade. It will be a monument
to his memory more enduring than brass. It made a
profound impression on those who heard it. The sentiments
and truths he so boldly uttered are echoing and
re-echoing among the hills of New England and over the
prairies of the great West, and they will bear rich fruit in
the near future. They were things known to us all here,
but those who did not know and did not care have been
set to thinking by his eloquent presentation of the Southern
situation. That speech, perhaps, cost him his life;
but if it produces the effect on the Northern mind and
heart which it deserves, the great sacrifice will not have
been in vain. His death will cause a more earnest attention
to the great truths he uttered, and result in an
emphasis of them that could not have been attained otherwise,
sad as that emphasis may be. The death of such a
man is a national calamity. He had entered upon a career
that would have grown more brilliant each year of his life.
His like will not soon be seen and heard again.</p>
<hr class='c049' />
<h3 class='c016'>UNIVERSAL SORROW.</h3>
<hr class='c019' />

<div class='nf-center-c0'>
  <div class='nf-center'>
    <div><i>From the “Nashville American.”</i></div>
  </div>
</div>

<p class='c018'><span class='sc'>The</span> news of Mr. Grady’s death is received with universal
sorrow. No man of his age in the South or in the
Union has achieved such prominence or given promise of
<span class='pageno' id='Page_523'>523</span>greater usefulness or higher honors. His reputation as
a journalist was deservedly high; but he won greater
distinction, perhaps, by his public speeches. He was
intensely, almost devoutly Southern, but he had always
the respectful attention of the North when he spoke for the
land of his nativity. There was the ring of sincerity in his
fervid utterances, and his audiences, whether in the North
or in the South, felt that every word came hot from the
heart. He has done as much as any man to put the South
right before the world; and few have done more to promote
its progress and prosperity. He was a man of tremendous
energy, bodily and mental, and always worked
at high tension. Whatever subject interested him took
his mind and body captive, and into whatever cause he
enlisted he threw all the powers of his intellect and all the
force of a nature ardent, passionate, and enthusiastic in the
extreme. It is probable that the disease which laid hold of
him found him an easier prey because of the restless energy
which had pushed his physical powers beyond their capacity.
His nervous and impetuous temperament showed no
mercy to the physical man and made it impossible for him
to exercise a prudent self-restraint even when the danger
of a serious illness was present with him.</p>

<p class='c018'>Mr. Grady’s personal traits were such as won the love
of all who knew him. All knew the brilliant intellect;
but few knew the warm, unselfish heart. The place which
he held in public esteem was but one side of his character;
the place which he held in the hearts of his friends was the
other.</p>

<p class='c018'>The South has other men of genius and of promise; but
none who combine the rare and peculiar qualities which
made Henry W. Grady, at the age of thirty-eight, one of
the most conspicuous men of his generation.</p>
<hr class='c049' />
<div>
  <span class='pageno' id='Page_524'>524</span>
  <h3 class='c016'>THE HIGHEST PLACE.</h3>
</div>
<hr class='c019' />

<div class='nf-center-c0'>
  <div class='nf-center'>
    <div><i>From the “Charleston News and Courier.”</i></div>
  </div>
</div>

<p class='c018'><span class='sc'>The</span> death of Henry W. Grady has removed from earth
the most prominent figure among the younger generation
of public men in America. He held unquestionably the
highest place in the admiration and regard of the people of
the South that was accorded to any man of his years, and
had won, indeed, by his own efforts and attainments a place
among the older and the most honored representatives of
the people of the whole country. It was said of him by a
Northern writer, a few days before his death, that no other
Southern man could command so large a share of the attention
of the Northern people, and his death was the result
of a visit to New England, whither he went in response to
an earnest invitation to speak to the people of that section
upon a question of the gravest national concern.</p>

<p class='c018'>The people of Georgia both honored and loved Henry
Grady, and would have elected him to any office within
their gift. It is probable that, had he lived but a little
while longer, he would have been made Governor of the
State, or commissioned to represent it in the Senate of the
United States. He would have filled either of these positions
acceptably and with credit to himself; and perhaps
even higher honors awaited him. When his name was mentioned
a few months ago in connection with the nomination
for the second highest office in the gift of the people of the
whole country, the feeling was general and sincere that he
was fully worthy, at least, of the great dignity which it
was proposed to confer upon him. Certainly no other evidence
is required to prove that the brave and brilliant young
Georgian was a marked man, and that he had already made
a deep impression on the events and the men of his time
when he was so suddenly stricken down in the flower of
useful and glorious manhood.</p>

<p class='c018'>It is inexpressibly saddening to contemplate the untimely
<span class='pageno' id='Page_525'>525</span>ending of so promising a career. Only a few days
ago the brightest prospect that could open before the eyes
of any young man in all this broad land lay before the eyes
of Henry Grady. To-day his eyes are closed to all earthly
scenes. To-morrow the shadows of the grave will close
around him forever. But it will be long before his influence
will cease to be felt. The memory of his kindly, gracious
presence, of his eloquent words and earnest work, of
his generous deeds and noble example in the discharge of
all the duties of citizenship, will ever remain with those
who knew him best and loved him most.</p>

<p class='c018'>To his wife and children he has left a rich inheritance
in his honored name, though he had left them nothing else.
The people of his State and of the South owe him a large
debt of gratitude. He served them faithfully and devotedly.
What he said so well, only a few months ago, of
one who served with him, and who like him was stricken
down in the prime of his life, can be said of Henry Grady
himself. It is true of him also that “his leadership has
never been abused, its opportunities never wasted, its power
never prostituted, its suggestions never misdirected.”
Georgia surely is a better and more prosperous State
“because he lived in it and gave his life freely and daily to
her service.”</p>

<p class='c018'>And surely, again, “no better than this could be said of
any man,” as he said, and for as much to be written, in
truth and sincerity, over his grave, the best and proudest
man might be willing to toil through life and to meet death
at last, as he met it, “unfearing and tranquil.” His own
life, and the record and the close of his life, are best
described in these his own words, written ten months ago,
and, perhaps, no more fitting epitaph could be inscribed on
his tomb than the words which he spoke, almost at the last,
in the hour of his death: “Send word to mother to pray
for me. Tell her if I die, that I died while trying to serve
the South—the land I love so well.”</p>
<hr class='c049' />
<div>
  <span class='pageno' id='Page_526'>526</span>
  <h3 class='c016'>A BRILLIANT CAREER.</h3>
</div>
<hr class='c019' />

<div class='nf-center-c0'>
  <div class='nf-center'>
    <div><i>From the “Baltimore Sun.”</i></div>
  </div>
</div>

<p class='c018'><span class='sc'>The</span> death yesterday at Atlanta of Henry W. Grady,
editor of the <i>Constitution</i> of that city, is a distressing
shock to the thousands North and South who had learned
to admire his vigorous and impressive utterances on public
subjects. Young, enterprising, industrious and devoted to
the material advancement of his State and section, he was
a type of the progressive Southern man of our day. In the
face of the greatest possible difficulties and discouragements
he achieved success, intellectual and financial, of a
most substantial character. Mr. Grady’s career was brief
and meteoric, but it was also a useful career. His strong
grasp of present facts enabled him to guide and stimulate
the energies of those about him into profitable channels.
Full of ideas, which his intense, nervous nature fused into
sentiment, he exerted an influence which greatly promoted
the progress and prosperity of his section. Outside his
own State Mr. Grady will be best known, however, as a
brilliant and eloquent speaker. For some years past his
speeches at social gatherings of a semi-public character in
Northern cities have attracted a great deal of attention
North and South. His earlier utterances were a trifle effusive,
conceding overmuch, perhaps, under the inspiration of
the moment, to the prejudices of his audience. In discussing
fiscal measures he was sometimes at fault, political
economy not being his strongest point, but as regards the
relations of the sections, and especially as regards the so-called
Southern problem, he was a beacon of light to his
Northern auditors. His last speech at Boston the other
day—the delivery of which may be said to have brought
about his death—is a fitting monument of his genius and
impassioned eloquence. It thrilled the country with its
assertion of the right of the white race of the South to
intelligent government and its determination never again
<span class='pageno' id='Page_527'>527</span>to submit to the misrule of the African. Mr. Grady’s
speech on this occasion was remarkable not only for its
fervor and frankness—which conciliated his most unrelenting
political opponents—but also for its wealth of recent
fact, concisely stated and conclusive upon the point he had
in view. Is the full vote, as shown by the census, not
always cast in Southern elections? Neither is it cast in
Northern States, Mr. Grady showed, appealing to the facts
of the elections of November last. “When,” President
Harrison asked in his last message, referring to the colored
voter of the South—“when is he to have those full civic
rights which have so long been his in law?” He will have
them, Mr. Grady answered, when the poor, ignorant, and
dependent employé everywhere gets his. The colored
voter of the South cannot be reasonably expected, he
pointed out, to exercise his civil rights to a greater extent
than such rights are exercised by persons in his position in
the North and West. The point of view here taken was
new to Mr. Grady’s audience and new to the Northern
press. The effect of his speech, as a whole, upon Northern
opinion has been, it is believed, most beneficial. In the
South it was welcomed as an effort to put the Northern partisan
in a position to see in their true light the hardship
and danger with which the South is perpetually confronted.
In some remarks made later at the Bay State Club, in
Boston, Mr. Grady adverted to a larger problem—one that
confronts the whole country. “It seems to me,” he said,
“that the great struggle in this country is a fight against
the consolidation of power, the concentration of capital, the
domination of local sovereignty and the dwarfing of the
individual citizen. It is the democratic doctrine that the
citizen is master, and that he is best fitted to carry out the
diversified interests of the country. It is the pride, I
believe, of the South that her simple and sturdy faith, the
homogeneous nature of her people, elevate her citizens
above party. We teach the man that his best guide is the
consciousness of his sovereignty; that he may not ask the
national government for anything the State can do for him,
<span class='pageno' id='Page_528'>528</span>and not ask anything of the State that he can do for himself.”
These views mark the breadth of the speaker’s
statesmanship, and show that it embraced interests wider
than those of his own section—as wide, in fact, as the continent
itself. Mr. Grady died of pneumonia, complicated
with nervous prostration. His early death, at the outset of
a most promising career, is a warning to others of our
public men who are under a constant nervous tension. Attempting
too much, they work under excessive pressure,
and when, owing to some accident, they need a margin of
strength, there is none.</p>
<hr class='c049' />
<h3 class='c016'>A PUBLIC CALAMITY.</h3>
<hr class='c019' />

<div class='nf-center-c0'>
  <div class='nf-center'>
    <div><i>From the “Selma Times and Mail.”</i></div>
  </div>
</div>

<p class='c018'><span class='sc'>At</span> forty minutes past three o’clock on Monday morning
Henry W. Grady, the distinguished editor of the
Atlanta <i>Constitution</i>, died at his home of pneumonia.
No announcement of the death of any leading man of the
South has ever created a more profound impression, or
caused more genuine and universal sorrow than will the
sad news of the demise of this brilliant young Georgian,
coming as it does when he was at the very zenith of his
fame and usefulness. The death of Mr. Grady is a public
calamity that will be mourned by the entire country. It
is no exaggeration to say that no orator in the United
States since the days of S. S. Prentiss has had such wonderful
power over his audiences as Henry W. Grady.
This fact has been most forcibly illustrated by his two
memorable speeches at the North, the first in New York
something over a year ago, the second recently delivered
in Boston and with the praises of which the country is
still ringing. Sad, sad indeed to human perception that
such a brilliant light should have been extinguished when
<span class='pageno' id='Page_529'>529</span>it was shining the brightest and doing the most to dispel
the mists of prejudice. But an All-wise Providence knows
best. His servant had run his course, he had fulfilled his
destiny. The heart of the South has been made sad to
overflowing in a short space of time. Davis—Grady, types
of the past and the present, two noble representatives of
the highest order of Southern manhood and intelligence,
representing two notable eras, have passed away and left a
brilliant mark on the pages of history.</p>

<p class='c018'>Henry W. Grady was a native Georgian. He was born
in Athens in 1851, and consequently was too young to participate
in the late war, but his father lost his life in
defense of the Confederate cause, and the son was an
ardent lover of the South. At an early age he developed
remarkable talent for journalism and entered the profession
as the editor of the Rome, Ga., <i>Commercial</i>.
After conducting this paper for several years he moved to
Atlanta, and established the <i>Daily Herald</i>. When Mr.
Grady came to the <i>Constitution</i> in 1880 he soon became
famous as a correspondent, and his letters were read far
and wide, and when he assumed editorial control of the
<i>Constitution</i>, the paper at once felt the impulse of his
genius, and from that day has pushed steadily forward in
popular favor and in influence until both it and its brilliant
editor gained national reputation. No agencies have
been more potent for the advancement of Atlanta than
Grady and the <i>Constitution</i>, the three indissolubly linked
together, and either of the three names suggests the other.</p>

<p class='c018'>As a type of the vigorous young Southerner of the so-called
New South Mr. Grady has won the admiration of
the country and gone far to the front, but he has been the
soul of loyalty to his section, and has ever struck downright
and powerful blows for the Democratic cause and for
the rule of intelligence in the South. From the Potomac
to the Rio Grande all over our beautiful Southland to-day,
there will be mourning and sympathy with Georgia for the
loss of her gifted son.</p>
<hr class='c049' />
<div>
  <span class='pageno' id='Page_530'>530</span>
  <h3 class='c016'>GRIEF TEMPERS TO-DAY’S JOY.</h3>
</div>
<hr class='c019' />

<div class='nf-center-c0'>
  <div class='nf-center'>
    <div><i>From the “Austin, Tex., Statesman.”</i></div>
  </div>
</div>

<p class='c018'><span class='sc'>When</span> an old man, full of years, and smitten with the
decrepitude they bring, goes down to the grave, the world,
though saddened, bows its acquiescence. It is recognized
that lonely journey is a thing foredoomed from the foundation
of the world—it is the way of all things mortal. But
when a young man, full of the vigor of a sturdy life growing
into its prime, is suddenly stricken from the number of
the quick, a nation is startled and, resentful of the stroke,
would rebel, but that such decrees come from a Power
that earth cannot reach, and which, though working
beyond the ken of fallible understanding, yet doeth all
things well.</p>

<p class='c018'>For the second time within the past two weeks the
South has been called upon to mourn the demise of a
chosen and well-beloved son. The two men may be classified
according to an analysis first of all instituted by him
whose funeral to-day takes place in Atlanta. Jefferson
Davis was typical of the Old South—Henry W. Grady of
the New. And by this we mean not that the South has
put away those things that, as a chosen and proud people,
they have cherished since first there was a State government
in the South. They have the same noble type of
manhood, the same chivalrous ambitions, the same love of
home and state and country, they are as determined in
purpose, as unswerving in the application of principle.
But what is meant is that the material conditions of the
South have changed, the economics of an empire of territory
have been radically altered. Not only has a new class
of field labor taken the place of the long-accustomed slave
help, but industries unknown in the South before the war
have invaded our fair lands, and the rush and whir of
manufactories are all around us. It is in this that the
<span class='pageno' id='Page_531'>531</span>South has changed. Jefferson Davis, in his declining years
ushered into the reign of peace, was never truly identified
with the actualities of the living present, in the sense of a
man who, from the present, was for himself carving out a
future. His life was past, and for him the past contained
the most of earthly life—his was an existence of history,
not of activity—he was the personification of the Old South.</p>

<p class='c018'>Mr. Grady was too young to have participated in the
Civil War. He was then but a boy, and has grown into
manhood and power since the time when the issues that
gave birth to that war were settled. His has been a life
of the realistic present. He brought to a study of the
changes that were going on around him a keenly perceptive
and a well-trained mind—he studied the problems that
surrounded him thoroughly and conscientiously, and his
conclusions were almost invariably the soundest. He realized
the importance and responsibility of his position as
the editor of a widely circulating newspaper, and he was
unfaltering in his zeal to discharge his every duty with
credit to himself and profit to his people. He was the
champion of the Southern people through the columns of
his paper and upon the rostrum—and when he fell beneath
the unexpected stroke of the grim reaper, the South lost a
true and valiant friend, the ablest defender with pen and
word retort this generation has known.</p>

<p class='c018'>As two weeks ago the South bowed in sorrow over the
last leaf that had fluttered down from the tree of the past,
so to-day, as the mortal remains of Henry W. Grady are
lowered into the tomb, she should cease from the merriment
of the gladsome holiday season, and drop a tear upon the
grave of him who, though so young in years, had in such
brilliant paragraphs bidden defiance to ancient prejudice,
scoffed at partisan bigotry, and proudly invited the closest
scrutiny and criticism of the South. That South in him
has lost a warm-hearted friend whom manhood bids us
mourn.</p>
<hr class='c049' />
<div>
  <span class='pageno' id='Page_532'>532</span>
  <h3 class='c016'>HENRY GRADY’S DEATH.</h3>
</div>
<hr class='c019' />

<div class='nf-center-c0'>
  <div class='nf-center'>
    <div><i>From the “Charleston Evening Sun.”</i></div>
  </div>
</div>

<p class='c018'><span class='sc'>Henry Grady</span> is dead.</p>

<p class='c018'>With what an electric shock of pain and grief will this
simple announcement thrill the entire country. His death,
following close upon the death of the chieftain of the Old
South—full of age and honors, and followed to the grave
by the reverential and chastened grief of a whole people—is
in striking contrast and more poignant in its nature,
since the young Hercules thus prematurely cut down had
just sprung to the front as leader and chieftain of the New
South, and was largely the embodiment of her renaissance,
her rejuvenescent life and hopes and aspirations, as the
other was of her dead and sacred past.</p>

<p class='c018'>In the prime of life and the flower of robust manhood,
having just signalized himself by a triumph in which all
his powers of culture, talent, and patriotism were taxed to
the highest and nobly responded to the demand made
them, and having placed himself in the foremost ranks of
the world’s great men as a splendid type of the South’s
peculiar qualities, as a worthy heir of the virtues of the
Old South, and as the strongest champion of the hopes of
the New, his death at this time is to her a distinct calamity.
And yet for his own individual fame’s sake it is to be
doubted whether Mr. Grady, lived he “a thousand years,
would find” himself “so apt to die,” as now in the zenith
of his fame, with his “blushing honors thick upon him.”</p>

<p class='c018'>With Burke he could say, “I can shut the book. I
might wish to read a page or two more. But this is
enough for my measure.”</p>

