-------
_From the “Greenville, S. C., News.”_
IN the early days of this last month of the year Jefferson Davis, old,
feeble and weary, was lifted gently from 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.
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.
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 to shake from it factional and
sectional rage and consecrate itself to a common patriotism, a single
love for a great Republic.
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.
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.
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.
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.
------------------