Two short weeks ago, while we were assembled in our capital covered with the insignia of grief, to do honor to the memory of one who had been our chief when the storm of war raged, we received a telegram, mingling his grief with ours, from him, then on his journey of duty to Boston, whose sad death we have met this day to mourn. Jefferson Davis and Henry Grady are dead. To-day their souls commune, and we are left to weep. In their deaths the South has lost two of her noblest sons. One was gathered to his fathers full of years and rich in honor. He had served his country well. He had been the chosen leader of our people, when the storms of war were raging. He, as our representative, had been subjected to insults and to indignities by the Government he had honored, and in whose service he had spent the best years of his life. He passed away, and the sunset of his life was glorious and beautiful. We have not yet put aside the sables of grief we wear for Jefferson Davis, and yet in two short weeks we have met to mourn the death of him whom we hold dearer; our townsman, our daily associate and friend. Henry W. Grady has gone to his last home. One was an old man, ready and waiting to be called. His day was over, his work was done, and he was waiting for his rest. His sun had risen, past its meridian in glory and was sinking in honor. For him the night in due time had come. The other, was a young man, full of hope and rich in promise. His sun had just arisen and it gave promise that before him was yet a glorious day. One was the chosen representative of our people before the storms of war had swept over us. He was the representative of the South under its old system. The other was the acknowledged exponent of the South under its altered condition of affairs. We weep for him to-day.