A NOBLE DEATH.
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!”