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_From the “Jacksonville, Fla., Times-Union.”_
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.
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.
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.
’Twas his own genius gave the final blow,
And helped to plant the wound that laid him low.
* * * * *
Yes, she too much indulged the fond pursuit;
She sowed the seed, but death has reaped the fruit!
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.
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; _die_! You’ll never have a better time!”
The _Times-Union_ 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, 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.
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.
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!”
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