<p class='c018'>Mr. Grady had gained the attention of the Northern
ear and the confidence of the Northern people as no other
Southerner could boast of having done. When those
“grave and reverend seigniors” of the stern, inflexible,
unemotional Puritan race, who not a fortnight since, in
<span class='pageno' id='Page_533'>533</span>Boston’s banquet hall, wept manly unused tears at the
magic eloquence and pathos of the young Southerner’s
words, and fell to love him for the uncompromising truth,
the manliness, the directness and the candor of them, and
for the personal grace and fascination and humanitarian
kindliness of the speaker—when they learn that this being,
so lately among them, the chief object of their care and
attention, and so sentient-seeming and bounding with life
and the God-given inspiration of more than mortal vigor
called genius—that this being, so gifted, so sanguine, lies
cold and breathless in the chill arms of death, shall they
not, and through them the great people of whom they are
the proudest representatives, mingle their tears with ours
over the mortal remains of this new dead son of the South,
in whose heart was no rankling of the old deathly fratricidal
bitterness, but whose voice was ever raised for the
re-cementing of the fraternal ties so rudely broken by the
late huge world-shaking internecine strife?</p>

<p class='c018'>And shall not his great appeal—yet echoing over the
country—for justice, moderation, forbearance, appreciation
for the South and the social evil under which she is providentially
unequally laboring to her destiny, be inerasibly
impressed upon the country, coming as it does from the
lips of a dying man?</p>

<p class='c018'>In the death of Jefferson Davis the last barrier to a
complete reunion of the sections was removed. In the
death of Henry Grady the North and the South will be
brought together to mourn a mutual bereavement. If it
shall be the cause of completing the reunion of the sections,
his sad and untimely death will not have been in
vain.</p>
<hr class='c049' />
<h3 class='c016'>TWO DEAD MEN.</h3>
<hr class='c019' />

<div class='nf-center-c0'>
  <div class='nf-center'>
    <div><i>From the “Greenville, S. C., News.”</i></div>
  </div>
</div>

<p class='c018'><span class='sc'>In</span> the early days of this last month of the year Jefferson
Davis, old, feeble and weary, was lifted gently from
<span class='pageno' id='Page_534'>534</span>this world to the other, borne across the river in the arms
of Death as softly as a tired child carried on a father’s
breast. Yesterday Henry Grady, a young, strong man,
rejoicing in his growing strength, with the blood of life and
power and hope bounding through his veins, flushed with
the triumph of new and splendid achievement and returned
to his home with the proud burden of fresh laurels well
won, was swiftly struck down by that relentless power and
taken from the world he graced and lighted, to be known
and heard no more.</p>

<p class='c018'>When Mr. Davis died the people of the South turned
back to mourn, to heap high the tributes of their honor and
affection on the grave wherein sleeps the representative of
a cause lost except to memory, of a past gone forever.
When Grady went down, a captain of the host, a leader of
the present battle, fell, and along all the far-stretching lines
the shock and loss will be felt.</p>

<p class='c018'>He was happy in the time of his death—happy as is the
soldier who falls in the supreme moment of triumph, when
he has struck a grand and sweeping blow for his cause and
the proclamation of his glory and jubilation of his comrades
make music to attend his soul in its departure. He had led
in the steady march of the South upward to prosperity and
a high place among the peoples of the earth; his watchful
eye was everywhere in the ranks; his spirit of courage and
hope was felt everywhere. His voice rang out clear and
stirring as the trumpet’s blare to arouse the lagging, to call
the faltering forward, to fill all the air with faith in the
South and the glory of her future, so that weak men grew
strong in breathing it and the timid were fired with the
valor of belief. He stood high and far in the front and
proclaimed to all the world the spirit and the purpose of
the young men of his country—the men young in heart and
living and thinking in the atmosphere and light of to-day.
He proclaimed it so well that the measured music of his
words was heard above the clamoring of hate and penetrated
the dullness of indifferent ears, moving the hearts of the
people to unity and stimulating the manhood of the country
<span class='pageno' id='Page_535'>535</span>to shake from it factional and sectional rage and consecrate
itself to a common patriotism, a single love for a
great Republic.</p>

<p class='c018'>That was his work, and he died doing it as no other man
had done it. He had gained his place by the power of his
own strength before his years had brought him to the prime
of his manhood, and he fell in it just after he had stood
shoulder to shoulder and shared hearing and honors with
the country’s foremost man who has occupied the country’s
highest place.</p>

<p class='c018'>His life was crowded with successful endeavor; in deeds,
in achievement for his country and his people and in honors
he was an old man. He had done in less than two-score
years more than it is given to most men to do to the time
of whitened hair and trembling limbs, and he had earned
his rest. The world had little more to offer him but its
inevitable cares and disappointments; the promise from his
past was that he had much more to do for the world and
his fellow-man. The loss is his country’s.</p>

<p class='c018'>His whole country—and especially the South he loved
so well—owes to his memory what it cannot now express
to him—honor and gratitude.</p>

<p class='c018'>His powerful presence is gone; the keen and watchful
eyes are closed forever; the vibrant voice is hushed. But
his words will live, his work will last and grow; his memory
will stand high on the roll of the South’s sons who have
wrought gloriously for her in war and in peace, who by
valor or wisdom have won the right to be remembered with
love and called with pride.</p>
<hr class='c049' />
<h3 class='c016'>GRADY’S RENOWN.</h3>
<hr class='c019' />

<div class='nf-center-c0'>
  <div class='nf-center'>
    <div><i>From the “Birmingham News.”</i></div>
  </div>
</div>

<p class='c018'><span class='sc'>No</span> such universality of personal poignant sorrow ever
pervaded a city as that which overshadows the capital of
Georgia. There, everybody knew Henry Grady, and it
<span class='pageno' id='Page_536'>536</span>was not the journalist and orator and statesman they
saluted familiarly everywhere—in public assemblies and
on the streets and at their firesides. Every home in the
city was in fact the home of the kindly, generous, laughing
philosopher, whose business it was to make his people
happy, his city prosperous, and his State the foremost of
Southern commonwealths.</p>

<p class='c018'>And then his grand purpose in life was the restoration
of the unity and integrity of the States. His speeches in
New York and Boston, that will live as long as unhappy
memories of inter-State hostilities, which he proposed to
dissipate forever, followed one another naturally. The
first portrayed the necessity for a perfect Federal Union.
The second and last defined the only method of achieving
it. The first paved the way for a presidential contest,
from which sectional issues were almost wholly eviscerated.
President Cleveland was so thoroughly imbued
with the sentiment and purpose of Grady’s oration at the
New England dinner in New York that he hazarded, or
sacrificed, deliberately the certainty of partisan and personal
triumph that the country might escape greater
calamities, involved necessarily in a conflict in which
African ex-slaves became the sole subject of passionate
controversy and maddening declamation. The campaign
was one of practical and not sentimental issues.</p>

<p class='c018'>Everybody has read the recent more wonderful outburst
of passionate eloquence that startled Boston and the
East, and forced New England, for the first time, to contemplate
the relations of races in the South as did Mr.
Grady, and as do New Englanders themselves, having
homes in the Gulf States. Facts propounded were unquestionable,
palpable truths. There was no answer to his
irrefragable logic. Grady’s matchless eloquence charmed
every listener. His peroration will become the choicest
specimen of impassioned oratory declaimed by schoolboys
in every academy in which proper pedagogues inculcate
proper patriotism in all this broad land.</p>

<p class='c018'>Then came Grady’s death. It shocked the country
<span class='pageno' id='Page_537'>537</span>that a man so gifted and the only American capable of
pronouncing an oration as faultless as the philippics of
Demosthenes, or as the sturdy, resistless orations of Gladstone,
could not live immortal as his prophetic sentences
that still illumine the brain and electrify the heart of an
entire people.</p>

<p class='c018'>Grady’s two speeches in the East, if he had never written
or spoken aught else, would be the Leuctra and Mantinea,
immortal victories and only daughters of an Epaminondas.
If there survived no other children of Henry
Grady’s genius than these two, his renown would be as
lasting as the glory and greatness and peace of the Republic
which he gave his life to assure.</p>
<hr class='c049' />
<h3 class='c016'>HENRY W. GRADY.</h3>
<hr class='c019' />

<div class='nf-center-c0'>
  <div class='nf-center'>
    <div><i>From the “Augusta Chronicle.”</i></div>
  </div>
</div>

<p class='c018'><span class='sc'>Two</span> weeks ago the people of the South were called
upon to mourn the death of Jefferson Davis. An aged
man was gathered to his home in the fullness of years, with
his life-work done. He was the embodiment of a sacred
past, and men turned with reverence to do him honor for
the cause he had championed.</p>

<p class='c018'>To-day the people again note the presence of the Great
Reaper. This time a young man is cut down in the prime
of life. His work lay bright before him. His face was toward
the morning. The one represented all that the South
had been: the other much that she hoped to be. He was
the inspiration of a renewed and awakened South with a
heart full of reverence and hope and buoyancy—bound to
the past by tender memories, but confident of the future
with all the heartiness of a sanguine nature. Possibly it
was because of the progressive sentiments which he
breathed that all sections and all people are to-day in
grief over the gifted dead. There is mourning in every
<span class='pageno' id='Page_538'>538</span>Georgia hamlet, such as there has been for no young man
since Thomas R. R. Cobb was brought home a corpse from
Fredericksburg. There are tributes of respect from Boston,
where he stood last week, with his face aglow with
the light of a newer life, to Texas, where last year he delivered
a message of fiery eloquence to his people. It was the
national feeling which Henry Grady had kindled in the
South—a faith in our future, a devotion to the Union—a
practical setting to our destiny—that now lament the loss
of such a man, and which sends over the wires from every
section of the country the words, “Untimely, how untimely!”</p>

<p class='c018'>Henry W. Grady was born in Athens. He was but
thirty-eight when he died. His father was a country merchant
who kept his family in competency, and the house,
where little Henry used to leave his romping playmates to
read Dickens under the trees, now stands on Prince avenue,
with its deep shades, its gleaming white pillars, its high
fence and old-time appearance. When war came on the
elder Grady went out with his company. His name now
indents the marble side of the soldiers’ monument in
Athens—erected to those who fell in battle. Educated at
the State University, Henry Woodfin Grady graduated in
1868. In his class were Albert H. Cox, George T. Goetchius,
P. W. Meldrin, Julius L. Brown, W. W. Thomas and
J. H. Rucker—among the living—and Charles S. DuBose,
Walter S. Gordon, Davenport Jackson, and F. Bowdre
Phinizy among the dead. In college Henry Grady was
more of a reader than a student. He knew every character
in Dickens and could repeat the Christmas Stories by heart.
He was a bright, companionable boy, full of frankness,
brimming over with fun and kindness, and without a
thought of the great career that lay before him. From
Athens he went to Rome where he engaged in newspaper
work. His letters to the Atlanta papers attracted the attention
of Col. I. W. Avery, who gave him several odd
jobs. There was a dash and creaminess in his sketch work
which became popular at once. From Rome young Grady
<span class='pageno' id='Page_539'>539</span>went to Atlanta, and with Col. Robert A. Alston started
the Atlanta <i>Herald</i>.</p>

<p class='c018'>From this time he has been a public figure in Georgia.
The <i>Herald</i> was immensely popular. Its methods were all
new. Grady widened its columns to make it look like
Horace Greeley’s paper, and hired special engines in imitation
of James Gordon Bennett. He made money but spent
it lavishly for news. His editorial sketches were wonderfully
clever. His “Last Man in the Procession,” “The
Trained Journalist,” “Toombs and Brown,” attracted wide
attention. But the <i>Herald</i> could not stand this high pressure.
Under the cool, skilled management of the <i>Constitution</i>,
Grady’s paper succumbed, and with it all of his private
means were lost. The young man in 1876 was absolutely
penniless. It was then his genius burst forth,
however. The New York <i>Herald</i> ordered everything he
could write. The Augusta <i>Constitutionalist</i> paid for his
letters from Atlanta. He started a Sunday paper, which
he afterwards gave up, and pretty soon he was regularly
engaged by the Atlanta <i>Constitution</i>. During the electoral
trouble in Florida, Grady kept the Northern papers full of
luminous sketches about politics and fraud. Then he commenced
to write up the orange interests in Florida, winning
the attention of the North and attracting scores of visitors
to the Land of Flowers. Next he took up bee culture and
stock raising in Georgia. He made the sand pear of
Thomasville famous. He revived the melon interest, and,
in his wizard-like way, got the people to believe in diversified
farming. There was a richness and lightness in his
touch which added interest to the most practical subject.
What he handled was adorned. He drew people to Atlanta
by his pen-pictures of a growing town. In the Philadelphia
<i>Times</i> of this period were fine letters about public men and
battles of the war. He became a personality as well as a
power in journalism. No man was better known in Georgia
than Henry Grady.</p>

<p class='c018'>Henry Grady, shortly after he left college, was married
to Miss Jule King, daughter of Dr. Wm. King, of Athens.
<span class='pageno' id='Page_540'>540</span>Two children, Gussie and Henry, bear his name. Mr.
Grady’s work on the <i>Constitution</i> was inspirational. When
he became interested he would apply himself closely, working
night and day in a campaign or upon a crusade. Then
he would lighten up, contenting himself with general supervision;
frequently taking trips away for diversion. He
was singularly temperate—not drinking wine or using
tobacco; but his emotional nature kept him constantly at
concert pitch. His nervous system was in perpetual strain
and he sank as soon as stricken.</p>

<p class='c018'>It was in 1877 that he made his first appearance as a
speaker. His lecture that year, entitled “Patchwork
Palace,” showed his fancy and talent as a talker as well as
a writer. Then came his speeches in the prohibition contest
in 1885. His New England banquet address in December,
1886, was his first distinctive political speech. It
stamped him as an eloquent orator and made him national
fame. His oration at the Augusta Exposition on Thanksgiving
day last year was a perfect effort, and his Dallas
address in October was a fearless and manly analysis of the
race problem. It was this subject, classified and digested,
that made up his Boston address, where, last week, he completed
his fame and met his death. His address last year
at the University of Virginia was a model of its kind.</p>

<p class='c018'>Of late years Henry Grady had been settling down to
the level of a solid worker, a close thinker and safe leader.
If there was anything in his way to wide influence in earlier
life, it was his irrepressible fancy and bubbling spirit.
These protruded in speech and writing. But as he grew
older he lopped off this redundant tegument. He never
lost the artist’s touch or the poet’s enthusiasm. But age
and experience brought conservatism. He became a power
in politics from the day the <i>Herald</i> backed Gordon for the
Senate in 1872. He followed Ben Hill in his campaign with
great skill, and in 1880 did as much as any man to win the
great Colquitt-Brown victory. In 1886 he managed Gen.
Gordon’s canvass for Governor, and in 1887 planned and
conducted the first successful Piedmont Exposition.</p>

<p class='c018'><span class='pageno' id='Page_541'>541</span>Some may say that Henry Grady died at the right time
for his fame. This may be true as to others, but not as to
him. They know not, who thus judge him, what was in
the man. Some mature early in life and their mentality is
not increased by length of years, but the mind of our dead
friend was constantly developing. The evidence of this
was his Boston speech, which in our opinion was the best
ever delivered by him. No man could foresee the possibilities
of such a mind as his. He had just reached the
table land on the mountain top, from which his mental
vision could calmly survey the true situation of the South,
and his listening countrymen would hear his inspiring
admonitions of truth, wisdom and patriotism. Mr. Grady
had firmly planted his feet on the ladder of fame. He had
the genius of statesmanship, and, had he lived, we have no
doubt that he would have measured up to the full stature
of the most gifted statesmen whose names adorn the annals
of the Republic.</p>

<p class='c018'>In speaking of the loss to this section, we do not wish
to indulge in the language of exaggeration when we say
that the South has lost her most gifted, eloquent and useful
son. His death to Georgia is a personal bereavement.
His loss to the country is a public one. He loved Georgia.
He loved the South. With the ardor of a patriot he loved
his whole country, and his last public words touched the
patriotic heart of the people and the responsive throb came
back from all sections for a re-united people and a restored
Union.</p>

<p class='c018'>Henry Grady has not lived in vain. He is dead, but his
works will live after him and bear fruits in the field of
patriotism.</p>

<p class='c018'>There was one thing about Henry Grady. He never
ran for office or seemed to care for public honor. In the
white heat of politics for fifteen years he has been mostly
concerned in helping others. The young men of the State
who have sought and secured his aid in striving for public
station are many. But until last year when his own name
was mentioned for the national Senate he had shunned
<span class='pageno' id='Page_542'>542</span>such prominence. At that time it was seriously urged
against him that he had never served in the Legislature
and that his training had not been in deliberative bodies.
But the time was coming when he must have held high
public place. The Governor’s chair or the Senator’s toga
would have been his in the near future. His leadership in
practical matters, in great public works, the impulse he
had given the people in building up the material interests
of the South were carrying him so rapidly to the front that
he could not have kept out of public office. But his
position at the time of his death was unique. He was a
power behind the throne, mightier than the throne itself.
He was a Warwick like Thurlow Weed. Whether official
station could have increased his usefulness is a question.
Whether his influence would have been advanced by going
into politics was a problem which he had never settled in
his own mind. Already he had a constituency greater than
that of governor or senator. He spoke every week to more
people than the chief magistrate of any state in the Union.
He employed a vehicle of more power than the great seal
of the State. He wrote with the pen of genius and spoke
the free inspiration of an untrammeled citizen. He was
under no obligations but duty and his own will. He made
friends rather than votes and his reward was the love and
admiration of his people—a more satisfactory return than
the curule chair.</p>

<p class='c018'>And so his death, cruel, untimely and crushing, may
have been a crown to a noble, devoted and gifted life.
His happiness, his influence, his reputation had little to
ask in the turmoil of politics. Its uncertainties and ingratitudes
would have bruised a guileless, generous heart.
Not that he was unequal to it, but because he did not need
public office, may we seek satisfaction in the fact that he
lived and died a faithful worker and a private citizen. His
last plea was for the people of a slandered section—an
answer to the President that “the South was not striving
to settle the negro problem.” It was an inspiration and
wrung praise from friend and opponent. It cost him his
<span class='pageno' id='Page_543'>543</span>life, but no man ever gave up life in nobler cause. He
lived to see his State prosperous, his reputation Union-wide,
his name honored and loved, his professional work
full of success, and no man has gone to the grave with
greater evidences of tenderness and respect.</p>

<p class='c018'>As Grady said of Dawson, so let us say of Grady:
“God keep thee, comrade; rest thy soul in peace, thou
golden-hearted gentleman!”</p>
<hr class='c049' />
<h3 class='c016'>TRUE AND LOYAL.</h3>
<hr class='c019' />

<div class='nf-center-c0'>
  <div class='nf-center'>
    <div><i>From the “Athens Banner.”</i></div>
  </div>
</div>

<p class='c018'><span class='sc'>Henry Grady</span> has done as much for his country as any
man, be he living or dead. He has stood by his people
and their institutions, and his pen and his voice were
always heard in their defence. Henry Grady died as he
lived—battling for the good name of the South, and in defending
his people from the slander of their enemies. In
their grief over the death of this brilliant young journalist
and statesman, his section will shed as bitter tears as were
showered upon the bier of Jefferson Davis. One died full
of years and honor—the other was cut down in the prime
of manhood, and spread out before him was the brightest
future ever vouchsafed to man. His loss to the South is
irreparable. There is no one who can take his place.</p>

