When in 1880 Mr. Grady bought a fourth interest in the _Constitution_,
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 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
_Constitution’s_ 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.
And yet it is a singular fact that all his early journalistic ventures
were in the nature of failures. The Rome _Commercial_, 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 _Daily Herald_, but it was expensive work, too, and
the _Herald_ 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 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 _Daily Herald_ 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 _Daily Herald_ 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
_Herald_. 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.
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 _Constitution_. The day after the purchase was made,
Captain Howell met Mr. Grady, who was on his way to the passenger
station.
“I was just hunting for you,” said Captain Howell. “I want to have a
talk with you.”
“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.”
It turned out that the young editor, discomfited in Atlanta, but not
discouraged, was on his way to Augusta to take charge of the
_Constitutionalist_ 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 _Constitution_ 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
_Constitution_ 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 greatly
relieved by the wit, the humor, the good nature and the good sense which
the two leaders injected into the canvas.
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.
On that particular Christmas eve, there was living in 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.
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.
“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.”
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.
“It isn’t too early to wish you a merry Christmas, I hope,” said Mr.
Grady, shaking hands with the old man.
“No, no,” replied the Judge, straightening himself up with dignity; “not
at all. The same to you, my boy.”
“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.”
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, and his dignity sensibly relaxed. “I was
only—ah—Grady, let me see you a moment.”
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.
“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.”
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.
“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.”
The Judge leaned against the counter with a careless dignity quite
inimitable, and glanced at the well-filled shelves.
“Well,” said he, thrumming on a paper-box, and smacking his lips
thoughtfully, “we will put down first a bottle of chow-chow pickles.”
“Why, of course,” exclaimed Mr. Grady, his face radiant with mirth; “it
is the very thing. What next?”
“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.”
Every article the Judge ordered was something he had been used to in his
happier days. The whole episode was 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.
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 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 _Constitution_ 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 _Constitution_ 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.
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 _Constitution_ 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.
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 attracted attention all over the country. Mr.
Grady called it