Oh, how nobly he must have been inspired as he felt the “rock-ribbed and iron-bound” prejudice of New England quiver to the touch of his magic hand; and as her snow began to melt under the warmth of his great heart, surely he was the sunshine of this great land! But, oh, the grief of it—the bitter, bitter grief of it! Just as we knew how noble and great he was, he sank below the horizon of life, never to rise again! I shall always recall him as dying like that lad from Lombardy, pictured by Browning. I shall think that the South, decked like a queen in all her jewels of glory and of love, came to his dying couch and said: “Thou art a Lombard, my brother! Happy art thou,” she cried, And smiled like Italy on him. He dreamed in her face and died! ADDRESS OF WALTER B. HILL, OF MACON, GA. 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.”