Henry W. Grady had the zeal of a martyr and valor of a patriot. If it be permitted to mortals who have put on immortality to look upon this world from their celestial home, the incense of praise which ascends from our stricken hearts will be grateful to the soul of Henry Grady. God has set his seal upon his silver tongue, and no more forever will his eloquent voice, stimulating his fellow-countrymen to deeds of noble enterprise, be heard on earth. Matchless the fertility of his mind, matchless the magic and power of his presentation, matchless his power of organization, matchless his power of accomplishment. Truly, indeed, can it be said of him, there is no man left to fill his place.
May his golden soul rest in the bosom of the God that gave it, is the humble but heartfelt prayer of one who admired and respected him living, and who mourns and reveres him dead.
ADDRESS OF HON. B. H. HILL.
I cannot speak in studied phrase of my dead friend. The few simple words I can trust my faltering lips to utter will come from a heart burdened with grief too deep for language to express. A grief whose crushing weight, outside of my own home circle, has taken away from life its brightest hopes and its highest inspiration.
In the summer of 1866 I first met Henry Grady, even then giving promise of marvelous gifts of mind and heart. From that summer evening, remembered now as though it were but yesterday, I have loved him with all a brother’s devotion and tenderness. During all these years there has been no shadow on our friendship and no secrets in our hearts. In prosperity he has rejoiced with me, and when sorrow and trouble came no voice was as cheering, no sympathy was as sweet as his. Only a year ago, when death came into my home and took the one little blossom that had bloomed in my heart as my own, he wrote to my mother words of tenderest comfort for her and of love for me—words that are inexpressibly precious to me now. Out of my life into the beautiful beyond have passed the two friends I loved best on earth—the chivalrous Gordon, the peerless Grady. God keep my friends and lead them gently through the meadow-lands where the river flows in song eternal. I know that near its crystal banks, where the birds sing sweetest and flowers bloom brightest, they have clasped hands in blessed and happy reunion. The love with which Henry Grady inspired his friends has never been surpassed by mortal man. Beautiful and touching have been the expressions of devotion that have come to his family. I believe that there are hundreds all over this State who would gladly take his place in yonder silent tomb, if by so doing they could restore him to the people who loved him and who need him so greatly. It is not his great genius, unrivaled as it was; not his fervent patriotism, unselfish as it was; not his wonderful eloquence, matchless as it was; not his public spirit, willing as it was—these are not the recollections that have moved the people as they have never been moved before.
But it was the great heart of the man beating in loving sympathy with suffering, touching with sweetest encouragement the lowly and struggling, carrying the sunshine of his own radiant life into so many unhappy lives, that now bow down the hearts of the people under the weight of a personal loss.
Henry Grady lived in an atmosphere of love. In him there was greatness—greatness unselfish—unconscious—gentle as the heart of a child. In him there was charity—charity white and still as the moonlight that shines into the shadows of night. In him there was heroism—the heroism of the knight that drew no sword, but waved in his hand, high above his white plumed brow, the sacred wand of peace, of love, of fraternity. In him there was patriotism, but a patriotism as pure and steadfast as a flame burning as a passion for the people he loved. As I contemplate this life through the years that I have known him so well, I feel as one who has seen the sun rise in the cloudless spring time, warming into beauty all the flowers of the earth, and winning into praise all the songsters of the air, at noonday, when all earth was rejoicing in its light and growing in its strength, suddenly fade away, leaving the land in darkness. Henry Grady was the great sun of the Southland, under whose fervid eloquence the cold heart of the North was melting into patience, confidence, justice, sympathy and love. It is no exaggeration to say that he was the great hope of the country.
The eyes of the South were looking toward him with hope. The ears of the North were listening to him with faith. Inscrutable, indeed, are the ways of a Providence that demanded a life so richly endowed, so potential for good. And yet it is the finite mind that would question either the mercy or wisdom of the Infinite. Our hero could not have died at a time when he was dearer to his people. His last brave, eloquent message will find its way, has found its way, to the hearts and consciences of his countrymen. His death is a sacrificial offering from whose altar rises even now the incense of perpetual peace and a perfect union of brotherly love. The lessons of his life will ripen with the passing years. Ages yet to come will compass the fullness of his fame and time will consecrate the patriotic martyrdom of his death. He sang like one inspired with the sacred memories of the past and the glorious hopes of the future. His works and his noble qualities will expand and multiply from his tomb as the sweet spice rushes from the broken alabaster vase. His name will become the synonym for friendship, charity, wisdom, eloquence, patriotism and love, wherever these virtues are known and treasured among men.
To use his own beautiful words, written of another: “Those who loved him best will find him always present. They will see him enthroned in every heart that kindles with sympathy to others. They will feel his kindly presence in the throb of every hand that clasps their hands in the universal kinship of grief. They will see his loving memory beaming from every eye as it falls on theirs.” So he shall live in Georgians and with Georgians forever and forever. On the monument which loving hands will erect to his memory let the inscription be written: “At all times and everywhere he gave his strength to the weak—his sympathy to the suffering—his life to his country and his heart to God.” Our hearts go out to-day in tenderest sympathy to the loved ones at home. Those alone who have had the privilege of entering the charmed circle can know the void left there.
To the mother who idolized this noble son—and he never forgot her, for did he not turn aside from questions of state to tell the Nation that her knees were the truest altar he had ever found, and her hands the fairest and strongest that had ever led him; to the sweet and loving sister, the companion of his boyhood; to the heart-broken wife always worthy of his love, devoted to him, ever dear to him; to the sweet and gentle daughter, the idol of his heart and household; to the noble and manly son—these were his jewels. And as we loved him so shall we love them. I have seen a picture with a shaft of light reaching from earth to heaven. Up the long, white rays, dazzling in glory and transcendent in beauty, an immortal soul is ascending to the illumined heights—ascending to meet its God. I think that if there ever was a soul borne upward upon rays of glory it was the beautiful soul of this friend we loved. The golden beams of this earthly glory shining into the pure light of heaven wove his radiant pathway to the stars. What an ascension for an immortal soul! Earth’s glory under his feet; Heaven’s glory upon his brow. So he, our immortal, becomes God’s immortal. Oh, thou bright, immortal spirit! Thou standeth this day in the presence of the angels. The King, in his beauty, hath greeted thee with the welcome: Well done, well done good and faithful servant; the great and good that have passed from earth are thy companions, and thy ears have heard music sweeter far than all earthly plaudits. Yet we miss thee; we mourn thee; through the rifted heavens we greet thee with grateful tears and undying love.