HENRY W. GRADY IS NO MORE.
From the “Valdosta Times.”
Henry W. Grady is dead. His great soul has passed from this mundane sphere. Truly “a silver tongue is hushed and a golden pen is broken.” Matchless orator, brilliant journalist, able statesman, patriotic citizen, noble man—shall we see your like again!
When Stonewall Jackson fell fighting for the land he loved, the Confederacy lost her great right arm, and never recovered from the blow. So, in these post-bellum days—in times of comparative peace—but under anomalous and trying conditions—the South loses her ablest leader, and at a time when his services seem most needed, and when he was doing that service so nobly and well. The death of Mr. Grady in ’89 compares only, in the Southern estimate, with the loss of Jackson in ’63. Viewed from the natural side of human wisdom, his death, in the words of the great Republican orator of New York, is a national calamity.
This young man, from obscurity and poverty, by the sheer force of his genius, sprang easily and early to a national celebrity which few dare hope for, and fewer still attain in the generations of men. He was both brilliant and practical, both gentle and wise. He would build a factory or a railroad, or found a great exposition, as easily as he would deliver a bright oration. He would counsel with statesmen with the same tact and ease that he would go gunning with the young men of the town. When he touched a man he made a friend.
The writer, who would pay this short and poor tribute, knew him for eighteen years. He has seen him from many points of view—mostly as an opponent in State politics, but always as a friend. In his office at work—at his private board—in the political caucus—on an angling or gunning expedition—his transcendent genius always shown with a rare and radiant light. To these who have known him well he has long been the man the world has recently found him to be—one of the greatest men of his time; to such his loss is felt as a personal bereavement. Each one, when his name is heard, will recall some word or deed to cherish as a fragrance from the tomb. Such memories will be treasured in the hearts of many, from Grover Cleveland to the saucy newsboys who cry the Constitution on the streets of Atlanta.
But to abler pens, and to those who have known him longer and better, the task is left to pronounce a fitting eulogy.
Of his life and his death, much space is ungrudgingly given elsewhere in this issue of the Times. Let the young men of the country read, and learn of him who has passed away at thirty-eight years of age and left the impress of his genius upon the greatest Nation of the earth.