<p class='c018'>But the beautiful traits of Grady’s character were best
known to his own people. He was as true to his friends as
is the needle to the pole—his hands were ever open to appeals
for charity—he was loyalty itself—his heart was as
guileless as a child’s and as innocent as a woman’s—his
whole aim and ambition was to do good, develop his section,
and stand by his people, and do manly battle for their
good name and their rights.</p>
<hr class='c049' />
<div>
  <span class='pageno' id='Page_544'>544</span>
  <h3 class='c016'>MR. GRADY’S DEATH.</h3>
</div>
<hr class='c019' />

<div class='nf-center-c0'>
  <div class='nf-center'>
    <div><i>From the “Savannah Times.”</i></div>
  </div>
</div>

<p class='c018'><span class='sc'>Henry Woodfin Grady</span>, Georgia’s bright particular
genius, is dead!</p>

<p class='c018'>A dread disease contracted in the bleak North barely a
fortnight ago, cut him down ere he had hardly stepped
across the threshold of what promised to be the most
remarkable life of its generation. Here, in his dearly loved
mother State, his brilliant mind was a source of pride to
the whole people. Throughout the length and breadth of
the South, which owed him incalculably much, Henry
Grady’s name is a household word. And as no other
Southerner, save possibly our illustrious Gordon, he had
caught the ear, aye, and the heart of hearts of the Northern
land. Yes, and beyond the seas his fame had gone,
and in foreign climes his intellect had impressed the intellectual.
To the manner born, he loved his State and his
South with all the ardor of the highest type of patriot.
His tongue was never silent nor his inkhorn dry when our
people were aspersed. He met traducers with truths and
a glittering wit which were matchless.</p>

<p class='c018'>Grady was a genius born. His work has proved it.
Ah! the sad part of it is that Death has snatched him with
so much of the grand mission which was plainly his unfinished.
Nature seldom endows her children with the
gifts with which she favored Grady. Among modern orators
he was the peer of any and his pen spoke as eloquently
as his tongue. Whether at his desk or facing an audience,
his thoughts found expression in a rapid, graceful, forcible
style. No man was more entertaining in private life,
though it must be confessed that Mr. Grady had moments
when he became so absorbed in his own thoughts that he
was oblivious to what was passing around him, and men
who knew him not were apt to do him an injustice in judging
him. His life was devoted to Atlanta and Georgia,
<span class='pageno' id='Page_545'>545</span>and to the effacing of the sectional line which divided the
South and the North. The bringing of the people of the
two sections into closer relations of thought and industry
was a mission which it did seem had been especially
reserved for him. No man in the North has shown the
breadth of view which marked this Georgian. His last
public utterance attracted the attention of the English-speaking
world as no other speech in recent years has done
and, while the applause was still echoing from shore to
shore of this continent, he was stricken.</p>

<p class='c018'>In his chosen profession, newspaper work, Grady illustrated
its great possibilities. What the elder Bennett,
Thurlow Weed and Greeley were to the press of the North,
Grady was to the press of the South. Public honors were
undoubtedly awaiting him, and he had but to stretch out
his hand.</p>

<p class='c018'>A Roman emperor’s boast was that he found the Eternal
City one of bricks and left it one of marble. Henry
Grady found Atlanta an unpretentious town and literally
made it the most progressive city in the South.</p>
<hr class='c049' />
<h3 class='c016'>A GREAT LOSS TO GEORGIA.</h3>
<hr class='c019' />

<div class='nf-center-c0'>
  <div class='nf-center'>
    <div><i>From the “Columbus Enquirer-Sun.”</i></div>
  </div>
</div>

<p class='c018'>“<span class='sc'>Henry W. Grady</span> died at 3:40 o’clock this morning.”</p>

<p class='c018'>Such was the brief dispatch received early yesterday
morning by the <i>Enquirer-Sun</i>. A simple announcement
of the death of a private citizen, but of one who had
endeared himself to the people of his native State and the
entire South, and little wonder is it that it should have
caused considerable sensation throughout the city and been
the cause of numerous inquiries.</p>

<p class='c018'>The brilliant Grady dead! He who had just returned
from a triumphant ovation at the North where he attracted
profound attention by the delivery of one of the grandest,
most comprehensive and magnificent speeches on a subject
<span class='pageno' id='Page_546'>546</span>of vital importance to the South and the country—cold in
the embrace of death. The news was so sad and unexpected
that it was difficult to realize, and surprise was
engulfed in one universal expression of sorrow and regret,
as the full force of the direful announcement, “Grady is
dead!” was impressed on the public mind.</p>

<p class='c018'>The bright, genial, brilliant and magnetic Grady! The
fearless, eloquent and talented young Georgian whose name
is synonymous with that of his native State throughout
this broad land; the earnest, industrious, versatile and able
journalist, dead! Cut down in the very prime of life; at
the very threshold of a career which held forth greater
promise of fame and honors than that of any man in the
State at the present moment. This knowledge adds weight
to the grief that fills every heart in Georgia at the thought
that Henry Grady is no more.</p>

<p class='c018'>His death is not only a great loss to Atlanta in whose
building up he had given the full vigor of his great intellect
and tireless energy, the State, whose devoted lover and
earnest pleader he was, and the South at large, whose fearless
eloquent champion he had ever proved himself on
many memorable occasions, but to the country. No man
of the present age has done more to bring about a thorough
understanding between the two sections than Henry Grady.
While there may have been in his two notable speeches at
New York and Boston some declarations in which there
was not universal coincidence of opinion, either North or
South, it is generally recognized that great good has been
accomplished in giving the intelligent and fair-minded
people of the North a clearer and better insight into
Southern affairs and removing unjust prejudices. The
people of the South and of Georgia owe much to Henry
Grady, and will ever hold in grateful and affectionate remembrance
his good work in their behalf.</p>

<p class='c018'>Georgia has not produced a citizen who, in private station,
has achieved such renown, and who has so absorbed
the affections of the people as Henry W. Grady. In every
city, town, and hamlet throughout the State, will his death
<span class='pageno' id='Page_547'>547</span>be mourned, and regret, deep and universal, expressed that
the State should be deprived of the services of a citizen so
useful and valuable at almost the very commencement of a
glorious and brilliant career.</p>

<p class='c018'>Grady was magnetic, eloquent, warm-hearted, and impulsive,
and numbered his personal and devoted friends,
as he did his admirers, by the thousands. The writer had
known him long and intimately, and thoroughly appreciated
his kindness of heart and the strength of his friendship,
and his regret at the loss of the State is heightened
by the knowledge of the loss of a personal friend and associate.</p>

<p class='c018'>The sincerity of the grief which pervades Georgia to-day
is the greatest tribute that can be paid to the memory of
this peerless young Georgian who, in his peculiar magnetism,
was simply incomparable.</p>

<p class='c018'>To his beloved wife and children, and his proud, fond
mother, at this hour of fearful bereavement the heartfelt
sympathies of the entire State are extended. May God in
his infinite mercy temper the force of this terrible blow to
them, and enable them to bow in Christian resignation to
His Divine will.</p>
<hr class='c049' />
<h3 class='c016'>THE MAN ELOQUENT.</h3>
<hr class='c019' />

<div class='nf-center-c0'>
  <div class='nf-center'>
    <div><i>From the “Rome Tribune.”</i></div>
  </div>
</div>

<p class='c018'><span class='sc'>In</span> the hush of that dark hour which just precedes the
dawn—in its silence and darkness, while Love kept vigil by
his couch of pain and breathed sweet benedictions on his
dying brow—the spirit of Henry Grady, the South’s
fame-crowned son—her lover and her champion—the Man
Eloquent—the courtly gentleman—whose laureled brow
while yet flushed with earth’s triumphs towered into immortality—the
spirit of this man of love and might passed
from the scenes which its radiance had illumined to the
loftier life of the world beyond.</p>

<p class='c018'><span class='pageno' id='Page_548'>548</span>From city to city and hamlet to hamlet the wires flashed
the sad intelligence. Men paused and doubted as the message
passed from lip to lip—paused with wet eyes and
wondering, stricken hearts.</p>

<p class='c018'>The scholar closed his book and reverently bent his head
in grief; the toiler in the sanctum stayed his pen and read
the message with moistened eyes; the merchant on the
busy mart sighed over its fatal sentences—men, women,
little children, lifted up their voices and wept.</p>

<p class='c018'>Our hearts can find no words to voice our grief for him.
And how idle are all words now! Vainly we vaunt his
virtues—his high nobility of soul—his talents fine—his
service to the State, and all the graces rare that crowned
his wondrous personality. Vainly, because these are well
known to men; and that great fame whose trumpet blast
has blown his name about the world, has also stamped it
deeply upon grateful, loving hearts, that rise up and call
him blessed.</p>

<p class='c018'>We would stand in silence in the presence of a death
like this; for the presence of the Lord is there, and the
place is sacred. The hand of God is in it: This man, who,
though he had reached the heights, was but upon the threshold
of his brilliant career—this man, elected to a high and
noble work, to whom we had entrusted the future of the
South, and sent him forth to fight her battles with the
world—in the morning of his days, in the midst of his
great usefulness, flushed with the triumphs of his last
and mightiest effort; with the applause of thousands ringing
in his ear and the “well-done” of his people crowning
all—suddenly, and without warning, renounces his worldly
honors—lays down the burden which he had but taken up,
and sighs farewell to all!</p>

<p class='c018'>We cannot understand it. The reality is too much!</p>

<div class='lg-container-b c031'>
  <div class='linegroup'>
    <div class='group'>
      <div class='line'>We falter where we firmly trod,</div>
      <div class='line in2'>And, falling with our weight of cares</div>
      <div class='line in2'>Upon the great world’s altar stairs</div>
      <div class='line'>That slope through darkness up to God,</div>
      <div class='line'>We stretch blind hands of Faith that grope!</div>
    </div>
  </div>
</div>

<p class='c024'><span class='pageno' id='Page_549'>549</span>But God reigns, and in the mystery of His providence
willeth all things well. Grady is dead. “He has fought
a good fight; he has finished his course; he has kept the
faith!” A hero, he died at his post; in the full blaze of
his fame, with the arms of the South around him, he breathed
away his life upon her breast. Could man desire more?</p>

<p class='c018'>The South will miss him long and sorely. There is no
man to take his place; to do that high, especial work which
he has done so well. Aye! miss him, sweet South, and
shed for him your tenderest tears of love, for he loved you
and gave himself for you—he laid down his life for your
sake! And you, ye sons and daughters of the South! if
ye can see his face for weeping, draw near and look your
last! And let the North draw near and clasp strong hands
of sympathy above his bier!</p>

<p class='c018'>Farewell to thee, comrade! Knightly and noble-hearted
gentleman—farewell! The fight is over—the victory won,
and lo! while yet we weep upon the field deserted, a shout
rings through the portals of the skies and welcomes the
victor home! And there, while the lofty pæan sounds from
star to star, thy peaceful tent is pitched within the verdant
valleys of eternal rest!</p>
<hr class='c049' />
<h3 class='c016'>DEATH OF HENRY W. GRADY.</h3>
<hr class='c019' />

<div class='nf-center-c0'>
  <div class='nf-center'>
    <div><i>From the “Savannah News.”</i></div>
  </div>
</div>

<p class='c018'><span class='sc'>Georgia</span> mourns for one of her most distinguished sons.
Henry W. Grady, who, a week ago last Thursday, held
entranced, and at times moved to enthusiastic applause,
by his eloquence, an audience composed of Boston’s prominent
citizens, and whose name on the following day was
on the lips of millions of people, is cold in death in his
Atlanta home. He died before he had reached the meridian
of life or the zenith of his fame. His mind was steadily
broadening, and he was constantly giving evidence of
the possession of still greater ability than he had yet displayed.
<span class='pageno' id='Page_550'>550</span>In his Boston speech he handled the race question
in a way that showed that he was not a mere rhetorician,
but a genuine orator, who could direct the minds of
men as well as touch their hearts and dazzle their imaginations.
Had he lived, he would have won a name that
would have had a permanent place in the history of his
country. As it is, he will be remembered as a brilliant
young man whom death claimed before he had time to
show that he was fully capable of meeting the expectations
which were entertained with regard to him.</p>

<p class='c018'>Mr. Grady was full of resources and a tireless worker.
He entered the profession of journalism very early in life,
and such was the energy and intensity with which he
devoted himself to it, that even if he had not possessed
extraordinary talents, he could hardly have failed to succeed;
but, having a special fitness for his work and ability
of a very high order, it was not strange that he quickly
made a reputation that was not confined by the lines of
his State.</p>

<p class='c018'>Mr. Grady was never satisfied with what he had accomplished.
He felt that he was capable of still better things,
and he strove constantly to reach a higher mark of excellence.
No sooner was he done with one undertaking than
his busy brain was engaged with another; and it can be
said of him that his aims were not selfish ones. No doubt
he had the ambitions which every man of marked ability
has, but the good of others entered largely into his thoughts
and plans. Atlanta owes to his memory a debt she can
never repay. During all the time he was a resident within
her limits he kept her interests steadily in view. He contributed
to her prosperity in a hundred ways, and when
her people were lukewarm in enterprises which he or others
suggested, he pointed out to them their duty, and urged
them to perform it so eloquently and strongly that they fell
into line and won success when many thought success was
impossible.</p>

<p class='c018'>Mr. Grady was not apparently anxious to accumulate
wealth. Money did not remain with him long. His purse
<span class='pageno' id='Page_551'>551</span>was always open to his friends, and those who had claims
never had to ask him twice for assistance when he was able
to render it. Doubtless there are hundreds in Atlanta who
are able to speak from personal knowledge of his free-handed
liberality.</p>

<p class='c018'>Mr. Grady never held public office. Had he lived, however,
it is probable that he would have entered the political
arena. He was gradually being drawn in that direction,
and during the last two or three years his name was frequently
mentioned in connection with the offices of Senator
and Governor. His triumphs were won as a journalist and
an orator. In the latter character he first achieved a
national reputation at the dinner of the New England
Society in 1886.</p>

<p class='c018'>Georgians loved Mr. Grady and were proud of him.
The death of very few other men could have so filled their
hearts with sorrow.</p>
<hr class='c049' />
<h3 class='c016'>HENRY W. GRADY DEAD.</h3>
<hr class='c019' />

<div class='nf-center-c0'>
  <div class='nf-center'>
    <div><i>From the “Albany News and Advertiser.”</i></div>
  </div>
</div>

<p class='c018'><span class='sc'>The</span> flash that announced over the wires the death of
Henry W. Grady shocked the country, for it was a
national calamity.</p>

<p class='c018'>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
<span class='pageno' id='Page_552'>552</span>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.”</p>

<p class='c018'>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.</p>

<p class='c018'>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 <i>régime</i> 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.</p>

<p class='c018'>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,</p>

<div class='lg-container-b c031'>
  <div class='linegroup'>
    <div class='group'>
      <div class='line'>O death, why arm with cruelty thy power</div>
      <div class='line'>To spare the idle weed yet lop the flower?</div>
    </div>
  </div>
</div>

<hr class='c049' />
<div>
  <span class='pageno' id='Page_553'>553</span>
  <h3 class='c016'>STILLED IS THE ELOQUENT TONGUE.</h3>
</div>
<hr class='c019' />

<div class='nf-center-c0'>
  <div class='nf-center'>
    <div><i>From the “Brunswick Times.”</i></div>
  </div>
</div>

<p class='c018'><span class='sc'>Henry W. Grady</span> is dead!</p>

<p class='c018'>Hushed forever is the voice of the South’s most wonderful
orator!</p>

<p class='c018'>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.</p>

<p class='c018'>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.</p>

<p class='c018'>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.</p>

<p class='c018'>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.</p>

<p class='c018'>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.</p>

<p class='c018'><span class='pageno' id='Page_554'>554</span>And such was Henry W. Grady.</p>

<p class='c018'>Atlanta will mourn him, Georgia will weep for him, and
the South will sorrow indeed.</p>

<p class='c018'>Upon his bier the <i>Times</i> lays this tribute and stands
reverent and uncovered by the grave of Georgia’s most
brilliant son.</p>
<hr class='c049' />
<h3 class='c016'>A SHINING CAREER.</h3>
<hr class='c019' />

<div class='nf-center-c0'>
  <div class='nf-center'>
    <div><i>From the “Macon Telegraph.”</i></div>
  </div>
</div>

<p class='c018'><span class='sc'>Henry Grady</span> 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
<span class='pageno' id='Page_555'>555</span>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.</p>

<p class='c018'>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
<span class='pageno' id='Page_556'>556</span>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.</p>

<p class='c018'>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!</p>
<hr class='c049' />
<div>
  <span class='pageno' id='Page_557'>557</span>
  <h3 class='c016'>THE GREATEST CALAMITY.</h3>
</div>
<hr class='c019' />

<div class='nf-center-c0'>
  <div class='nf-center'>
    <div><i>From the “Augusta News.”</i></div>
  </div>
</div>

<p class='c018'><span class='sc'>Can</span> 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?</p>

<p class='c018'>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.</p>

<p class='c018'>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
<span class='pageno' id='Page_558'>558</span>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.</p>

<p class='c018'>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.</p>

<p class='c018'>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.</p>

<p class='c018'>God bless his name and his memory, and be a strong and
abiding support to his broken-hearted widow and household
this day!</p>
<hr class='c049' />
<div>
  <span class='pageno' id='Page_559'>559</span>
  <h3 class='c016'>NO ORDINARY GRIEF.</h3>
</div>
<hr class='c019' />

<div class='nf-center-c0'>
  <div class='nf-center'>
    <div><i>From the “Columbus Ledger.”</i></div>
  </div>
</div>

<p class='c018'><span class='sc'>A great</span> loss has befallen the South in the death of
Henry W. Grady, and deep sorrow rests upon the hearts
of her people.</p>

<p class='c018'>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.</p>
<hr class='c049' />
<h3 class='c016'>A PLACE HARD TO FILL.</h3>
<hr class='c019' />

<div class='nf-center-c0'>
  <div class='nf-center'>
    <div><i>From the “Griffin News.”</i></div>
  </div>
</div>

<p class='c018'><span class='sc'>Henry W. Grady</span> 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
<span class='pageno' id='Page_560'>560</span>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 <i>Constitution</i>,
of which he was easily the head, will be hard to fill.
Peace to his ashes.</p>
<hr class='c049' />
<h3 class='c016'>“JUST HUMAN.”</h3>
<hr class='c019' />

