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Henry W. Grady.
In the hush of that dark hour which
just precedes the dawn —in its silence
and darkness, while Love kept vigil by
his couch of pain and breathed sweet
benedictions on his dying brow —the
spirit of Henry Grady, the South’s
famed-crowned son —her lover and her
champion —the Man' Eloquent —the
courtly gentleman —whose laureled
brow while yet flushed with earth’s tri
umphs towered into immortality —the
spirit of this man of Ibve and might
passed from the scenes which its radi
ance had illumined to the loftier life
of the world beyond.
From city to city and hamlet to
hamlet the wires flashed the sad intel
ligence. Men paused and doubted as
the message passed from lip to lip —
paused with wet eyes and wondering,
stricken hearts.
The scholar closed his book and rev
erently bent his head iu grief; the toiler
in the sanctum stayed his pen and read
the message with moistened eyes ; the
merchant on the busy mart sighed
over its fatal sentences —men, women,
little children, lifted up their voices
and wept.
Our hearts can find no words to
voice our grief for him. And how
idle are all words now I Vainly we
vaunt his virtues —his high nobility
of soul —his talents fine —his service to
the state, and all the graces rare that
crowned his wondrous personality.
Vainly, because these are well known
to men; and that great fame whose
trumpet blast has blown his name
about the world, has also stamped it
deeply upon grateful, loving hearts,
that rise up and call him blessed.
We would stand in silence in the
presence of a death like this; for the
presence of the Lord is there, and the
place is sacred. The hand ot God is
in it: This man, who, though he had
reached the heights, was but upon the
threshold of his career —thjs
man, elected to a "high and noble work,
to whom we had entrusted the future
of the south, and sent him forth to
fight her battles with the world —in
the morning of his days, in the midst
of his great usefulness, flushed with
the triumphs of his last and mightest
effort; with the applause of thousands
ringing in his ears and the “well done”
of his people crowding all —suddenly,
and without warning, renounces his
worldly honors —lays down the burden
which he had but taken up, and sighs
farewell to all!
W e cannot understand it. The re
ality is too much!
“ We falter where we firmly trod,
And, falling with our weight of cares
Upon the great world’s altar stairs
That slope through darkness up to God,
We stretch blind hands of Faith that
grope !”
But God reigns, and in the mystery
of His providence willeth all things
well. Grady is dead. “He has fought
a good light; he has finished his
course; he has kept the faith I” A
hero, he died at his post; in the full
blaze of his fame, with the arms of the
south around him, he breathed away
his life upon her breast. Could man
desire more ?
The south will miss him long and
sorely. There is no man to take his
place; to do that high, especial work
which be has done so well. Aye!
miss him, sweet south, and shed for
him your tenderest tears of love, for
he loved you and gave himself for you
—he laid down his life for your sake !
And you, ye sons and daughters of the
south! if ye can see his face for weep
ing, draw near and look your last!
And let the north draw near and clasp
strong hands of sympathy above his
bier!
Farewell to thee, comrade! Knight-
ly and noble-hearted gentleman —fare-
well ! The fight is over —the victory
won, and lo! while yet we weep upon
the field deserted, a shout rings
through the portals of the skies and
welcomes the victor home! And
there, while the lofty paen sounds
from star to star, thy peaceful tent is
pitched within the verdant valleys of
eternal rest! — Tribune of Rome.
Henry W. Grady Dead !
Can it be possible ? Can it be that
the brightest star in the galaxy of our
great luminaries is blotted out and
stricken from its orbit just as it was
rising in full career to the zenith of use
fulness, influence and splendor ? Can it
be that the most brilliant meteor which
has flashed across our sky for a genera
tion has fallen to earth literally burned
to ashes by its own fiery contact with
the grosser air and elements of the
natural world? Can it be that the light
has gone out of the most magnetic
mind and the spirit gone from the most
resistless personality in this sovereign
state? Can it be that the south has
lost the man who has been first and
foremost in representing its real and
progressive needs and issues, and who
has done more for this section than all'
the.young men of his day combined?
Can it be that the kindly heart has
ceased to beat which throbbed in love
first for a devoted family, and next and
always for his native state?
Even so, for while still the shadows
of the night hung in mournful pall
about his home and dawn lingered as
if loth to look upon the lifeless form of
one whom all people loved, his spirit
soared away to greet the dawning of an
eternal day and the mortal part of
Henry W oodfin Grady lay cold in
death.
Dead, did we say? Was ever the
coming of Death’s angel more untimely?
So it seems to us, with our poor mortal,
vision/out there is an eye above, all
seeing; a providence, all timely; a
power, all mighty; and to His will
we bow this day. In His sight the
stricken star is not blotted out but
borne aloft to a brighter realm. In
His providence the brilliant meteor of
a day is not fallen but simply shorn of
all its dross and burnished in beauty
and splendor for its flight through all
the ages. In His power the spark
which no longer animates the mortal
man glows again in glory and sends a
ray of loving light from Heaven to
cheer and console the broken hearts on
earth, and remind us that his influence
and work are not lost, but will live and
bear blessed fruit for generations yet to
Come.
Henry Grady has gone from earth
ere yet the dew of youth has been
drunk up by the midday sun of matu
rity, butin the brief span of life allotted
to him what a world of work he has
done, and what a name he made for
himself! Not two score years bad pass
ed over his head, and yet he had
attained all the substantial success and
honor which mortal man might wish.
He was not only loved all over Georgia,
but he was famous all over the country,
and no public occasion of national
import was deemed complete without
his presence and his eloquent voice.
