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_From the “Greenesboro Herald and Journal.”_
ON the mild Christmas morning the heart of Georgia is bowed in sorrow
over the death of her favorite son. It seems, indeed, a mockery that
amidst the joys and festivities of the Christmas time, the dark shadow
of the relentless foe of man should intrude his presence and take from
our land one who was its brightest hope, its strongest support!
And yet it is true. Henry Grady is dead! The orator, the journalist, the
poet by nature, the man of the people, is dead! We cannot realize it. So
bright in his strong young manhood but one short week ago, now folded in
the arms of death! A greater shock, a keener sorrow was never crushed
upon a people!
This is not the time, in the shadow of the grave but in the brightness
of his glory, to speak fully of him that is gone! Our pen fails, and all
it can say is “Thou has stricken Thy people, O God! and in Thy wisdom
Thou hast given us bitterness to drain! Let not our hearts rebel against
Thee, our Lord and our God!”
The death which has come to Georgia to-day cannot be measured in its
irreparable loss. A week ago the South was in mourning over the death of
her great leader! But he belonged to the past, and while the sorrow fell
deep, yet we realize that a life had ended which had filled its fullest
mission. But in the death of Henry Grady the South has lost a leader of
to-day—an active, earnest, true man, whose heart, bound up in the
advancement of his people, was but laying brighter and fresher and truer
plans for their prosperity. To every heart in the South the question
comes “Who will lead us now? Who will defend our principles now that he
is taken from us?” And out of the blackness of our desolation it seems
that no star shines to guide us!
It is, perhaps, well that the last effort of Mr. Grady was in defense of
our institutions and in support of the principles, motives and ambitions
of his people. He died with the gathering halo of a people’s love
clustering about him! He went to death with a defense of that people
clinging to his lips and to his heart! In the zenith of his usefulness
he was cut down! Why? God in His infinite wisdom knows best!
We can pay no tribute to the memory of Henry Grady greater than the love
which weeps at his bier this morning. And yet the writer would lay,
amidst the offerings which fall from the overflowing hearts of thousands
to-day, a tiny tribute to his memory. He was our friend, wise and true
and earnest in his counsels—pointing out that the true end of the
journalist is the defense and advancement of his people. As a
journalist, perhaps, has his greatest work been done, and upon the heart
of every man of the pen he left an impression that his vocation is
ennobled and is the grander that Henry Grady made it his love. And, in
the shadow of death will come this consoling thought. That the press,
which was his power, and which remains as the bulwark of the people, is
the purer, and the better, and the stronger from the principles which
Henry Grady inculcated in it. To carry out that work, which has fallen
from his hands in death, should move the heart of every journalist, and
when its fullest fruition has come, then will the crown upon the fame of
Henry Grady shine the brighter!
Peace to the great man gathered to his reward! The future will crown his
memory with the bright flowers which will come as the fruition of his
hopes and of his life-work!
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