<div class='nf-center-c0'>
  <div class='nf-center'>
    <div><i>From the “Thomasville Enterprise.”</i></div>
  </div>
</div>

<p class='c018'><span class='sc'>Thackeray</span>, 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.</p>

<p class='c018'>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.</p>

<p class='c018'>There is not a heart in all the world that has received
one pang from aught that Henry Grady ever wrote or said;
<span class='pageno' id='Page_561'>561</span>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.</p>

<p class='c018'>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?</p>

<p class='c018'>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?</p>

<p class='c018'>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.</p>
<hr class='c049' />
<h3 class='c016'>GEORGIA WEEPS.</h3>
<hr class='c019' />

<div class='nf-center-c0'>
  <div class='nf-center'>
    <div><i>From the “Union News.”</i></div>
  </div>
</div>

<p class='c018'><span class='sc'>Hon. Henry W. Grady</span>, of the <i>Constitution</i>, died at
his home in Atlanta this morning at 3:40.</p>

<p class='c018'>This cruel blow shivers every heart with agony, even as
the thunderbolt of heaven rends the mighty monarch of the
forest.</p>

<p class='c018'>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
<span class='pageno' id='Page_562'>562</span>her people. He was a friend to humanity, true to himself,
to his country and to his God.</p>

<p class='c018'>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.</p>

<p class='c018'>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.</p>

<p class='c018'>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.</p>

<p class='c018'>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.</p>

<p class='c018'>Ben Hill died, and his place has never been supplied in
<span class='pageno' id='Page_563'>563</span>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.</p>

<p class='c018'>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.</p>
<hr class='c049' />
<h3 class='c016'>A GRAND MISSION.</h3>
<hr class='c019' />

<div class='nf-center-c0'>
  <div class='nf-center'>
    <div><i>From the “West Point Press.”</i></div>
  </div>
</div>

<p class='c018'><span class='sc'>So</span> 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.</p>

<p class='c018'>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.</p>

<p class='c018'>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
<span class='pageno' id='Page_564'>564</span>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.</p>
<hr class='c049' />
<h3 class='c016'>THE SOUTH LOVED HIM.</h3>
<hr class='c019' />

<div class='nf-center-c0'>
  <div class='nf-center'>
    <div><i>From the “Darien Timber Gazette.”</i></div>
  </div>
</div>

<p class='c018'><span class='sc'>Seldom</span> 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.</p>

<p class='c018'>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.</p>

<p class='c018'>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
<span class='pageno' id='Page_565'>565</span>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.</p>

<p class='c018'>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.</p>
<hr class='c049' />
<h3 class='c016'>NO SADDER NEWS.</h3>
<hr class='c019' />

<div class='nf-center-c0'>
  <div class='nf-center'>
    <div><i>From the “Marietta Journal.”</i></div>
  </div>
</div>

<p class='c018'><span class='sc'>No</span> 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.</p>

<p class='c018'>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.</p>

<p class='c018'>There was a charm and sparkle about his writings that
<span class='pageno' id='Page_566'>566</span>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.</p>

<p class='c018'>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.</p>
<hr class='c049' />
<h3 class='c016'>GEORGIA’S NOBLE SON.</h3>
<hr class='c019' />

<div class='nf-center-c0'>
  <div class='nf-center'>
    <div><i>From the “Madison Advertiser.”</i></div>
  </div>
</div>

<p class='c018'><span class='sc'>In</span> 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.</p>

<p class='c018'>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
<span class='pageno' id='Page_567'>567</span>to lofty resolve and the cultivation of gentle kindness, none
knew better than his constant readers.</p>

<p class='c018'>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.</p>

<p class='c018'>His strong and graceful effusions in the Atlanta <i>Constitution</i>
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.</p>

<p class='c018'>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
<span class='pageno' id='Page_568'>568</span>an opportunity was opened up for him, and he
appeared before a cultivated audience in the great metropolis,
New York.</p>

<p class='c018'>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.</p>

<p class='c018'>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.</p>

<p class='c018'>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
<span class='pageno' id='Page_569'>569</span>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.</p>
<hr class='c049' />
<h3 class='c016'>THE DEATH OF HENRY GRADY.</h3>
<hr class='c019' />

<div class='nf-center-c0'>
  <div class='nf-center'>
    <div><i>From the “Hawkinsville Dispatch.”</i></div>
  </div>
</div>

<p class='c018'><span class='sc'>Henry W. Grady</span> died at his home in Atlanta, at 3:40
o’clock, on the morning of the 23d ult.</p>

<p class='c018'>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.</p>

<p class='c018'>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
<span class='pageno' id='Page_570'>570</span>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.</p>

<p class='c018'>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.</p>

<p class='c018'>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.</p>

<p class='c018'>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.</p>

<p class='c018'>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.</p>

<p class='c018'>It is impossible to estimate the good he has done. At
one time he would use his wonderful eloquence to urge the
<span class='pageno' id='Page_571'>571</span>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.</p>

<p class='c018'>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.</p>

<p class='c018'>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.</p>

<p class='c018'>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.</p>
<hr class='c049' />
<div>
  <span class='pageno' id='Page_572'>572</span>
  <h3 class='c016'>A MEASURELESS SORROW.</h3>
</div>
<hr class='c019' />

<div class='nf-center-c0'>
  <div class='nf-center'>
    <div><i>From the “Lagrange Reporter.”</i></div>
  </div>
</div>

<p class='c018'><span class='sc'>Atlanta</span> 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.</p>

<p class='c018'>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.</p>

<p class='c018'>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.</p>

<p class='c018'>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.</p>

<p class='c018'>Rest, noble knight. Dream of battle-fields no more—days
of toil, nights of danger. Thy country will take care
of thy fame.</p>
<hr class='c049' />
<div>
  <span class='pageno' id='Page_573'>573</span>
  <h3 class='c016'>GRADY’S DEATH.</h3>
</div>
<hr class='c019' />

<div class='nf-center-c0'>
  <div class='nf-center'>
    <div><i>From the “Oglethorpe Echo.”</i></div>
  </div>
</div>

<p class='c018'><span class='sc'>Together</span> 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.</p>

<p class='c018'>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.</p>

<p class='c018'>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
<span class='pageno' id='Page_574'>574</span>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.</p>
<hr class='c049' />
<h3 class='c016'>HE LOVED HIS COUNTRY.</h3>
<hr class='c019' />

<div class='nf-center-c0'>
  <div class='nf-center'>
    <div><i>From the “Cuthbert Liberal.”</i></div>
  </div>
</div>

<p class='c018'><span class='sc'>In</span> 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
<span class='pageno' id='Page_575'>575</span>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.</p>
<hr class='c049' />
<h3 class='c016'>A RESPLENDENT RECORD.</h3>
<hr class='c019' />

<div class='nf-center-c0'>
  <div class='nf-center'>
    <div><i>From the “Madison Madisonian.”</i></div>
  </div>
</div>

<p class='c018'><span class='sc'>It</span> 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.</p>

<p class='c018'>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.</p>

<p class='c018'>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.</p>

<p class='c018'>And what of good he accomplished, all his claim to
renown, and the sole and simple cause of endearing him to
<span class='pageno' id='Page_576'>576</span>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.</p>

<p class='c018'>What more resplendent record could man attain?
What prouder fame be shouted down the ages?</p>

<p class='c018'>His epitaph is written in the hearts of his people. His
memory is enshrined in the love of a nation.</p>

<p class='c018'>Let us leave him to repose.</p>
<hr class='c049' />
<h3 class='c016'>DEDICATED TO HUMANITY.</h3>
<hr class='c019' />

<div class='nf-center-c0'>
  <div class='nf-center'>
    <div><i>From the “Sandersville Herald and Georgian.”</i></div>
  </div>
</div>

<p class='c018'><span class='sc'>The</span> 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.</p>

<p class='c018'>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
<span class='pageno' id='Page_577'>577</span>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.</p>

<p class='c018'>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,</p>

<div class='lg-container-b c031'>
  <div class='linegroup'>
    <div class='group'>
      <div class='line'>Let us gather up the sunbeams</div>
      <div class='line in2'>Lying all around our path,</div>
      <div class='line'>Let us keep the wheat and roses,</div>
      <div class='line in2'>Casting out the thorns and chaff.</div>
    </div>
  </div>
</div>

<p class='c024'>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.</p>

<p class='c018'>From this time his fame as an orator was established,
<span class='pageno' id='Page_578'>578</span>and he was at once ranked among the greatest living
orators of the day.</p>

<p class='c018'>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.</p>
<hr class='c049' />
<h3 class='c016'>THE SOUTH LAMENTS.</h3>
<hr class='c019' />

<div class='nf-center-c0'>
  <div class='nf-center'>
    <div><i>From the “Middle Georgia Progress.”</i></div>
  </div>
</div>

<p class='c018'><span class='sc'>One</span> week ago yesterday morning woe folded her dark
and gloomy pinions and settled over our fair and sunny
Southland! He, who by his love for us, by his incessant
labor for the advancement of our material progress, whose
voice was raised to dispel the shadows of hate and prejudice,
and bring the North and South into a closer union,
whose heart was filled with charity, and whose hands were
ever performing deeds of kindness, the eloquent and gifted
Grady—the knightly and chivalrous leader of the peaceful
hosts of the New South—was called to a brighter home in
the skies, where all is peace and joy and supernal bliss.
The whole South laments his death “and may his soul rest
in peace” is the sentiment of every heart. His virtues are
sung in sweetest song, and his worth proclaimed by lips
<span class='pageno' id='Page_579'>579</span>tremulous with emotion. Young in years, but matured in
wisdom, he grappled the great question that affected his
people, and with matchless eloquence presented their cause
on New England soil and told of their loyalty and love, still
cherishing and remembering the traditions of the past.
His death everywhere is recognized as a national calamity.
Every public utterance and every public appearance,
whether in New York, Boston, Texas or on his native soil,
amid “the red old hills of Georgia,” has been greeted with
applause and demonstrations of delight. Made fatherless
in youth by the cruel ravage of war, he struck out with a
stout heart and strong hands for success—how well he
achieved it, the praises showered upon him from every
quarter forcibly demonstrate the fact! Who has not felt
the warmth of his sunny nature?—it glows in every stroke
of his pen, and shines in all his eloquent utterances, and
brightens his memory as his name and triumphs pass into
history. Mr. Grady, by his pen and eloquence, has done
more for the South than any other of her sons, and their
love and appreciation is attested in their universal sorrow.
His gifts were rare, his eloquence wonderful, and he bore
in honor and peace the standard of his people, and they
will ever keep his memory fresh and green.</p>
<hr class='c049' />
<h3 class='c016'>HIS CAREER.</h3>
<hr class='c019' />

<div class='nf-center-c0'>
  <div class='nf-center'>
    <div><i>From the “Dalton Citizen.”</i></div>
  </div>
</div>

<p class='c018'><span class='sc'>Only</span> a few short weeks ago Hon. Henry W. Grady left
his Atlanta home to electrify a critical audience in Boston,
Mass., with one of his inimitable speeches. Through all
the papers of the country the fame of this magnificent
address went ringing, and ere the speech itself was printed,
in full, the orator from whose lips it fell was stricken with a
fatal disease on his return homeward. In little more than a
week his life’s sands had run their course, and in the flush
<span class='pageno' id='Page_580'>580</span>of a glorious and useful manhood Henry Grady lay dead,
while his eulogies were on the lips of the whole nation.
There has been much written by friends (he had no foes) in
the newspaper world concerning this great loss; but it is
all summed up in the words, “Henry Grady is dead!”</p>

<p class='c018'>Somewhere, in an English poet’s writings, we find a
pregnant little sentence: “I stood beside the grave of one
who blazed the comet of a season.” The career of Henry
Grady has been likened by several speakers and writers to
a star burning brightly in the national and journalistic sky,
but its light quenched in the darkness of death ere it
reached its zenith. Fittest, it seems to us, is the simile
quoted previously. A comet trailing its brilliant light
across the darkening heavens, a spectacle focussing the
gaze of millions of eyes, causing other stars to sink into
insignificance by reason of its greater glow and grandeur.—Then,
while the interest concerning its movements has
reached its intensity, its gleaming light fades, and presently
the sky is merely glittering again with the myriad stars, for
the flash and the blaze of the comet have disappeared forever
and it is invisible to mortal eyes. The question is,
will another take its place, and when?—We think not soon.
Even should an orator, whose eloquence might sway multitudes,
rise to reign in the dead hero’s stead, it is more than
probable that he would not combine with his oratory the
wonderful statistical knowledge possessed by Mr. Grady,
whose solid reasoning was only exceeded by the winsome
touch, creeping in here and there, of the true artistic nature.
He spoke in his last address of the South’s vast resources—of
its “cotton whitening by night beneath the stars, and by
day the wheat locking the sunshine in its bearded sheaf.”
A practical argument at one turn and a beautifully rounded
sentence at another.</p>

<p class='c018'>These things made up the speeches that held so many in
breathless attention, augmented by his magnetic personality.
It would be well for our Southland could another as
gifted shine forth in like splendor.</p>
<hr class='c049' />
<div>
  <span class='pageno' id='Page_581'>581</span>
  <h3 class='c016'>OUR FALLEN HERO.</h3>
</div>
<hr class='c019' />

<div class='nf-center-c0'>
  <div class='nf-center'>
    <div><i>From the “Hartwell Sun.”</i></div>
  </div>
</div>

<p class='c018'><span class='sc'>We</span> little thought in our last issue for the old year,
when we penned a brief paragraph to the effect that Mr.
Grady had returned from his brilliant triumph in Boston
to his home in Atlanta sick with a cold, that in a few hours
afterward his grand spirit should have winged its flight to
the home beyond, and that upon the Christmas day, when
the glad bells should ring out their joyous message of
“Peace on earth—good will to men” in the great city so
much of his own making, that instead they should toll the
sad requiem of “Dust to dust,” and that every heart from
the ragged newsboy to the chief magistrate should be
bursting with anguish as the noble form of their idolized
leader was consigned to the cold, silent grave.</p>

<p class='c018'>The blow came so suddenly and was so totally unexpected,
that it spread consternation—not only in his own
beloved State and Southland—but over the entire country.
Was there ever a man so universally loved with so brief a
career! Was there ever a man so sincerely and widely
mourned! Was there ever a man so grandly, so eloquently
eulogized! Never have we seen anything like it—never
have we heard of anything like it; nor do we believe there
was ever a parallel.</p>

<p class='c018'>But all the panegyrics by passionate lips uttered, nor all
the burning words of eulogy by eloquent pens written, have
yet expressed the tremendous weight of sorrow that
oppresses the hearts of the people who loved him so well.
This was indeed a time when strong men of mighty mind
and fluent tongue felt the utter poverty of expression and
the inadequacy of words.</p>

<p class='c018'>It did appear as if he was just entering upon his glorious
career,—as if his life’s work yet lay out before him. And
yet what a glorious, what a grand work he had done! And
may not his death have emphasized his glowing appeals for
<span class='pageno' id='Page_582'>582</span>a broader charity; for an unquestioning confidence; for
fraternal love and justice; for a re-united country. In our
very heart we believe so. If not—God help our country!</p>

<p class='c018'>We will not attempt to eulogize Henry Grady—to speak
of his brilliant intellect; of his matchless eloquence; of
his spotless character; of his great, warm, unselfish heart—that
has already been done by those better fitted for the
loving task; but the hot tears blind our eyes as we think
of the handsome, boyish form of the peerless Grady lying
cold in the remorseless embrace of death. Peace be to his
precious ashes!—Eternal joy to his immortal spirit!</p>
<hr class='c049' />
<h3 class='c016'>A DEATHLESS NAME.</h3>
<hr class='c019' />

<div class='nf-center-c0'>
  <div class='nf-center'>
    <div><i>From the “Gainesville Eagle.”</i></div>
  </div>
</div>

<p class='c018'>There was buried in Atlanta yesterday a young man
that illustrated the possibilities of American youth.</p>

<p class='c018'>There are two forces that combine to make great men—heredity
and environment. The first had given Henry
Grady magnificent natural endowment—a kingly and masterful
mind. The second gave him opportunity, and he
utilized it for all it was worth. Combined, they have
given him a deathless name and fame that will make one
of the brightest pages in the Southland’s history.</p>

<p class='c018'>All over the land, men and women, who loved his
sweetness of soul, grieve to-day over his untimely end.
All over the South, men who expected much of his tongue
and pen, mourn sincerely the loss of the brilliant mind
which worshiped so loyally at Patriotism’s altar. How
illy could he be spared. How inscrutable the ways of
Providence! We can but bow and grieve.</p>

<p class='c018'>But what an inspiration the history of his brief years!
Poor and unknown a few years ago, he died in a halo of
glory that had made his name a household word over a
continent. His life was a psalm of praise. Like the birds,
he sang because he must. Eloquence dwelt in his tongue
<span class='pageno' id='Page_583'>583</span>like the perfume in the heart of the flowers; sweetness
flowed from his pen as the honey comes from the mysterious
alchemy of the bee—it was his nature.</p>

<p class='c018'>This is not the time or place to analyze or measure his
life-work. History and the future must render that verdict.
Frankly, we are not of those who believe that his
speeches—eloquent and grand as they were—will wipe out
sectional feeling. The people who hate and fear the South
are given over to believe a lie. It is their stock in trade;
it is the life blood of their political partisanship, and
though one rose from the dead, they would not believe.
But he had done and was doing, and had he lived would
have brought to a marvelous fruition something of far
more practical value. He had made known to the world
the marvelous resources of the South, and gotten the ear
of capital and enterprise and brought, and was bringing,
the enginery of its power to unlock the storehouses of an
untold wealth. ’Tis here his grandest work was done.
Call it selfish, if you will, but ’tis here our loss is greatest.</p>

<p class='c018'>His brilliancy, dash and originality had made the great
journal, of which he was the head, easily the foremost
newspaper of the South. His eloquent tongue and matchless
pen had made him par excellence the exemplar and
apostle of this grand and growing section.</p>

<p class='c018'>But the end has come. Only He who has smitten can
know whether such another prophet shall rise in the wilderness
to lead us forward to the glorious destiny which
his prophetic eye foresaw, and to which his throbbing,
loyal heart gave itself and died.</p>
<hr class='c049' />
<h3 class='c016'>A GREAT SOUL.</h3>
<hr class='c019' />

<div class='nf-center-c0'>
  <div class='nf-center'>
    <div><i>From the “Baxley Banner.”</i></div>
  </div>
</div>

<p class='c018'><span class='sc'>A great</span> soul has passed away.</p>

<p class='c018'>After a life brief but brilliant, he is lost to the country
that loved and honored him, and which his lofty eloquence
and pure patriotism have illustrated and adorned.</p>

<p class='c018'><span class='pageno' id='Page_584'>584</span>As the lightning that comes out of the South, and
flashes from horizon to horizon, so was his short life in its
bright, swift passage, illuminating the earth.</p>