He was a magician in nis mastery
of men* and the witchery of his voice
was enchantment to any audience in
any section. He was coming to be
regarded as the representative of the
whole south in the editor’s chair and
on the rostrum, and it is truly said of
him that he bas done more for the
material advancement ot this section
than any other man for the past fifteen
years. His * death is the greatest
calamity which has befallen the south
since the late war, and Israel may
THE KENNESAW GAZETTE.
indeed mourn this day as for her first
born.
The name of Henry W. Grady
will not be forgotten, for it will live in
the affectionate regard of Georgians
and grow greater in the good results
which will follow his life work. The
fact that he literally died in the service
of the south, as a result of cold contract
ed just after the impassioned delivery
of his recent grand oration in Boston,
will bind his name and memory nearer
and dearer to southern hearts; for to
warrior or hero was never given a
better time or a nobler way to die than
to the man who gave his voice, his
heart, his reputatian and his life to
healing the wounds of a fratricidal war,
and to the harmonious building up of
his own beloved 'south as the fairest
and richest domain of our common
country.
God bless his name and his memory,
and be a strong and abiding support to
his broken hearted widow and house
hold this day! — Augusta Evening News.
The American Climate.
At the opening of the British asso
ciation’s geographical section, Presi
dent de Winton pointed out that “the
effect of climate upon race is somewhat
remarkably illustrated by the physique
and nerve power of the present race of
Americans.” Two centuries ago they
were the same race as the English, but
now the contrast is marked. Our cli
mate, according to the eminent geog
rapher, has given Americans “an in
dividual stamp,” and has made a per
ceptible difference in the outward sem
blance even in this short space of time.
This interesting note of the pronounc
ed effect of climate on race deserved
more practical elaboration than Col.
de Winton had time to give it. Great
Britain has an insular climate with a
low barometer, which is relaxing to
the been well
said that IW* heavy atmosphere the
elephant w»wld become a compara
tively active animal, while in rarefied
air he would become dull and heavy.
In America atmospheric pressure av
erages higher than in England. The
climate is continental, with more of ex
hilarating sunlight and more of the
element of cold, which, within certain
limits, is adjudged by all physiologists
to be a powerful tonic and a thera
peutic agent of much value. In fact,
the chief characteristic of our climate
is the excess of its nerve stimulating
properties, which in the colder parts
of the country tends to exhaust over
worked, ill-fed, ill clad and anaemic
people. But, on the whole, the Anglo-
Saxon race has not suffered by the
transfer from an insular to a conti
nental climate. —Aew York Herald.
Shade Trees.
The shade trees about our dwellings
have done much to make our wives
and daughters pale, feeble and neural
gic. Trees ought never to stand near
enough to our dwellings to cast a shade
upon them; and if the blinds were
removed, and nothing but a curtain
within left to lessen on the hottest days
the intensity of the heat, it would add
greatly to the tone of our nerves and
our general vigor. The piazzas which
project over the lower story always
make that less healthy than the upper
story, especially for sleeping purposes.
I am sure I have cured a great
many cases of rheumatism by advising
patients to leave beet-rooms shaded by
trees or piazzas, and sleep in a room
and bed which were constantly dried
and purified by the direct rays of the
sun. — St. Louis Magazine.
The Western <fc Atlantic Railroad is
known as the “old reliable,”
The Old Oaken Bucket.
BY SAMUEL WOODWORTH.
How dear to my heart are the scenes of my
childhood
When fond recollection presents them to
view ;
The orchard, the meadow, the deep-tangled
wild wood,
And every loved spot which my infancy
knew!
The wide-spreading pond, the mill that
stood by it,
The bridge and the rock where the cata
ract fell,
The cot of my father, the dairy house nigh
it,
And e’en the rude bucket that hung in the
well.
Chorus —
The old oaken bucket, the iron-bound bucket,
The moss-covered bucket that hung in the
well.
The moss-covered bucket I hailed as a treas
ure,
For often at noon when returnea from the
field,
I found it the source of an exquisite pleas
ure,
The purest and sweetest that nature can
yield.
How ardent I seized it, with hands that
were glowing,
And quick to the white, pebbled bottom it
fell,
/Then soon with the emblem of truth over
flowing,
And dropping with coolness it rose from
the well.
Chorus —
How sweet from the green, mossy rim to re
ceive it,
As poised on the curb, it inclined to my
lips;
Not a full, blushing goblet could tempt me
to leave it,
Tho’ filled with the nectar that Jupiter
sips,
And now, far removed from the loved situ
ation,
The tear of regret will intrusively swell,
As fancy reverts to my father’s plantation,
And sighs for the bucket which hung in
the well.
Churutf —
The old oaken bucket, tie iron-bound
bucket,
The moss-covered bucket that rose from the
well.
The Printing* Office Towel.
When 1 think of the towel, the old-fashion
ed towel,
That formerly hung by the print-office
door,
I think that nobody, in these days of shod
dy,
Can hammer out iron towear as it wore.
The tramp who abused it and the “devil ”
who used it,
The “ comp ” who got at it when these two
were gone;
The “make-up” and foreman, the editor—
poor man—
Each rubbed some grime of! while he put
a heap on.
Chorus —
The dirty old towel, the print-office towel,
The grime-covered towel that hung by the
door.
In, over and under, ’twas blacker than thun
der,
’Twas harder than poverty, rougher than
sin;
From the roller suspended, it never was
bended,
And it flapped on the wall like a banner
of tin.
That old towel kept rattling, all cleanli
ness scorning—
Grew thicker and rougher, daily adding
an inkier hue,
Until one windy morning, without any
warning,
It fell to the floor and was broken in two.
Chorus —
The dirty old towel, the print-cffice towel.
The grime-covered towel that hung by the
door.
The Western & Atlantic Railroad
runs from Atlanta, the capital and
largest, as well as most enterprising
city of Georgia, the empire state of
the south, to Chattanooga, the pluck
iest and most enterprising city of Ten
nessee,