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_From the “Rome Tribune.”_
IN 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.
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.
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.
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.
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!
We cannot understand it. The reality is too much!
We falter where we firmly trod,
And, falling with our weight of cares
Upon the great world’s altar stairs
That slope through darkness up to God,
We stretch blind hands of Faith that grope!
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?
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!
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!
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