<p class='c018'>In the death of Henry Grady, his city, his State, the
South, the whole country has suffered a great loss. His
voice was ever the ringing, stirring herald-tones that announced
the promise of fairer days and a happier people.
He was no low-browed, latter-day prophet of evil; but
preached here and everywhere the new and bright evangel
of hope. He was the voice of his city, heard ringing
through Georgia and the Union; the voice of his State,
heard clarion-like from ocean to ocean, and the golden-mouthed
messenger from the South to the North, proclaiming
a brotherhood of love that the shock of war had not
destroyed. And thus his death will be mourned, not in
Atlanta or in Georgia only, but wherever an American
heart is, that heart will mourn his death.</p>

<p class='c018'>Particularly is Mr. Grady’s death a loss to journalism.
He stood the peer of any in the world, and was the greatest
journalist in the South. His pen was as eloquent as his
tongue, and from the closet as well as from the platform
his words came with vivifying power, refreshing and inspiring.</p>

<p class='c018'>Death struck him down from the lofty pinnacle of fame,
to which his eloquence had so swiftly upborne him. A
young man, he had already reached a height that would
have dazzled a weaker soul, and he has fallen in the midst
of his triumph, while yet the plaudits of tens of thousands
from every part of this country rang fainter and fainter on
his dying ear. It was something worth to have such heartfelt
approbations sounding around him as he sunk to his
last sleep. It was the crowning of a life well lived, and
spent with lavish patriotism for his country’s weal.</p>

<p class='c018'>He burned his life to the socket like a swift devouring
flame. His energy was tremendous, and almost feverish
in its eagerness to do something worth the doing. He
returned to his city and his home with death upon him,
stricken even in his great triumph. The glow of fever followed
<span class='pageno' id='Page_585'>585</span>hard upon the glow of victory, and so, after a brief
and burning life—a life crowded thick with triumphs,
“God’s finger touched him and he slept”—the sleep He
giveth to His beloved.</p>

<p class='c018'>Of his private life all may speak. We know it well.
It is familiar to us all as household words, though his
charity and his kindness were without ostentation. He
was generous without stint, and whether it was as the boy
making up a fund to buy a poor schoolmate a handsome
suit to graduate in, or as the man lending a helping hand
to lift or guide the needy, self was forgotten in his kindness
to others. In thousands of homes he will be</p>

<div class='lg-container-b c031'>
  <div class='linegroup'>
    <div class='group'>
      <div class='line'>Named softly as the household name</div>
      <div class='line'>Of one whom God has taken.</div>
    </div>
  </div>
</div>

<p class='c024'>His city, his State, and his country will build for him a
shaft, but his greatest monument will be in the hearts that
mourn his death.</p>

<p class='c018'>A great and loving soul has passed.</p>
<hr class='c049' />
<h3 class='c016'>IN MEMORIAM.</h3>
<hr class='c019' />

<div class='nf-center-c0'>
  <div class='nf-center'>
    <div><i>From the “Henry County Times.”</i></div>
  </div>
</div>

<p class='c018'><span class='sc'>The</span> public heart, still quivering and aching from the
shock occasioned by the death of its venerated and talented
leader, Jefferson Davis, had its cup of woe and grief filled
to overflowing by those words of doom—“Henry Grady is
dead.” In the natural course of events, the first catastrophe
was one that might have happened any time in the
past ten years, as the great Confederate chief had long since
passed the limit of three-score-and-ten, the average limit
attached by Biblical authority to human life. Mr. Davis
descended to his grave full of years and honors, and while
he was universally and sincerely mourned in the South,
still, it did not fall upon us with that electric suddenness
<span class='pageno' id='Page_586'>586</span>which so shocked and agonized the Southern heart as
when our young Demosthenes became a victim to the fell
destroyer.</p>

<p class='c018'>So universal is this sorrow, that a separate and personal
bereavement could not have more completely shrouded in
grief the public mind than did the announcement of his
death. The advent of the dark angel into each and every
household could not have more completely paralyzed the
public mind than did the untimely taking off of this
superbly gifted son of Georgia. Never since the angel of
the Lord smote the first-born of Egyptian households for
lack of mystic symbols on the door, has a people’s sorrow
been so deep, so universal, and so sincere. Had the end of
such a man come in the proper course of nature, heralded
by such physical changes as indicate the approach of death,
it might have been better borne, but would still have been an
event of national misfortune that would have taxed to the
uttermost the endurance of hearts already lacerated by
freshly opened wounds. Had we been in the possession of
such warnings as it was in the power of Omnipotence to
have granted us, still the blow would have been unutterably
painful and overpowering. But that he, who was conceded
to be the intellectual peer of any in the nation; who was
without a superior as an orator in the present generation;
that he who was in an especial manner fitted to be the
champion of the South in her appeal for justice at the bar
of public opinion, both in Europe and America; that he,
who was so richly endowed should suddenly and without
warning, as it were, become the victim of death, and have
all the bright and brilliant promise of a life whose sun had
risen so gloriously, quenched in death and darkness, might
well move a people to tears, and clothe a nation in sackcloth
and ashes.</p>
<hr class='c049' />
<div>
  <span class='pageno' id='Page_587'>587</span>
  <h3 class='c016'>A PEOPLE MOURN.</h3>
</div>
<hr class='c019' />

<div class='nf-center-c0'>
  <div class='nf-center'>
    <div><i>From the “Warrenton Clipper.”</i></div>
  </div>
</div>

<p class='c018'><span class='sc'>The</span> people of the Southland are wrapped in grief and a
nation mourns in sympathy. While all nature beams with
beauteous smiles and December luxuriates in the balmy
breezes of spring, he whom we had learned to love and to
whom his people turned for hope and encouragement, lies
wrapped in earth’s cold embrace. Henry W. Grady is
dead. Early Monday morning his brave spirit forsook its
earthly tenement and sought Him who had given it being.
The electric words which flashed the sad news through the
length and breadth of the country carried mourning into
thousands of homes and millions of hearts. The friend of
the people was dead, and one universal sense of sorrow pervaded
the minds of all.</p>

<p class='c018'>Mr. Grady had just returned from Boston, where he
had delivered one of the grandest addresses of his life,
before the Boston Merchants’ Association, upon the Southern
question. The speech was thoroughly Southern in its
character, and a grand defense of the course of his people
in national politics and their dealings with the colored race.
Exposure in the raw New England atmosphere caused him
to contract a severe cold which rapidly grew worse. He
was very ill when he returned to Atlanta and pneumonia
in its worst form soon developed. He lay ill at his beautiful
home in Atlanta for a few days only, gradually growing
worse, until the end came Monday morning.</p>

<p class='c018'>Though his dangerous situation was known, the probability
of his death did not seem to occur to the people.
That the youthful, magnetic, beloved Grady could die
seemed impossible. When the blow had fallen its effect
was to stun, and had we been told that it was a dream, a
mistake, we would really have believed it and sought out
some new evidence of his popularity. Dead! Is it possible!
Before he had reached the prime of his manhood or
<span class='pageno' id='Page_588'>588</span>the zenith of his fame! Did Death but waylay to seize
him just as we were learning his worth? Of the many
mysteries of life death is the greatest.</p>

<p class='c018'>Nothing shows more the high estimation in which the
man was held than the widespread sources from which
came the words of sympathy and condolence; from field
and fireside, from town and hamlet, from city street and
mansion, from every source in which his noble words have
found an echo, poured forth the gentle words of sympathy
and sorrow. Statesmen and soldiers hastened to proffer
their sympathy and great men of every rank condoled with
the bereaved ones. Not a prominent Northern journal
but devoted considerable space to his memory. Party and
creed were alike forgotten. Not a whisper of depreciation
was heard from any source.</p>

<p class='c018'>There never died a man within the history of the State
whose fame was so recent, who was so generally loved and
admired in life and so universally regretted in death. On
Christmas, the day of joy and peace, we laid our hero to
rest. Not the less a hero because his were the victories of
peace. No victor, fresh from the bloody field of battle,
was ever more deserving of his laurel wreaths than he of
the chaplets we can only lay upon his grave. The lips
that pleaded so eloquently for peace and union are stilled
in death, and the hand that penned so many beautiful
words for the encouragement of his people moves no more.
A sense of peculiar personal loss is upon us. The old men
have lost a son, the young men a brother. Atlanta mourns
her foremost citizen, the State a devoted son, the South an
able defender and the Nation an honored citizen. Our
matchless Grady is no more.</p>
<hr class='c049' />
<div>
  <span class='pageno' id='Page_589'>589</span>
  <h3 class='c016'>HENRY W. GRADY IS NO MORE.</h3>
</div>
<hr class='c019' />

<div class='nf-center-c0'>
  <div class='nf-center'>
    <div><i>From the “Valdosta Times.”</i></div>
  </div>
</div>

<p class='c018'><span class='sc'>Henry W. Grady</span> is dead. His great soul has passed
from this mundane sphere. Truly “a silver tongue is
hushed and a golden pen is broken.” Matchless orator,
brilliant journalist, able statesman, patriotic citizen, noble
man—shall we see your like again!</p>

<p class='c018'>When Stonewall Jackson fell fighting for the land he
loved, the Confederacy lost her great right arm, and never
recovered from the blow. So, in these post-bellum days—in
times of comparative peace—but under anomalous and
trying conditions—the South loses her ablest leader, and at
a time when his services seem most needed, and when he
was doing that service so nobly and well. The death of
Mr. Grady in ’89 compares only, in the Southern estimate,
with the loss of Jackson in ’63. Viewed from the natural
side of human wisdom, his death, in the words of the great
Republican orator of New York, is a national calamity.</p>

<p class='c018'>This young man, from obscurity and poverty, by the
sheer force of his genius, sprang easily and early to a
national celebrity which few dare hope for, and fewer still
attain in the generations of men. He was both brilliant
and practical, both gentle and wise. He would build a
factory or a railroad, or found a great exposition, as easily
as he would deliver a bright oration. He would counsel
with statesmen with the same tact and ease that he would
go gunning with the young men of the town. When he
touched a man he made a friend.</p>

<p class='c018'>The writer, who would pay this short and poor tribute,
knew him for eighteen years. He has seen him from many
points of view—mostly as an opponent in State politics,
but always as a friend. In his office at work—at his private
board—in the political caucus—on an angling or gunning
expedition—his transcendent genius always shown
with a rare and radiant light. To these who have known
<span class='pageno' id='Page_590'>590</span>him well he has long been the man the world has recently
found him to be—one of the greatest men of his time; to
such his loss is felt as a personal bereavement. Each one,
when his name is heard, will recall some word or deed to
cherish as a fragrance from the tomb. Such memories will
be treasured in the hearts of many, from Grover Cleveland
to the saucy newsboys who cry the <i>Constitution</i> on the
streets of Atlanta.</p>

<p class='c018'>But to abler pens, and to those who have known him
longer and better, the task is left to pronounce a fitting
eulogy.</p>

<p class='c018'>Of his life and his death, much space is ungrudgingly
given elsewhere in this issue of the <i>Times</i>. Let the young
men of the country read, and learn of him who has passed
away at thirty-eight years of age and left the impress of
his genius upon the greatest Nation of the earth.</p>
<hr class='c049' />
<h3 class='c016'>“MAYBE HIS WORK IS FINISHED.”</h3>
<hr class='c019' />

<div class='nf-center-c0'>
  <div class='nf-center'>
    <div><i>From the “Dalton Argus.”</i></div>
  </div>
</div>

<p class='c018'><span class='sc'>Henry Woodfin Grady</span> died Monday morning, December
23, 1889, from bronchial and other troubles, irritated by
his recent visit to Boston, where he made his last and
greatest speech in behalf of the section and people he loved
so well.</p>

<p class='c018'>Since England lost her Wellington, and America her
Lincoln, no greater calamity has moved a people to sympathetic
tears than the death of Henry Grady. His life was
the fulfillment of a noble man, and his grand impulses
touched every phase of humanity. No man was ever better
known to his country by an unbroken chain of rarer virtues,
nobler purposes, and more powerful capacities. His work,
in whatever field, was the impetuosity of patriotism. His
successes stand as a mark of indomitable energy. Possessing
an extraordinary faculty of grasping opportunities at
<span class='pageno' id='Page_591'>591</span>the full flood tide, he illustrated the perfect patriot in forgetting
self for common good, the genuine friend in bestowing
his own advantages to others. Only he that worthily
lives, in death enshrines himself in the hearts of his people,
and not a wire in all the network of commercial arteries
but that has given, in messages of love, cadences of a country’s
sorrow. When poets and patriots are met at the bier
by the hushed voices of the rabble, and commerce pauses
to pay tribute, Heaven-blest must be the spirit that gives
flight from earth. In all the walks of life Henry Grady
has left remembrances that suggest homage to his worth.</p>

<p class='c018'>But his name shall occupy a space in history, filling the
brightest niche of an illustrious age, that his life shall stand
out boldly in the perfect beauty of its accomplishment.</p>

<p class='c018'>There is a touching coincidence in his death, following
so closely after that of Jefferson Davis, that the funeral
dirge of one almost blends into the decadence of the other,
giving figure to an illustration as true as it is sublime.</p>

<p class='c018'>Who can refute the suggestion that it was a wise decree
of Providence, staying the relentless demands of Time that
sectional prejudice might lose its forceful resentment, lending
ear to the vigorous mind of Davis, through the very
nobility of his after life; and giving communion of perfect
sympathy through the pleading of Henry Grady, caught
up as if from the living embers of the old, a fair type of
that historic period, imbued with all the demands of the
present, his patriotic ardor glowing with fire of eloquence,
his dying speech giving tumult of enthusiasm in voice of
advocacy, expounding reason indorsed by every Southern
man?</p>

<p class='c018'>No man better knew the temper of his people, or gave
thought with riper philosophy to the issues which surround
them; or was less fearless to speak the truth.</p>

<p class='c018'>As a common country gave applause to the logic of the
living, may we not trust in the prophecy of the mourning
mother, that the work for which he gave his life, in unmurmuring
sacrifice, is truly accomplished?</p>

<p class='c018'>There is such pathos in the incident of this last grand
<span class='pageno' id='Page_592'>592</span>effort to break the cordons of estrangement between the
sections as may justify the hope.</p>

<p class='c018'>The South, undemonstrative, unprejudiced, unyielding
furthermore, pleads for no fairer basis.</p>
<hr class='c049' />
<h3 class='c016'>HE NEVER OFFENDED.</h3>
<hr class='c019' />

<div class='nf-center-c0'>
  <div class='nf-center'>
    <div><i>From the “Washington Chronicle.”</i></div>
  </div>
</div>

<p class='c018'><span class='sc'>He</span> died peacefully at his home in Atlanta on Monday
morning at forty minutes past three o’clock. As the news
flashed over the wires it imparted a thrill of anguish to
every Southern heart. For he was a great favorite at the
South. And at the North he had cause to be proud of his
reputation. It would be impossible to compare Mr. Grady
with any man who has lived. His character was unique
and so was his work. It is idle and senseless talk to conjecture
what his future might have been if he had lived.
His course is run and his life is finished, as completely finished
as if he had lived an hundred years and died. What
was that life? Grady was a big-hearted, whole-souled fellow,
a man of the people, a statesman and a patriot. His
intellectual attainments and all fitted him for the grand
and brilliant position which he reached. True as steel to
his native South, he was able to conciliate the North. A
man of noble impulses, he never offended. In sober truth
he was a great man, and accomplished a great work which
will live after him and glorify his name.</p>

<div class='lg-container-b c031'>
  <div class='linegroup'>
    <div class='group'>
      <div class='line'>Were a star quenched on high,</div>
      <div class='line in2'>Forever would its light,</div>
      <div class='line'>Still traveling downward from the sky,</div>
      <div class='line in2'>Shine on our mortal sight.</div>
    </div>
    <div class='group'>
      <div class='line'>So when a great man dies,</div>
      <div class='line in2'>Ages beyond our ken,</div>
      <div class='line'>The light he leaves behind him lies</div>
      <div class='line in2'>Upon the paths of men.</div>
    </div>
  </div>
</div>

<hr class='c049' />
<div>
  <span class='pageno' id='Page_593'>593</span>
  <h3 class='c016'>THE SOUTH IN MOURNING.</h3>
</div>
<hr class='c019' />

<div class='nf-center-c0'>
  <div class='nf-center'>
    <div><i>From the “Elberton Star.”</i></div>
  </div>
</div>

<p class='c018'><span class='sc'>Henry W. Grady</span>, the peerless orator and true patriot,
has been called to join the silent majority. This sad intelligence
reached Elberton last Monday morning, by private
telegram, and there was a gloom cast over the community
unequaled in the history of the town. Henry Grady was
loved and admired all over the South, but nowhere more
dearly than in this section.</p>

<p class='c018'>It seems hard that this brilliant young statesman should
have been cut off just before he had gained the goal, just
prior to when he would have written his name among that
galaxy of eminent men who have gone before and made the
world better for having lived in it. If Grady had lived he
would have carried to a happy ultimatum the purpose he
had just commenced in solving the vexatious race problem,
and in doing this he would have had a place with the
names of Jefferson, Washington, Clay, Calhoun, and Webster.</p>

<p class='c018'>Grady was a great man. He was not only an orator of
Hill-like ability, but he was a statesman. His writings
and speeches for years were well able and well panoplied
to grapple with and treat the most intricate and complicated
questions in a masterly manner.</p>

<p class='c018'>His recent speech in Boston, at which time he contracted
the cold that terminated in his premature death,
was particularly and singularly forcible. The press and
people, both North and South, with one accord pronounced
it one of the ablest papers of the nineteenth century, and
with this great work begun, and the great architect thereof
dead, it is difficult to conjecture who will or can come to the
front and finish the grand and noble undertaking.</p>

<p class='c018'>Grady’s first and greatest love was Atlanta. He was
like an inexhaustible gold mine to that town, and the Gate
City has sustained an irreparable loss. But Atlanta’s confines
<span class='pageno' id='Page_594'>594</span>were too contracted for a heart and brain like his.
He loved Georgia, almost like he loved his mother, and for
Georgia’s weal, he would have sacrificed his all.</p>

<p class='c018'>Georgia’s loss, the South’s loss, cannot be estimated.</p>

<p class='c018'>At his bier we bow our heads in profound sorrow, and
were it so that we could, we would cull the whitest flower
in the whole world and place it on the grave of this the
truest, noblest Georgian of them all.</p>
<hr class='c049' />
<h3 class='c016'>STRICKEN AT ITS ZENITH.</h3>
<hr class='c019' />

<div class='nf-center-c0'>
  <div class='nf-center'>
    <div><i>From the “Greenesboro Herald and Journal.”</i></div>
  </div>
</div>

