Fourteen years ago, Henry W. Grady stood in Atlanta, Georgia, bankrupt and almost broken-hearted. Everything behind him was blotted by failure, and nothing ahead of him was lighted with promise. In that trying day he borrowed fifty dollars, and giving twenty of it to his faithful wife, took the balance and determined to invest it in traveling as far as it would carry him from the scene of his discouragements. He had one offer then open to him, namely, the editorial management of the Wilmington (North Carolina) _Star_, at a salary of twelve hundred dollars a year. It was the only thing that seemed a guarantee against actual want, and he had about determined to accept it, when yielding to the influence of pure presentiment, instead of buying a ticket to Wilmington with his thirty dollars, he bought one to New York City. He landed here with three dollars and seventy-five cents, and registered at the Astor House in order to be in easy reach of Newspaper Row. He used to tell the story of his experience on that occasion in this way: “After forcing down my unrelished breakfast on the morning of my arrival in New York, I went out on the sidewalk in front of the Astor House, and gave a bootblack twenty-five cents, one-fifth of which was to pay for shining my shoes, and the balance was a fee for the privilege of talking to him. I felt that I would die if I did not talk to somebody. Having stimulated myself at that doubtful fountain of sympathy, I went across to the _Herald_ office, and the managing editor was good enough to admit me to his sanctum. It happened that just at that time several of the Southern States were holding constitutional conventions. The _Herald_ manager asked me if I knew anything about politics, I replied that I knew very little about anything else. ‘Well,’ said he, ‘sit at this desk and write me an article on State conventions in the South.’ With these words he tossed me a pad and left me alone in the room. When my task-master returned, I had finished the article and was leaning back in the chair with my feet up on the desk. ‘Why, Mr. Grady, what is the matter?’ asked the managing editor. ‘Nothing,’ I replied, ‘except that I am through.’ ‘Very well, leave your copy on the desk, and if it amounts to anything I will let you hear from me. Where are you stopping?’ ‘I am at the Astor House.’ Early the next morning before getting out of bed, I rang for a hall-boy and ordered the _Herald_. I actually had not strength to get up and dress myself, until I could see whether or not my article had been used. I opened the _Herald_ with a trembling hand, and when I saw that ‘State Conventions in the South’ was on the editorial page, I fell back on the bed, buried my face in the pillow, and cried like a child. When I went back to the _Herald_ office that day the managing editor received me cordially and said, ‘You can go back to Georgia, Mr. Grady, and consider yourself in the employ of the _Herald_.’”