Love was the law of Henry Grady’s life. His splendid eminence among his fellows teaches once again that “he who follows love’s behest far exceedeth all the rest.” Its strongest throbs beat in the inner circle of the home; but in widening waves they expand first into friendship, then into public spirit, then into patriotism, then into philanthropy. When it rises above these forms of human affection in the incense of worship—we give it once more the sacred name of love, which it bore at its fireside shrine. From Henry Grady’s heart, that first and best and truest and most of all was the home-fond heart, there flowed out in all the prodigality of his generous soul, and yet with the perfect adjustment of due degree, all those currents of feeling which bear so many names and yet are one. And as he loved, so is he mourned—from the hearth of a desolated home to the borders of a mighty nation.
What was he to his friends? I dare not answer except to muffle my own heart in borrowed words—the words of Carlyle over the bier of the gifted Edward Irving—“His was the bravest, freest, brotherliest human soul mine ever came in contact with.”
What was he to Atlanta? More than any other man, he built this city which he rightly loved as he loved no other. Although the feudal independence of the old Southern life was distinctly promotive of individualism—yet it was reserved for this young leader—but one remove from that past generation, to give to our common country the finest and most conspicuous type which American citizenship has yet produced of that high civil virtue—public spirit. It is a virtue untaught in the schools—a grace and a duty not preached from the pulpit: and yet, as I study its manifestations in this marvelous man whose suggestion and sagacity planted the cornucopias of plenty amid industrial desolation and agricultural poverty—to me it seems far more in touch with the brotherhood of man and the helpfulness of Christ than the benevolence which so often degrades the recipient and the zeal which burns so fiercely for the conversion of opinions. If the Church does not claim it as the fruit of religion, the State may be proud to own it as the patriotism of peace.
What was he to Georgia? We naturally think of the material progress which he inspired throughout the State, and all due emphasis has been accorded to it. But we must not forget the other forms of progress to which he was devoted. What a many-sided man he was! He spent himself to the utmost of his wonderful resources in behalf of the intellectual culture of the State—in the earnest but sweet-spirited championship of that moral issue which he declared was “the most hopeful experiment ever undertaken in any American city,” in that magnificent tribute to the value of her young men, which Atlanta has “writ large” in the stately Association Building. And thus he, whose pen seemed like the touch of Midas turning to the gold of material wealth every interest to which it pointed, he teaches also that imperative lesson of our needy time—that to know and to be are greater things than to get and to have.
What was he to the South? Let the laureate answer:
The voice of any people is the sword—
The sword that guards them or the sword that beats them down.
More than any other public man, he was the voice of his people. His eloquence in magnetic speech, and that new art his genius had created—the oratory of the editorial!—along with the voices in literature of Joel Chandler Harris, Thomas Nelson Page and Harry Stillwell Edwards, have conquered a hearing at the North. In glowing utterance and moving story, they have set forth the true and tender pictures of the old Southern life, the sincere and single-hearted heroism of the Confederate soldier, the cordial but self-respecting loyalty of the South of to-day to the restored Union. They have brought it to pass that in the contemporary fiction of English-speaking peoples the favorite scene is amid the old plantations, and the popular hero is the boy that wore the gray. By these subtle forces of genius, results have been achieved which no forensic advocacy or party zeal could ever have accomplished. Old verdicts of condemnation and prejudice have been reversed; and in their stead, comprehension has come, patience is coming, confidence will come.
For the sole but sufficient reason that the whole truth demands it, I ought to say, that from what seemed to me some of the implications of his public utterances I had urged upon him my own dissent; and his letter in reply, permitting me to differ without a discount in his sincere esteem, is now, more than ever, one of the treasures of my life.
His work for his people could not have been so adequately done had office crowned his worth. His advocacy would then have seemed professional and political. Public station would have put limitations on him—would have narrowed his audience. A rare lesson of his life is here—a lesson needed especially among us whose habit has been to associate official distinction too exclusively with public service. The people are greater than Senate or Congress. The official in Washington can speak only to his party. But the audiences which Grady and his generous eulogist, Depew, commands show that a man uncrowned with public office can be great in public life, and perhaps thereby do a greater work.