<p class='c018'><span class='sc'>On</span> the mild Christmas morning the heart of Georgia is
bowed in sorrow over the death of her favorite son. It
seems, indeed, a mockery that amidst the joys and festivities
of the Christmas time, the dark shadow of the relentless
foe of man should intrude his presence and take from
our land one who was its brightest hope, its strongest
support!</p>

<p class='c018'>And yet it is true. Henry Grady is dead! The orator,
the journalist, the poet by nature, the man of the people,
is dead! We cannot realize it. So bright in his strong
young manhood but one short week ago, now folded in the
arms of death! A greater shock, a keener sorrow was
never crushed upon a people!</p>

<p class='c018'>This is not the time, in the shadow of the grave but in
the brightness of his glory, to speak fully of him that is
gone! Our pen fails, and all it can say is “Thou has
stricken Thy people, O God! and in Thy wisdom Thou hast
given us bitterness to drain! Let not our hearts rebel
against Thee, our Lord and our God!”</p>

<p class='c018'>The death which has come to Georgia to-day cannot be
measured in its irreparable loss. A week ago the South
was in mourning over the death of her great leader! But
he belonged to the past, and while the sorrow fell deep, yet
we realize that a life had ended which had filled its fullest
<span class='pageno' id='Page_595'>595</span>mission. But in the death of Henry Grady the South has
lost a leader of to-day—an active, earnest, true man, whose
heart, bound up in the advancement of his people, was but
laying brighter and fresher and truer plans for their prosperity.
To every heart in the South the question comes
“Who will lead us now? Who will defend our principles
now that he is taken from us?” And out of the blackness
of our desolation it seems that no star shines to guide us!</p>

<p class='c018'>It is, perhaps, well that the last effort of Mr. Grady was
in defense of our institutions and in support of the principles,
motives and ambitions of his people. He died with
the gathering halo of a people’s love clustering about him!
He went to death with a defense of that people clinging to
his lips and to his heart! In the zenith of his usefulness
he was cut down! Why? God in His infinite wisdom
knows best!</p>

<p class='c018'>We can pay no tribute to the memory of Henry Grady
greater than the love which weeps at his bier this morning.
And yet the writer would lay, amidst the offerings which
fall from the overflowing hearts of thousands to-day, a tiny
tribute to his memory. He was our friend, wise and true
and earnest in his counsels—pointing out that the true end
of the journalist is the defense and advancement of his
people. As a journalist, perhaps, has his greatest work
been done, and upon the heart of every man of the pen he
left an impression that his vocation is ennobled and is the
grander that Henry Grady made it his love. And, in the
shadow of death will come this consoling thought. That
the press, which was his power, and which remains as the
bulwark of the people, is the purer, and the better, and the
stronger from the principles which Henry Grady inculcated
in it. To carry out that work, which has fallen from his
hands in death, should move the heart of every journalist,
and when its fullest fruition has come, then will the crown
upon the fame of Henry Grady shine the brighter!</p>

<p class='c018'>Peace to the great man gathered to his reward! The
future will crown his memory with the bright flowers which
will come as the fruition of his hopes and of his life-work!</p>
<hr class='c049' />
<div>
  <span class='pageno' id='Page_596'>596</span>
  <h3 class='c016'>THE SOUTHLAND MOURNS.</h3>
</div>
<hr class='c019' />

<div class='nf-center-c0'>
  <div class='nf-center'>
    <div><i>From the “Griffin Morning Call.”</i></div>
  </div>
</div>

<p class='c018'><span class='sc'>The</span> brilliant young editor of the Atlanta <i>Constitution</i>
entered into rest eternal and closed an earth-life remarkable
for splendor at 3:40 o’clock yesterday morning. His brief
career reflects not only glory upon his name, but also crowns
with unique distinction the high profession of journalism.
A noble representative of the grand old State of Georgia,
the lustre of his life-work was reflected upon the commonwealth
he served and to whose honor he consecrated the
ripeness of his learning, his eloquence and his patriotism.</p>

<p class='c018'>His harp hangs now mute upon the willows! No more
shall the soul and intellect of the thoughtful North or
South, in New York, New England, Texas or Georgia, be
stirred to the depths by his impassioned words or impressed
by his unanswerable logic. “The silver cord is loosed, the
golden bowl is broken.” But the music his harp evoked
is not dead and shall long linger a sweet song in many
hearts, and his works do follow him.</p>

<p class='c018'>He was born in Athens, Ga., in 1851, and though a man
of well ripened powers, had not reached that prime when a
strong man’s capacity for labor is most highly tested.</p>

<p class='c018'>He was educated at the State University, and afterward
pursued a post graduate course at the University of Virginia,
where so many noble characters have been molded.</p>

<p class='c018'>Here the orator and scholar grew and nature’s rare gifts
were fused and refined in the crucible of mental discipline.
The studies which specially attracted him and in which
he excelled, were Greek, Anglo-Saxon, history and belles-letters.
Thus, evidently a most copious vocabulary was
created and the mind stored with fertile illustrations in the
department of history and general literature. In the happy
use of words, in graceful rhetoric he was not surpassed by
any American of his day. Roscoe Conkling or Col. Ingersoll
might be compared to him, but the former had not
<span class='pageno' id='Page_597'>597</span>Grady’s tact, neither his full vocabulary, and never treated
the difficult and delicate topics Grady handled. And
Ingersoll, though having remarkable power of language
and an accomplished rhetorician, had not the logical mind
of the brilliant young Georgian, and tinges his best efforts
with bitterness and cant.</p>

<p class='c018'>Grady was natural, even-tempered, generous, warm-hearted.
His end came after the greatest effort of his life.
His Boston speech will do an inestimable benefit to the
South at a time when, under President Harrison, the bitter
and partisan spirit of the Republicans was leavening much
of the thought of the North. Mr. Grady addressed Northern
people from the home of Phillips and Sumner, and his
words have rung from Boston to San Francisco. His great
speech was susceptible to no criticism for taste, for loyalty
to our convictions, for impressive oratory or convincing
argument. His facts and his logic are as strong as his
word painting.</p>

<p class='c018'>His beautiful tribute to the land which “lies far South”
is a literary gem not destined alone to stir the hearts at the
time of its utterance. It will live for its poetry, its tender
sentiment and its reality.</p>

<p class='c018'>If our friends across Dixie’s mythical line are but moved
to do justice to a long suffering people, and trust us for
loyalty to settle our peculiar problems, Grady has not lived
in vain and will be the great apostle of his age.</p>

<p class='c018'>Lay him gently to rest then, Georgians, in this sweet
Christmas time, while the bells are chiming the notes of his
Savior’s birth, and cover his grave with holly, mistletoe,
and ivy, until the Master comes in glorious majesty to judge
the world, and earth and sea give up their dead.</p>
<div class='pbb'>
 <hr class='pb c007' />
</div>

<div class='nf-center-c0'>
<div class='nf-center c001'>
    <div><span class='pageno' id='Page_599'>599</span><span class='c029'>THE “CONSTITUTION”</span></div>
    <div class='c000'><span class='c004'><i>AND ITS WORK</i></span></div>
  </div>
</div>

<div class='pbb'>
 <hr class='pb c001' />
</div>
<div id='p600'  class='figcenter id001'>
<span class='pageno' id='Page_600'>600</span>
<img src='images/p600.jpg' alt='' class='ig001' />
<div class='ic002'>
<p>ATLANTA CONSTITUTION BUILDING.</p>
</div>
</div>
<div class='pbb'>
 <hr class='pb c007' />
</div>
<div class='chapter'>
  <span class='pageno' id='Page_601'>601</span>
  <h2 class='c012'>THE “CONSTITUTION” AND ITS WORK.</h2>
</div>
<hr class='c013' />
<p class='drop-capa0_25_0_7 c017'>THE Atlanta <i>Constitution</i> came into being in the seething
chaos of reconstruction. The name suggests the
issue of which it was born and the cause which gave it life
and strength at the beginning of its career. Georgia was
being reconstructed under military supervision, against
the will of a vast majority of the people, and there was no
journal published in Atlanta which gave adequate expression
to the sentiment of a million people. The old <i>Intelligencer</i>,
which had been the clarion of war times, was no
longer equal to the emergency. It had bravely breasted
the storm of war, dodging about between bomb-shells and
issuing forth defiant, one day in one town and one day in
another, sometimes even setting up its press in a box car.
But for the more trying times of reconstruction it was not
adequate. The fiery tone and dauntless attitude were gone
and it began to counsel for the things that were. While
the people were idolizing Ben Hill for his superb defiance
and applauding the unreconstructed and unterrified
Toombs, there was no paper to voice the deep and unconquerable
sentiment against reconstruction and for the
re-establishment of the State constitution.</p>

<p class='c018'>It was then that the <i>Constitution</i> appeared. When
Messrs. W. A. Hemphill and J. H. Anderson bought a
little sheet called <i>Public Opinion</i>, and put Colonel Carey
Styles in charge as editor, he named it <i>The Constitution</i>,
and the name became its shibboleth and its issue. The
editor was a bold and fearless writer and a fiery and impetuous
orator. His editorials glowed with defiance of the
reconstructionists, and his speeches were iridescent with
burning denunciation. Writing and speaking on the side
of the people, he made the paper immensely popular, and
<span class='pageno' id='Page_602'>602</span>the enterprise of the proprietors kept it rolling on the crest
of the tide.</p>

<p class='c018'>From the first the <i>Constitution</i> was a more enterprising
news-gatherer than any of its contemporaries. It was the
first to employ special correspondents in all parts of the
State and the South. The system which has since become
comprehensive and well-nigh perfect was then in its beginning,
but it was something new in Georgia, and attracted
attention. It was in this way that Mr. Grady was employed
to go with the press excursion which passed through
North Georgia, looking and writing to the development of
the resources of the State, and his “King Hans” letters
on that trip gave the first news from the important points
of the excursion.</p>

<p class='c018'>In those early days the <i>Constitution</i> was not without
literary attractions. The associate editor with Colonel
Styles was Mayor J. R. Barrick, a genial gentleman, much
beloved by his acquaintances and known to the public as a
scholar and poet. He had been a <i>protégé</i> of George D.
Prentice, who had recognized in the young man literary
talent of no common order.</p>

<p class='c018'>In those days editorials were of the first importance.
The State was being reconstituted, and great questions that
went down to the foundations of government were being
discussed. The orators of the day were Ben Hill, Toombs,
Alexander Stephens, and scores of lesser but not inconsiderable
lights. Speeches were matters of vital importance
to newspapers and the public, and the leading orators
were always stenographically reported. The modern synopsis
would not then suffice. There were giants in those
days, and the people hung upon their words; their utterances
must be given in full. Editorials must rise to the
same level, and great questions must be handled with the
same dignity and earnestness. Men were not too busy to
think and read, and they demanded mental pabulum that
was strong and rich. Talent was at a premium, and its
services easily commanded good pay. The owners of the
<i>Constitution</i> were the first to realize the priceless value of
<span class='pageno' id='Page_603'>603</span>Mr. Grady’s genius, and when he was yet a college boy
under age, Mr. Hemphill, who had lived in Athens, where
Mr. Grady grew up, made his guardian a proposition to
buy an interest in the <i>Constitution</i> for Mr. Grady on condition
that he should take the position of managing editor.
From then until Captain Howell employed him in 1876,
the <i>Constitution</i> never lost sight of Mr. Grady. While
attending the University of Virginia he contributed to the
paper, and on his return he was engaged by the editor to
represent the <i>Constitution</i> on the press excursion referred
to above.</p>

<p class='c018'>The mechanical appliances of Southern newspapers at
that time were vastly out of proportion to the matter then
carried. The <i>Constitution</i> was born and swaddled in a
store-room on Alabama Street. It was a long room with a
skylight, and printer’s cases were arranged along the wall
on either side. In front was the business office, and in one
corner a little room was partitioned off for the editors.
There was a freemasonry between printers and editors,
and the whole force glowed with enthusiasm for the cause
which was epitomized in the paper’s name.</p>

<p class='c018'>After reconstruction became a fact the State swarmed
with aliens, and the people were goaded to fury under
negro and carpet-bag government. The Capitol was infested
with unknown men suddenly thrust into power, and they
carried extravagant measures with a high hand. A Republican
Governor was in office, and the venerable Secretary of
State, Colonel N.C. Barnet, lately deceased, had gone out,
carrying with him the great seal of the State, which he
refused to allow affixed to any official act of men ushered
into office by the military authorities. The State was
involved in lottery schemes and loaded down with railroad
bonds on which Treasurer Angier, a sturdy Republican, had
refused to put his signature. The sessions of the Legislature
were held in a great opera house sold to the State by
private parties for an enormous price. In the building was
a restaurant, confectionery shop, and velocipede rink. It
was a scene decried, and the proceedings of the Legislature
<span class='pageno' id='Page_604'>604</span>were daily denounced by the press and people. Among
the boldest and most scathing critics of those disgraceful
transactions was the <i>Constitution</i>, and its editor in his
public speeches smote the participants hip and thigh. The
fight was on for the redemption of the State, and it was
waged without ceasing till the yoke was thrown off and a
Democratic Governor was elected in 1872. In all that fight
the <i>Constitution</i> was the leading newspaper, and from the
beginning the battle was waged with the uncompromising
fervor that had characterized its opposition to the reconstructionists.
In both these contests it was with the people,
and in its columns they found free and full expression.
The bitterness of those days has died out, and many of the
sturdiest opponents have become friends; differences of
judgment have long since been allowed admissible, but the
friendships cemented in the heat of those contests are deep
and abiding, and for its gallant services then the <i>Constitution</i>
is still endeared to the people of Georgia.</p>

<p class='c018'>With the redemption of the State from negro and carpet-bag
rule, there was no local political issue of transcendent
importance. The State was safe, and people began to
look about and take account of what was left from the
wreck of war and reconstruction. The country was in a
deplorable condition, and its rehabilitation almost a work
of despair. In the midst Atlanta had begun to rise out of
the ashes, and the brave spirits that gathered here had
already made a name for the new city, which began to be
looked upon as something more than a Phoenix; but all
around was desolation. The plantations were in a deplorable
condition, fences were rotting, and houses were going
to decay. The first flush times of peace and greenbacks
had passed, and the panic of 1873 left every interest
depressed. It was then that the effects of war and waste
were fully felt, and then that the stoutest hearts were tried.
Labor was restless and hard to control, the planter was out
of funds and interest was high, real estate outside a few
favored localities was depreciating, and the farmers were
almost at the point of desperation.</p>

<p class='c018'><span class='pageno' id='Page_605'>605</span>In all this hopelessness there were a few hopeful spirits,
here and there one that could chirp. The hot days of politics
were past and the newspapers must look to other fields.
The <i>Constitution</i> was the first to look to the development
of the State’s resources as the new opportunity for journalistic
enterprise. This was a reconstruction in which the
people could take part; the <i>Constitution</i> had fought the
one, it would lead the other. From that time until now
development has been the <i>Constitution’s</i> most important
mission, and in that field its most earnest efforts have been
put forth. Constructive journalism was a new thing, and
the <i>Constitution</i> became the pioneer. Men might differ on
matters of public policy, but no one could afford to differ
with a newspaper devoted to building up its environment,
its city, State, and section.</p>

<p class='c018'>Here in Atlanta the effect of this new policy was first
felt, and here are its richest results; but helpfulness is
contagious, and everywhere the <i>Constitution</i> touched there
was a better feeling, and on account of that feeling it
touched farther and farther. Coupling with this constructive
policy a news system of unprecedented thoroughness,
the <i>Constitution</i> became inseparably connected with the
life of the people. It was in touch with them everywhere
in Georgia and the surrounding States, and finally its beneficent
influence spread throughout the whole South, inspiring,
encouraging, building up. While some old statesmen
were conducting in its columns a discussion as to whether
Georgia was growing richer or poorer, the policy of repair
was unremittingly pursued; and before the death of Alexander
Stephens, who had cried out that the State was
going to decay, the signs of new life had already appeared
and people began to talk about a New South.</p>

<p class='c018'>The New South sprang from the scions of the old, and
everywhere Confederate soldiers were leaders in this
upbuilding. While they cherished the relics of by-gone
valor and continued to keep the graves of their dead comrades
green, they looked hopefully to the future and strove
to lay the foundations of new greatness and future influence
<span class='pageno' id='Page_606'>606</span>in the restored Union. This was the key-note of the
most enlightened press, led by the <i>Constitution</i>, whose
editor, Capt. Howell, was a Confederate soldier.</p>

<p class='c018'>There came an interesting period of rivalry in this good
work when Mr. Grady dashed into the arena. With the
impulsive Alston he took charge of the Atlanta <i>Herald</i> in
1873, and for two years it was warm in Atlanta. Colonel
J. W. Avery, who succeeded Barrick as editor of the <i>Constitution</i>,
had gone over to the <i>Herald</i>, and Colonel E. Y.
Clarke, who had bought out Mr. Anderson, was editor of
the <i>Constitution</i>, while Mr. Hemphill remained business
manager, a position he has filled without intermission since
the birth of the paper. He and Colonel Clarke had already
built the old <i>Constitution</i> building on Broad Street. Mr.
Grady was making the <i>Herald</i> one of the brightest papers
ever published in Atlanta, and there were several other
dailies in the field. The old <i>Intelligencer</i> had passed away,
and in its place had come the <i>Sun</i>, a Democratic paper
edited by Alexander Stephens. <i>The New Era</i>, a scholarly
Republican paper, was edited by Colonel William L.
Scruggs, now Minister Plenipotentiary to Venezuela, and
<i>The True Georgian</i>, another Republican paper, was edited
by Sam Bard, a rugged product of those times. When the
<i>Herald</i> came into this field there were five morning dailies
in Atlanta. From the first the contest for supremacy was
between the <i>Constitution</i> and the <i>Herald</i>. With Georgia
Republicanism, the Republican papers passed out of existence,
and the <i>Sun</i> soon followed, leaving only the <i>Constitution</i>
and the <i>Herald</i>. In 1875 the fight between the two
papers became desperate. There was no morning train on
the Macon and Western road, and both papers wanted to
reach middle Georgia. The result was that both ran special
engines every morning from Atlanta to Macon, a distance
of 104 miles. The expense of these engines absorbed
the entire receipts of both papers, and left them to borrow
money to pay ordinary expenses. The engines carried not
over a thousand papers.</p>

<p class='c018'>During the month that this fight for existence endured
<span class='pageno' id='Page_607'>607</span>there were many exciting scenes. Both papers went to
press about four o’clock, and it was a race to the depot
every morning. The paper which got there first was given
the main line first, and the day’s sales depended largely on
the quickness of the cart-boys.</p>

