I cannot speak in studied phrase of my dead friend. The few
simple words I can trust my faltering lips to utter will come
from a heart burdened with grief too deep for language to
express. A grief whose crushing weight, outside of my own home
circle, has taken away from life its brightest hopes and its
highest inspiration.
In the summer of 1866 I first met Henry Grady, even then giving
promise of marvelous gifts of mind and heart. From that summer
evening, remembered now as though it were but yesterday, I have
loved him with all a brother’s devotion and tenderness. During
all these years there has been no shadow on our friendship and
no secrets in our hearts. In prosperity he has rejoiced with me,
and when sorrow and trouble came no voice was as cheering, no
sympathy was as sweet as his. Only a year ago, when death came
into my home and took the one little blossom that had bloomed in
my heart as my own, he wrote to my mother words of tenderest
comfort for her and of love for me—words that are inexpressibly
precious to me now. Out of my life into the beautiful beyond
have passed the two friends I loved best on earth—the chivalrous
Gordon, the peerless Grady. God keep my friends and lead them
gently through the meadow-lands where the river flows in song
eternal. I know that near its crystal banks, where the birds
sing sweetest and flowers bloom brightest, they have clasped
hands in blessed and happy reunion. The love with which Henry
Grady inspired his friends has never been surpassed by mortal
man. Beautiful and touching have been the expressions of
devotion that have come to his family. I believe that there are
hundreds all over this State who would gladly take his place in
yonder silent tomb, if by so doing they could restore him to the
people who loved him and who need him so greatly. It is not his
great genius, unrivaled as it was; not his fervent patriotism,
unselfish as it was; not his wonderful eloquence, matchless as
it was; not his public spirit, willing as it was—these are not
the recollections that have moved the people as they have never
been moved before.
But it was the great heart of the man beating in loving sympathy
with suffering, touching with sweetest encouragement the lowly
and struggling, carrying the sunshine of his own radiant life
into so many unhappy lives, that now bow down the hearts of the
people under the weight of a personal loss.
Henry Grady lived in an atmosphere of love. In him there was
greatness—greatness unselfish—unconscious—gentle as the heart of
a child. In him there was charity—charity white and still as the
moonlight that shines into the shadows of night. In him there
was heroism—the heroism of the knight that drew no sword, but
waved in his hand, high above his white plumed brow, the sacred
wand of peace, of love, of fraternity. In him there was
patriotism, but a patriotism as pure and steadfast as a flame
burning as a passion for the people he loved. As I contemplate
this life through the years that I have known him so well, I
feel as one who has seen the sun rise in the cloudless spring
time, warming into beauty all the flowers of the earth, and
winning into praise all the songsters of the air, at noonday,
when all earth was rejoicing in its light and growing in its
strength, suddenly fade away, leaving the land in darkness.
Henry Grady was the great sun of the Southland, under whose
fervid eloquence the cold heart of the North was melting into
patience, confidence, justice, sympathy and love. It is no
exaggeration to say that he was the great hope of the country.
The eyes of the South were looking toward him with hope. The
ears of the North were listening to him with faith. Inscrutable,
indeed, are the ways of a Providence that demanded a life so
richly endowed, so potential for good. And yet it is the finite
mind that would question either the mercy or wisdom of the
Infinite. Our hero could not have died at a time when he was
dearer to his people. His last brave, eloquent message will find
its way, has found its way, to the hearts and consciences of his
countrymen. His death is a sacrificial offering from whose altar
rises even now the incense of perpetual peace and a perfect
union of brotherly love. The lessons of his life will ripen with
the passing years. Ages yet to come will compass the fullness of
his fame and time will consecrate the patriotic martyrdom of his
death. He sang like one inspired with the sacred memories of the
past and the glorious hopes of the future. His works and his
noble qualities will expand and multiply from his tomb as the
sweet spice rushes from the broken alabaster vase. His name will
become the synonym for friendship, charity, wisdom, eloquence,
patriotism and love, wherever these virtues are known and
treasured among men.
To use his own beautiful words, written of another: “Those who
loved him best will find him always present. They will see him
enthroned in every heart that kindles with sympathy to others.
They will feel his kindly presence in the throb of every hand
that clasps their hands in the universal kinship of grief. They
will see his loving memory beaming from every eye as it falls on
theirs.” So he shall live in Georgians and with Georgians
forever and forever. On the monument which loving hands will
erect to his memory let the inscription be written: “At all
times and everywhere he gave his strength to the weak—his
sympathy to the suffering—his life to his country and his heart
to God.” Our hearts go out to-day in tenderest sympathy to the
loved ones at home. Those alone who have had the privilege of
entering the charmed circle can know the void left there.
To the mother who idolized this noble son—and he never forgot
her, for did he not turn aside from questions of state to tell
the Nation that her knees were the truest altar he had ever
found, and her hands the fairest and strongest that had ever led
him; to the sweet and loving sister, the companion of his
boyhood; to the heart-broken wife always worthy of his love,
devoted to him, ever dear to him; to the sweet and gentle
daughter, the idol of his heart and household; to the noble and
manly son—these were his jewels. And as we loved him so shall we
love them. I have seen a picture with a shaft of light reaching
from earth to heaven. Up the long, white rays, dazzling in glory
and transcendent in beauty, an immortal soul is ascending to the
illumined heights—ascending to meet its God. I think that if
there ever was a soul borne upward upon rays of glory it was the
beautiful soul of this friend we loved. The golden beams of this
earthly glory shining into the pure light of heaven wove his
radiant pathway to the stars. What an ascension for an immortal
soul! Earth’s glory under his feet; Heaven’s glory upon his
brow. So he, our immortal, becomes God’s immortal. Oh, thou
bright, immortal spirit! Thou standeth this day in the presence
of the angels. The King, in his beauty, hath greeted thee with
the welcome: Well done, well done good and faithful servant; the
great and good that have passed from earth are thy companions,
and thy ears have heard music sweeter far than all earthly
plaudits. Yet we miss thee; we mourn thee; through the rifted
heavens we greet thee with grateful tears and undying love.