In January, 1880, Frank Leslie, the pioneer of pictorial journalism in America, died.  I met him only once, when he took me through his immense establishment.  I was impressed with him then, as a man of much elegance of manner and suavity of feeling.  He was very much beloved by his employees, which, in those days of discord between capital and labour, was a distinction.

The arrival of Mr. Parnell in New York was an event of the period.  We knew he was an orator, and we were anxious to hear him.  There was some uncertainty as to whether he came to America to obtain bayonets to stick the English with, or whether he came for bread for the starving in Ireland.  We did not understand the political problem between England and Ireland so well—­but we did understand the meaning of a loaf of bread.  Mr. Parnell was welcome.

The failure of the harvest crops in Europe made the question of the hour at the beginning of 1880—­bread.  The grain speculator appeared, with his greedy web spun around the world.  Europe was short 200,000,000 bushels of wheat.  The American speculator cornered the market, stacked the warehouses, and demanded fifty cents a bushel.  Europe was compelled to retaliate, by purchasing grain in Russia, British India, New Zealand, South America, and Australia.  In one week the markets of the American North-west purchased over 15,000,000 bushels, of which only 4,000,000 bushels were exported.  Meanwhile the cry of the world’s hunger grew louder, and the bolts on the grain cribs were locked tighter than ever.  American finances could have been straightened out on this one product, except for the American speculator, who demanded more for it than it was worth.  The United States had a surplus of 18,000,000 bushels of grain for export, in 1880.  But the kings of the wheat market said to Europe, “Bow down before us, and starve.”

Suddenly we in America were surprised to learn that flour in London was two dollars cheaper a barrel than it was in New York.  Our grain blockade of the world was reacting upon us.  Lying idle at the wharves of New York and Brooklyn were 102 ships, 439 barques, 87 brigs, 178 schooners, and 47 steamers.  Six or seven hundred of these vessels were waiting for cargoes.  The gates of our harbour were closed in the grip of the grain gambler.  The thrift of the speculator was the menace of our national prosperity.  The octopus of speculative ugliness was growing to its full size, and threatened to smother us utterly.  There was a “corner” on everything.

We were busy trying to pick out our next President.  There was great agitation over the Republican candidates:  Grant, Blaine, Cameron, Conkling, Sherman.  Greatness in a man is sometimes a hindrance to the Presidency.  Such was the case with Daniel Webster, Henry Clay, Thomas H. Benton, and William C. Preston.  We were only on the edge of the whirlpool of a presidential election.  In England the election storm was just beginning.  The first thunderbolt was the sudden dissolution of Parliament by Lord Beaconsfield.  The two mightiest men in England then were antagonists, Disraeli and Gladstone.