<p class='c018'>The contest was spirited but short. Both papers were
heavily involved, and it was a question of endurance.
The <i>Constitution</i> had almost reached the end of its row
when a mortgage was foreclosed on the <i>Herald</i>. The <i>Constitution</i>
survived with a heavy debt. In 1872 Mr. N. P.
T. Finch had bought an interest in the paper, and after the
failure of the <i>Herald</i> Mr. Clarke retired and Mr. Finch
became editor. In 1876 Captain E. P. Howell, who had
had some experience in journalism as city editor of the
<i>Intelligencer</i> in its most vigorous days, and had since accumulated
some property in the practice of law, bought with
his brother Albert a half interest in the <i>Constitution</i>, and
took the position of editor-in-chief, which he has held ever
since. About the first thing Captain Howell did was to
employ Mr. Grady, and the next day he secured Joel
Chandler Harris. With this incomparable trio, associated
with Mr. Finch, the paper began editorially a new life.
The remnant of debts incurred in the fight with the <i>Herald</i>
was soon wiped out, and from that day the <i>Constitution</i>
has enjoyed unbroken prosperity.</p>

<p class='c018'>Strongly equipped all around, the <i>Constitution</i> enlarged
and intensified its operations. The campaign of 1876 was
on, and Mr. Grady was sent to Florida, where he unearthed
and exposed the ugly transaction by which the electoral
vote of that State was given to Hayes. The whole nation
hung upon the result with breathless interest, and newspapers
were willing to pay any price for the news. The
<i>Constitution</i> and the New York <i>Herald</i> were the first to
unearth the fraud. On such occasions the <i>Constitution</i>
always had the news, and soon came to be looked upon as
the most enterprising paper in the South.</p>

<p class='c018'>With the inauguration of Hayes the South turned away
from politics in disgust, and then it was that the <i>Constitution</i>
<span class='pageno' id='Page_608'>608</span>gave a new cue to the efforts of the people and turned
their slumbering energy to the development of Georgia and
the South.</p>

<p class='c018'>Mr. Grady, whose Washington letters had made him a
national reputation, turned his energies and his heart to
development. He went about among the people looking
into their concerns and making much of every incipient
enterprise. In the agricultural regions he wrote letters
that were pastoral poems in prose, strangely mixed with an
intoxicating combination of facts and figures. When he
wrote about Irish potatoes his city editor, Josiah Carter,
now editor of the Atlanta <i>Journal</i>, planted several acres as
a speculation; when he told of the profits in truck farming
there was a furore in the rural districts; and when he
got out on the stock farms and described the mild-eyed
Jerseys, the stockmen went wild, and the herds were
increased, while calves sold for fabulous prices.</p>

<p class='c018'>Wherever he went his pen touched on industry, and as
if by magic it grew and prospered. Fruits, melons, farms,
minerals, everything that was in sight, he wrote about;
and everything he wrote about became famous. It was in
this way that the <i>Constitution’s</i> work was done. The
people were wooed into enterprises of every sort, and most
of them prospered.</p>

<p class='c018'>Mr. Grady’s work had attracted the attention of prominent
men everywhere, and in 1880 Cyrus W. Field, of New
York, lent him $20,000 to buy a fourth interest in the <i>Constitution</i>.
Mr. Field has stated since Mr. Grady’s death
that he never had cause to regret the loan, as it was
promptly repaid and had been the means of enlarging Mr.
Grady’s work. Mr. Grady bought 250 shares, or $25,000
of the $100,000 of <i>Constitution</i> stock, from Messrs. Howell,
Hemphill, and Finch, who had previously purchased the
interest of Albert Howell. The stock was then equally
owned by Captain E. P. Howell, Mr. W. A. Hemphill, Mr.
N. P. T. Finch, and Mr. Grady. The staff was then reorganized,
with Captain Howell as editor-in-chief, Mr.
Grady, managing editor, and Mr. Finch and Joel Chandler
<span class='pageno' id='Page_609'>609</span>Harris as associate editors. Mr. Wallace P. Reed was
added in 1883, and Mr. Clark Howell, now managing editor,
came on in 1884 as night editor. When he was promoted
to be assistant managing editor in January, 1888, Mr.
P. J. Moran, who had been with the <i>Constitution</i> since the
suspension of the <i>Sun</i> in the early seventies, succeeded to
the position of night editor. In 1886 Mr. Finch retired,
and his interest was shared by Messrs. E. P. Howell,
Hemphill, Grady, and Clark Howell, and two new proprietors,
Messrs. S. M. Inman, of Atlanta, and James Swann.
The <i>Constitution</i> has held on its staff at different times
many of the most brilliant writers in the country, among
them Sam Small, Henry Richardson, editor of the Macon
<i>Telegraph</i>, Bill Arp, Betsey Hamilton, T. DeWitt Talmage,
and a number of others. The editor of the Atlanta <i>Evening
Journal</i> graduated from the city editorship of the
<i>Constitution</i> in 1887, and was succeeded by Mr. J. K. Ohl,
who still has charge of the city department. Mr. R. A.
Hemphill had acquired some stock and was in the business
department. The <i>Constitution</i> under the management of
Mr. W. J. Campbell has built up a large publishing business
and now does the printing for the State. The weekly
circulation is in charge of Mr. Edward White, who has an
army of agents in all parts of the Union. The western
edition in the last month has grown to large proportions.</p>

<p class='c018'>In 1883 the <i>Constitution</i> had outgrown its three-story
building on Broad Street, and the company bought the
present site on the corner of Alabama and Forsyth, and
began the erection of the new <i>Constitution</i> building. It
was completed in August, 1884, at a cost of $60,000 including
the site, and the $30,000 perfecting press and other machinery
ran the whole cost of the plant up to $125,000. The
site is the best for its purpose in the city. In the heart of
the town and on an eminence above most other points, the
editorial rooms on the fourth and fifth floors overlook the
city and the undulating country for miles around. On the
north, historic Kennesaw rises, a grim monument of valor,
and the white spires at its foot are visible to the naked eye.
<span class='pageno' id='Page_610'>610</span>On the south, Stone Mountain raises its granite dome fifteen
miles away, and to the northeast the eye reaches the first
foothills of that bracing region of the moonshiners where
the Blue Ridge breaks up and makes a Switzerland in
Georgia.</p>

<p class='c018'>In November, 1884, the <i>Constitution</i> christened its new
building with the first news of Cleveland’s election. The
Legislature then in session filled the <i>Constitution</i> building
at night, eagerly and enthusiastically watching the returns.
When at last one morning the result was definitely known,
a joyous party went from the <i>Constitution</i> building to the
Capitol, where occurred the memorable scene when Mr.
Grady adjourned the Legislature.</p>

<p class='c018'>A great crowd had collected about the <i>Constitution</i>
office, and when at eleven o’clock <span class='fss'>A.M.</span> it was known
beyond a doubt that Cleveland was elected, a brass band
was brought up, and Mr. Grady and Captain Howell
headed the procession. The march through town was
hilarious and exultant. The crowd carried a huge can of
red paint which was lavishly applied to sidewalks and
prominent objects on the line of march. When the procession
passed up Marietta Street its enthusiasm led it into
the Capitol where the Legislature was in session. Leading
the head of the procession to the hall of the House of Representatives,
Mr. Grady passed by the door-keeper into the
main aisle. Colonel Lucius Lamar, of Pulaski, a man of
imposing presence, was in the chair. His long hair fell
over his shoulders, and his bearing was magnificent.
Advancing down the aisle Mr. Grady paused and, in the
stately formula of the door-keeper, cried, with the most
imposing and dramatic manner:</p>

<p class='c018'>“Mr. Speaker; A message from the American people.”</p>

<p class='c018'>Catching the spirit of the invasion, the dignified Speaker
said solemnly:</p>

<p class='c018'>“Let it be received.”</p>

<p class='c018'>With that Mr. Grady pressed up to the speaker’s chair,
and quickly wresting the gavel from his hand, cried in
imposing and exultant tones:</p>

<p class='c018'><span class='pageno' id='Page_611'>611</span>“In the name of God and the American people, I
declare this House adjourned to celebrate the election of
Grover Cleveland, the first Democratic President in twenty-four
years.”</p>

<p class='c018'>At this there was a whirlwind of applause, and the
House broke up with the wildest enthusiasm.</p>

<p class='c018'>Mr. Grady often said that he and Oliver Cromwell were
the only two men who ever adjourned a legislative body in
that style.</p>

<p class='c018'>From the occupation of the new building the <i>Constitution</i>
took on tremendous growth. Mr. Grady had conceived
an idea of making the greatest weekly in America,
and since 1881 that edition had grown prodigiously.
When it was enlarged to a twelve-page form in 1881, it had
only 7200 subscribers. Special contributors were engaged,
special correspondents were sent out, and a picket line of
local agents was thrown out all over the South, while
sample copies were doing missionary work in the northwest.
The first year the circulation jumped to 20,000, the
next to 35,000, and when the <i>Constitution</i> went into its
new building in 1884 the 50,000 mark was reached. In
1887 the weekly passed 100,000, receiving 20,000 subscribers
in December. In December, 1889, while Mr. Grady was in
Boston, the paper broke the record with 20,000 subscribers
in one day. During the month 27,000 subscriptions were
received, and now the circulation is 146,000, of which
140,000 are subscribers and about 6000 sample copies.</p>

<p class='c018'>The inspiring and reconstructive work of the <i>Constitution</i>
culminated in the Cotton Exposition of 1881. The
whole country was warmed by a wave of prosperity in
1880, and the people of the South, invigorated and
enthused, entered heartily into the purposes of the Exposition.
When they came to see that wonderful collection of
resources it was a revelation and an inspiration to them.
The ball was in motion, and through the decade it has
rolled with steadily increasing momentum. The development
of the South has already gone beyond the expectation
of the most sanguine, and already this region has a
<span class='pageno' id='Page_612'>612</span>firm hold on iron and cotton, the two greatest industries on
the continent.</p>

<p class='c018'>Over all this helpful and inspiring work Captain Howell,
the editor-in-chief, had a watchful eye. His heart and
his purse were enlisted, and he backed up the vigorous
work of his paper with earnest personal work. He was
concerned in the leading enterprises as organizer and subscriber
to the stock. In the flush of enthusiasm he was a
balance-wheel. He added the safe counsel of a mature
business man to the enthusiasm of his more youthful partner,
and then backed him up with money and prodigious
energy.</p>

<p class='c018'>The Kimball House burned down one Sunday in August,
1883, and immediately the <i>Constitution</i> set to work to raise
the immense sum needed to replace the magnificent hotel.
It had been the pride of Atlanta. Conventions and distinguished
visitors from all sections of the country had
been entertained there. It was Atlanta’s reception room,
and was a necessity. It must be replaced, and the <i>Constitution</i>
threw itself in the breach. Captain Howell became
president of the new Kimball House Company, and bent
himself to the enormous task of raising $650,000. The
whole town was enthused, and Mr. Kimball’s magic services
were again called into requisition. On the 12th of
August, 1884, exactly one year from the day the old building
was burned, the directors of the new Kimball House
took tea on the fifth floor, and within six months the magnificent
structure was completed. At the grand banquet
which celebrated the event Captain Howell presided, and
Mr. Grady was one of the principal speakers.</p>

<p class='c018'>In all this development and upbuilding the other owners
of the <i>Constitution</i> backed up its work with personal
effort and financial support. Mr. Hemphill and Mr. Inman
are stockholders in almost everything about Atlanta, and
Mr. Swann, though now a resident of New York, continues
to invest his money largely in Atlanta enterprises.</p>

<p class='c018'>Perhaps the greatest service the <i>Constitution</i> ever did
for Atlanta and the State was its work for the location of
<span class='pageno' id='Page_613'>613</span>the Capitol here. The Constitutional Convention of 1877
left the question of location with the people and the election
was held that fall. A vigorous campaign was precipitated
almost from the adjournment of the Convention. Atlanta
was in great straits. The Capitol had been removed there
from Milledgeville by the Republicans, and the rank odor
of reconstruction times and of negro and carpet-bag rule
hung over the spot where their disgraceful transactions had
been enacted. The glorious memories of the past were
associated with Milledgeville, where the great men of the
century had been in training. Macon, Augusta, Savannah,
and the press of Southern Georgia sought to array these
cherished associations against Atlanta, the dashing new
city that had the audacity to set new patterns and do
things in her own vigorous way. Something had to be
done; enormous obstacles had to be overcome, and Atlanta
resolved to do the work. The city council met and decided
to spare no pains or expense to get the Capitol. A general
campaign committee was organized with Captain J. W.
English at its head, and the work from that center was
begun. In addition to this a prudential committee of three
was appointed and given a <i>carte blanche</i> to carry the election,
with unlimited means at its command. On this committee
were ex-Governor, now Senator, Joseph E. Brown,
Major Campbell Wallace and Captain E. P. Howell, editor
of the <i>Constitution</i>. The advanced age of the other two
members made it necessary for Captain Howell to take the
heaviest part of the work upon his shoulders and he worked
night and day. Every county in the State, except those
about Macon and Milledgeville, was covered with men
talking for Atlanta, and the whole State was flooded with
Atlanta literature. Some of the most distinguished
speakers in the State were on the hustings, and the heaviest
timber was on Atlanta’s side. It was a campaign of hard
work. Every voter, white and colored, was reached by
type and talk; and when the day came Atlanta won by
44,000 votes majority.</p>

<p class='c018'>While the leading citizens of Atlanta, including the
<span class='pageno' id='Page_614'>614</span>editors and owners of the <i>Constitution</i>, were personally at
work in the campaign, the paper was the chief point of
attack in a bitter newspaper war. Rancor ran almost to
bloodshed. Atlanta editors in those days were prepared to
talk it out or fight it out as their adversaries pleased. An
editor’s courage was in demand as constantly as his pen,
and there was no milk and water in editorials. The <i>Constitution</i>
held the fort for Atlanta, and its flag flaunted
serenely in the worst of the war.</p>

<p class='c018'>Then came a long fight for an appropriation to build a
new Capitol. The <i>Constitution</i> steadily advocated it, and
its influence was thrown into the Legislature to back up
Mr. Rice, the Atlanta member, who introduced the bill.
Finally when a million dollars had been appropriated, the
editor, Captain Howell, was put on the Capitol Commission
to succeed the late Mr. Crane as the member from Atlanta.</p>

<p class='c018'>Since then the <i>Constitution</i> has been a power in political
campaigns, and its influence was triumphantly exerted
in behalf of Governor Colquitt in the famous Colquitt-Norwood
campaign, when part of the Democratic Convention
split off and nominated Norwood after Colquitt had
been named by the majority. Mr. Grady took charge of
Governor Colquitt’s campaign, and to his efforts, more than
to anything else, Colquitt’s election was due. In the
Bacon-Boynton campaign the <i>Constitution’s</i> influence was
exerted for Governor Boynton, and finally for Governor
McDaniel, when Major Bacon had almost run away with
the nomination. When Governor Gordon dashed into the
State in 1886 Mr. Grady took charge of the campaign headquarters
in Atlanta and directed the work for Gordon.
The General’s wonderful magnetism was backed up with
such prodigious work as the State had never known. The
local influentials all over the State were largely pledged to
Major Bacon, and it was thought he had the nomination
in his pocket. Week by week, as the returns came in, the
Gordon column crept up on Bacon’s, and in the closing
weeks the General swept by him with a rush.</p>

<p class='c018'>The prohibition campaign of 1887 was one of the most
<span class='pageno' id='Page_615'>615</span>remarkable episodes in the history of Atlanta, and the
division and tension among friends and neighbors was
strikingly shown by the position of the gentlemen who
owned the <i>Constitution</i>. Captain Howell, the editor in
chief, was an ardent anti, and Mr. Grady, the managing editor,
was the leading advocate of prohibition. Mr. Hemphill
and Mr. Inman were for prohibition, and other stockholders
were against it. The campaign committees on both
sides loaded down the columns of the paper with bristling
communications, while the editor-in-chief and the managing
editor had thrown their whole strength into the campaign
on opposite sides. Both were on the hustings, and
it so happened that both spoke the same night, Captain
Howell to an opera house full of antis, and Mr. Grady to a
big warehouse full of prohibitionists. The whole town
was on the <i>qui vive</i>; one-half the people were hurrahing
for Howell and the other were cheering for Grady. The
editors drew more than the houses would begin to hold,
and their audiences were in a frenzy of delight.</p>

<p class='c018'>The speeches were the talk of the day, and for days
afterward their arguments were discussed and repeatedly
mustered into service by the other speakers.</p>

<p class='c018'>On the afternoon of the day they were to speak the
<i>Evening Journal</i> contained the following spirited notice
under the head of “Howell and Grady”:</p>

<div class='lg-container-b c031'>
  <div class='linegroup'>
    <div class='group'>
      <div class='line'>Jack Spratt</div>
      <div class='line'>Could eat no fat,</div>
      <div class='line in2'>His wife could eat no lean,</div>
      <div class='line'>Between them both</div>
      <div class='line'>They cleared the cloth</div>
      <div class='line in2'>And licked the platter clean.</div>
    </div>
  </div>
</div>

<p class='c021'>The reproduction of this ancient rhyme is not intended as an insinuation
that Mr. Henry W. Grady, the silver-tongued prohibition orator
of to-night, has any of the attributes of Jack Spratt, or that Colonel
Evan P. Howell, the redoubtable champion of the antis, has any of the
peculiarities of Jack Spratt’s conjugal associate. The idea sought to be
conveyed is that the fat and lean of prohibition will be energetically
attacked by these gentlemen to-night at the same hour from opposite
sides of the table.</p>

<p class='c022'>It goes without saying that between them both the platter will be
<span class='pageno' id='Page_616'>616</span>licked clean, and it is to be hoped that this hearty prohibition meal
will be thoroughly digested and assimilated to Atlanta’s system, that
growth in her every tissue will be the result.</p>

<p class='c022'>It would be hard to select two more effective speakers and two more
entirely different.</p>

<p class='c022'>“What is Colonel Howell’s style of oratory?” said one newspaper
man to another.</p>

<p class='c022'>“Well,” said he, “you have heard Grady? you know how he
speaks?”</p>

<p class='c022'>“Yes.”</p>

<p class='c022'>“Well, Grady makes you feel like you want to be an angel and with
the angels stand, and Howell makes you feel as if he were the commander
of an army, waving his sword and saying, ‘Follow me,’ and
you would follow him to the death.”</p>

<p class='c022'>Both of these speakers will raise enthusiasm at the start. As Grady
ascends the platform the band will play “Dixie” and the audience will
be almost in a frenzy of delight. As Colonel Howard comes forward
the band will be likely to play the “Marsellaise Hymn,”—some air
that stirs the sterner nature—and he will be received with thunders of
applause.</p>

<p class='c022'>With infinite jest and with subtle humor Mr. Grady will lead his
audience by the still waters where pleasant pastures lie; and there he
will “take the wings of the morning and fly to the uttermost parts of
the sea.”</p>

<p class='c022'>Howell will march his audience, like an army, through flood and
fire and fell; he will cross the sea, like a Norseman, to conquer
Britain. In Grady’s flights you only hear the cherubim’s wing; in
Howell’s march the drum-beat never ceases. Grady’s eloquence is like
a cumulus cloud that rises invisible as mist till it unfolds its white banners
in the sky; Howell’s is like a rushing mountain stream that tears
every rock and crag from its path, gathering volume as it goes.</p>

<p class='c022'>Mr. Howell will doubtless deal in statistics; Mr. Grady will have
figures, but they will not smell of the census. They will take on the
pleasing shape that induced one of his reporters to plant a crop of Irish
potatoes on a speculation. To-night Atlanta will be treated to a hopeful
view of prohibition by the most eloquent optimist in the country.
The contrast will be drawn with all the ruggedness of a strong, blunt
man.</p>

<p class='c023'>The day after the election, when 1100 majority had
been announced against prohibition, Captain Howell and
Mr. Grady printed characteristic cards. Captain Howell,
from the standpoint of victory, gave in a few words his
reasons for his course, and closed by saying:</p>

<p class='c021'><span class='pageno' id='Page_617'>617</span>A word about my partners. I have differed from them on this
question, and I know that they have been prompted by the same consciousness
of duty which caused me to so differ. I love Henry Grady
as a brother, and no one appreciates more highly than I his noble and
unselfish devotion to our city; no one knows better than I his earnestness
and faithful attachment to her welfare. Mr. Hemphill and Mr.
Inman are as true and tried citizens as Atlanta has, and are among my
warmest personal friends. Nothing that has occurred during this
campaign could mar the relations existing between us. The only
regret I have about the campaign is that I found it necessary to differ
with them, but I am confident that they will now join hands with me
in carrying out the purposes (uniting the people) as expressed above.</p>

<p class='c023'>Mr. Grady declared his unshaken affection for his
partner, and pledged his aid to him in his purposes to
unite Atlanta and keep the sale of liquor within bounds.
As for his own part in the campaign, he expresses himself
in these remarkable words:</p>

<p class='c021'>When everything else I have said or done is forgotten, I want
the words I have spoken for prohibition in Atlanta to be remembered.
I am prouder of my share in the campaign that has ended in its defeat
than of my share in all other campaigns that have ended in victory. I
espoused its cause deliberately, and I have worked for its success night
and day, to the very best of my ability. My only regret is that my
ability was not greater.</p>

<p class='c023'>This reunion of the owners of the <i>Constitution</i> was the
prompt example which set a pattern for the community.
Within a year from the close of the bitterest campaign in
Atlanta’s history, one in which many a house and many a
family was divided against itself, the acrimony had almost
entirely disappeared. The wounds of the campaign were
healed and the soreness of defeat had disappeared; Atlanta
was re-united, and on every side were signs of prosperity
and good-will. In another twelvemonth she had to enlarge
her girth a quarter of a mile all round; nine hundred
houses were built, every one was filled, and there was a
pressing demand for more. The <i>Constitution</i> turned from
this struggle with its owners more strongly cemented by
personal friendship than ever before, and in the closing
<span class='pageno' id='Page_618'>618</span>weeks of 1889 the paper touched a higher mark of prosperity
than it had ever known.</p>

<p class='c018'>After Mr. Grady’s death the <i>Constitution</i> pursued the
even tenor of its way. Saddened by that great calamity
the late editor’s associates realized that there was great
work for them to do. The succession to the management
was as natural as the passing of one day into another.
Mr. Clark Howell, Jr., eldest son of the editor-in-chief,
had been on the paper six years, first as night editor and
then as assistant managing editor. In Mr. Grady’s absence
he had been in charge, and in taking the position of managing
editor at twenty-six years of age, he assumed duties
and responsibilities that were not new to him. He was
fortified by an extensive personal acquaintance formed
not only in his newspaper experience, but in two terms of
active service as a representative of Fulton County in the
Legislature, having been nominated for the first term before
he was twenty-one years of age.</p>

<p class='c018'>Mr. Howell won his spurs as a newspaper man before
he was twenty. On graduating from the University of
Georgia in 1883 he went to the New York <i>Times</i> as an
apprentice in its local department. It was Captain Howell’s
policy to throw his son on his own resources, and
the moderate allowance during college days, was almost
entirely withdrawn when young Clark went to New York.
A young reporter working on twelve dollars a week was
sorely put to it to make ends meet in a great city like New
York. From the New York <i>Times</i> city department Mr.
Howell went to the Philadelphia <i>Press</i>, assisting in the
news editing department. It was while he was in Philadelphia,
with very little cash, that he seized an opportunity
to make some money and a good deal of reputation.
Samuel J. Tilden was being urged to allow the use of his
name for the second Presidential nomination. He had not
said yea or nay, and the country was anxiously awaiting
his decision, for his consent would have settled the question
of Democratic leadership. Mr. Howell went to New
York for the <i>Constitution</i>, and his interview with Mr. Tilden
<span class='pageno' id='Page_619'>619</span>was the first announcement of the old statesman’s
determination not to enter the contest again. That night
Mr. Howell telegraphed the news to two hundred papers,
and the interview with the sage of Gramercy Park was
read on two continents. The young journalist who had
scored a scoop on all the ambitious newspaper men of the
country received flattering notices from the press, besides
the comforting addition of $400 to his almost invisible
cash.</p>

<p class='c018'>Mr. Howell then came on the <i>Constitution</i> as night editor,
and was afterward promoted to the position of assistant
managing editor. What native ability and six years
of training did for him was made manifest very soon after
he assumed his new responsibility.</p>

<p class='c018'>For days the letters and telegrams of condolence and
tributes to Mr. Grady filled the paper, and to that and the
monument movement all other matter was, for the time,
made subordinate. When at last the burden of the people’s
grief had found full expression, the <i>Constitution</i>
turned itself with renewed vigor to its work. Captain
Howell was on deck, the new managing editor plunged
into every detail, and soon a general improvement was the
result; the <i>Constitution</i> took on new life. Then Mr.
Howell turned on all his energies and put the magnificent
machinery at his disposal up to its full speed. The daily
issues drew daily commendations of their excellence from
the press, and the first twenty-four-page Sunday’s edition
was pronounced by many the best the <i>Constitution</i> had
ever issued.</p>

<p class='c018'>The people realized that the <i>Constitution</i>, though it
had suffered a great loss in Mr. Grady’s death, was still in
strong hands, and from all parts of its territory came
renewed expressions of confidence and sympathy. So the
<i>Constitution</i> continues its work, enlarging and improving
as it goes, ever looking to the future while it cherishes a
magnificent past which it could not and would not let die.</p>
<div class='pbb'>
 <hr class='pb c007' />
</div>

<div class='nf-center-c0'>
<div class='nf-center c001'>
    <div><span class='pageno' id='Page_621'>621</span><span class='c029'><span class='sc'>Letters and Telegrams</span></span></div>
    <div class='c000'>FROM</div>
    <div class='c000'><span class='c004'>DISTINGUISHED PERSONS.</span></div>
  </div>
</div>

<div class='pbb'>
 <hr class='pb c001' />
</div>
<div class='chapter'>
  <span class='pageno' id='Page_623'>623</span>
  <h2 class='c012'>HON. CHAUNCEY M. DEPEW.</h2>
</div>
<hr class='c013' />

<p class='c018'><span class='sc'>New York</span>, Dec. 23.—The New England Society celebrated
to-night its 84th anniversary and the 469th of the
landing of the Pilgrim Fathers with a dinner.</p>

<p class='c018'>Mr. Depew spoke to the toast of “Unsolved Problems,”
and in the course of his remarks he referred to the death
of Henry W. Grady. He said:</p>

<p class='c018'>“Thirty years ago, Robert Toombs, of Georgia, one of
the ablest and most brilliant defenders of slavery, said in
his place in the United States Senate that he would yet
call the roll of his bondmen at the foot of Bunker Hill
monument. To-day his slaves are citizens and voters.
Within a few days a younger Georgian, possessed
of equal genius, but imbued with sentiments so leavened
that the great Senator would have held him an enemy
to the State, was the guest of Boston. With a power
of presentation and a fervor of declaration worthy
of the best days and noblest efforts of eloquence, he stood
beneath the shadow of Bunker Hill and uttered opinions
justifying the suppression of the negro vote, which were
hostile to the views of every man in his audience, and yet
they gave to his argument an eager and candid hearing,
and to his oratory unstinted and generous applause. It
was triumphant of Puritan principles and Puritan pluck.
They know we know that no system of suffrage can
survive the intimidation of the voter or the falsification
of the courts. Public conscience, by the approval
of fraud upon the ballot and the intelligence of a community,
will soon be indifferent to the extensions of
those methods by the present office-holders to continue in
<span class='pageno' id='Page_624'>624</span>power, and the arbitrary reversing of the will of the majority
will end in anarchy and despotism.</p>

<p class='c018'>“This is a burning question, not only in Georgia, but
in New York. It is that the government for the people
shall be by the people. No matter how grave the questions
which absorb the people’s attention or engross their
time, the permanence of their solution rests upon a pure
ballot.</p>

<p class='c018'>“The telegraph brings us this evening the announcement
of the death of Henry W. Grady, and we forget all
differences of opinion and remember only his chivalry,
patriotism, and his genius. He was the leader of the New
South, and died in the great work of impressing its marvelous
growth and national inspirations upon the willing ears
of the North. Upon this platform, and before this audience,
two years ago, he commanded the attention of the country
and won universal fame. His death, in the meridian of
his powers and the hopefulness of his mission, at a
critical period of the removal forever of all misunderstanding
and differences between all sections of the Republic,
is a national calamity. New York mingles her tears
with those of his kindred, and offers to his memory a tribute
of her profoundest admiration.”</p>
<hr class='c047' />
<h3 class='c016'>EX-PRESIDENT CLEVELAND.</h3>
<hr class='c019' />
<div class='c011'><span class='sc'>New York</span>, <i>December 23, 1889</i>.</div>

<p class='c018'><span class='sc'>Mrs. Henry W. Grady</span>: Accept the heartfelt sympathy
of one who loved your husband for what he was and
for all that he had done for his people and his country.
Be assured that everywhere throughout the land warm
hearts mourn with you in your deep affliction and deplore
the loss the nation has sustained.</p>
<div class='c011'><span class='sc'>Grover Cleveland.</span></div>
<hr class='c047' />
<div>
  <span class='pageno' id='Page_625'>625</span>
  <h3 class='c003'>HON. A. S. COLYAR.</h3>
</div>
<hr class='c019' />
<p class='c018'><span class='sc'>Nashville, Tenn.</span>, <i>December 26, 1889</i>.</p>

<p class='c018'><span class='sc'>Mr. A. W. Davis, Atlanta, Ga.</span>:</p>

<p class='c018'><i>My Dear Sir</i>:—I feel as if, in coming to what I had
hoped to be a joyous occasion, I am coming to the house of
mourning—the home of sorrow. Since the tragic end of
the young Irish patriot, death has not more ruthlessly
invaded the land of “shining marks” than when he the
other day came to your beautiful city—a city of happiness
and “high ways”—and, as if looking with remorseless
purpose into the very secrets of domestic felicity and
popular affection—took up and carried away into the land
of the unseeable the idol of a happy home and of a great
city. Not only was Henry W. Grady the idol of his own
city and State, but without office and without estate,
though young in years, he had attained a maturity of both
pen and heart which brought renown as an American
patriot far beyond what place or power can give. His death
is a national calamity. In times of peace, when much of
the press and many of the public men are inviting patronage
and seeking favors in fanning the passions born of a
sectional issue, to see a truly national and brave man,
who, loving his own native section, can nevertheless glory
in a common country and a common destiny for all the
American people—is to the patriot philosopher, who
divines the happiness of a reunited people, the bright star
of hope rising to dissipate the prejudices of the past and
light up the pathway to the coming millions.</p>

<p class='c018'>Unfortunately, oh, how much to be deplored! the passions
of the sections have been kept alive by the pen and
tongue of the politician seeking patronage and office.</p>

<p class='c018'>The young man of your city whose death all patriots
mourn, put himself on a higher plane—freed from passion
and rising above his own ambition, he gave tone and
temper to a national sentiment, which might be uttered in
<span class='pageno' id='Page_626'>626</span>Boston or Atlanta with equal propriety and patriotism
and from the emotions of his patriotic heart, he spoke
words which, while they were full of the manhood of his
own loved South, nevertheless warmed into a generous
sympathy the North man as well as the South man, and
put American citizenship so high that the young men of
the country may, without the sacrifice of local pride, ever
aspire to reach it.</p>

<p class='c018'>As an example of Southern manhood, patriotic fervor,
and a statesmanship extending over the entire country and
into the coming generations, all sparkling with the scintillation
of an intelligent courage that defied alike the prejudices
of the ignorant and the appeals of the demagogue,
he was the representative and leader of a sentiment in the
South which promised speedily a reforming of public sentiment
north and south, a turning from the shades of the
past into the lighted avenues of the future—these avenues
opening to all alike without the sacrifice of manhood or
the domination of section.</p>

<p class='c018'>I repeat, his death is a calamity, and oh, how sad and
mysterious!</p>

<p class='c018'>Truly, <span class='sc'>A. S. Colyar</span>.</p>
<hr class='c047' />
<h3 class='c016'>HON. MURAT HALSTEAD.</h3>
<hr class='c019' />

<div class='c011'><span class='sc'>Cincinnati</span>, <i>December 24, 1889</i>.</div>

<p class='c018'><span class='sc'>Mrs. H. W. Grady</span>:</p>

<p class='c018'>I desire to inscribe my name among those who feel the
public misfortune of Mr. Grady’s death as a personal loss,
and hope you may know how true it is that there are no
boundaries to sincere regrets and earnest sympathies.</p>
<div class='c011'><span class='sc'>Murat Halstead.</span></div>
<hr class='c047' />
<div>
  <span class='pageno' id='Page_627'>627</span>
  <h3 class='c016'>HON. SAMUEL J. RANDALL.</h3>
</div>
<hr class='c019' />
<p class='c050'><span class='sc'>House of Representatives,</span></p>
<p class='c036'><span class='sc'>Washington, D. C.</span>, <i>December 24, 1889</i>.</p>

<p class='c018'><span class='sc'>Hon. E. P. Howell, Atlanta, Ga.</span>:</p>

<p class='c018'><i>My Dear Sir</i>:—I telegraphed briefly yesterday afternoon,
immediately upon hearing of the death of our dear
friend. I do not know when I have been more shocked
than I have been at this great calamity, and I cannot yet
bring my mind to realize it. The ways of Providence are
strange indeed, but we should submit with Christian fortitude.</p>

<p class='c018'>So young a man, with so bright a future, and capable
of so much benefit to his State and country, it is hard
indeed to part with. His great object in life was to break
down sectionalism and bring the South to her full capabilities
of development. But I have not the heart to write
more.</p>

<p class='c018'>Give Mrs. Randall’s love to Mrs. Grady and my kindest
sympathy, and tell her that as long as life lasts with us
Mr. Grady’s hundred and more kindnesses to both will
never fade from our memory.</p>
<div class='c011'><span class='sc'>Samuel J. Randall.</span></div>
<hr class='c047' />
<h3 class='c016'>MR. ANDREW CARNEGIE.</h3>
<hr class='c019' />
<div class='c011'><span class='sc'>New York</span>, <i>December 24, 1889</i>.</div>

<p class='c018'><span class='sc'>Captain Howell</span>:</p>

<p class='c018'>Only those who stood at Mr. Grady’s side as we did and
heard him at Boston can estimate the extent of the nation’s
loss in his death. It seemed reserved for him to perform a
service to his country which no other could perform so well.
Mrs. Carnegie and I share your grief and tender to his
family profound sympathy. We send a wreath in your
care which please place upon the grave of the eloquent
peacemaker between the North and South.</p>
<div class='c011'><span class='sc'>Andrew Carnegie.</span></div>
<div class='pbb'>
 <hr class='pb c007' />
</div>
<div>
  <span class='pageno' id='Page_628'>628</span>
  <h3 class='c016'>MANY DISTINGUISHED CITIZENS.</h3>
</div>
<hr class='c019' />

<div class='c011'><span class='sc'>Springfield, Mass.</span>, <i>December 24, 1889</i>.</div>
<p class='c018'><span class='sc'>The Honorable, the Mayor</span>:</p>

<p class='c018'>Springfield shares the sorrow of her sister city. The
death of such a man as Henry Woodfin Grady is a national
loss.</p>
<div class='c011'><span class='sc'>Edward S. Bradford</span>, <i>Mayor</i>.</div>
<hr class='c028' />
<div class='c011'><span class='sc'>New York</span>, <i>December 24, 1889</i>.</div>
<p class='c018'><span class='sc'>To Mrs. Henry Grady</span>:</p>

<p class='c018'>The New York Southern Society, profoundly affected by
a sense of the public loss sustained in the death of your
distinguished husband, offer you their heartfelt sympathy
in the great affliction you have suffered.</p>
<div class='c011'><span class='sc'>J. H. Parker</span>, <i>Vice-President</i>.</div>
<hr class='c028' />
<div class='c011'><span class='sc'>New York</span>, <i>December 23, 1889</i>.</div>
<p class='c018'><span class='sc'>Governor Rufus B. Bullock</span>:</p>

<p class='c018'>Your dispatch is received with sincere sorrow. Thousands
of our citizens recognized in Mr. Grady a man
worthy of the highest respect and esteem, and will regard
his untimely death a national calamity.</p>
<div class='c011'></div>
<p class='c018'><span class='sc'>Alonzo B. Cornell.</span></p>
<hr class='c028' />
<div class='c011'><span class='sc'>New York</span>, <i>December 24, 1889</i>.</div>
<p class='c018'><span class='sc'>Evan Howell</span>:</p>

<p class='c018'>Please give my earnest sympathy to Mrs. Grady. The
profession has lost one of its three or four foremost members,
and the country a true patriot.</p>
<div class='c011'><span class='sc'>Ballard Smith.</span></div>

<div class='pbb'>
 <hr class='pb c007' />
</div>
<p class='c018'>&nbsp;</p>
<div class='tnbox'>

 <ul class='ul_1 c007'>
    <li>Transcriber’s Notes:
      <ul  class='ul_2'>
        <li>Missing or obscured punctuation was silently corrected.
        </li>
        <li>Typographical errors were silently corrected.
        </li>
        <li>Inconsistent spelling and hyphenation were made consistent only when a predominant 
        form was found in this book.
        </li>
      </ul>
    </li>
  </ul>

</div>
<p class='c018'>&nbsp;</p>

<div>*** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK 68178 ***</div>
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