Campaigns of a Non-Combatant, and His Romaunt Abroad During the War

Alfred Townsend George

Description

In the early part of 1863, while I was resident in London, - the first of the War Correspondents to go abroad, - I wrote, at the request of Mr. George Smith, publisher of the Cornhill Magazine, a series of chapters upon the Rebellion, thus introduced: - Few wars have been so well chronicled, as that now desolating America. Its official narratives have been copious; the great newspapers of the land have been represented in all its campaigns; private enterprise has classified and illustrated its several events, and delegates of foreign countries have been allowed to mingle freely with its soldiery, and to observe and describe its battles. The pen and the camera have accompanied its bayonets, and there has not probably been any skirmish, however insignificant, but a score of zealous scribes have remarked and recorded it. I have employed some leisure hours afforded me in Europe, to detail those parts of the struggle which I witnessed in a civil capacity. The Sketches which follow are entirely personal, and dwell less upon routine incidents, plans, and statistics, than upon those lighter phases of war which fall beneath the dignity of severe history and are seldom related

Sujets

• Histoire
• USA
• History of the Americas
• American Civil War
• États-Unis
• Guerre de Sécession

Informations

• Publié par: Pub One Info
• Date de parution: 23 octobre 2010
• Nombre de lectures: 0
• EAN13: 9782819902751
• Langue: English

Extrait

PREFACE.
In the early part of 1863, while I was resident inLondon, – the first of the War Correspondents to go abroad, – Iwrote, at the request of Mr. George Smith, publisher of theCornhill Magazine, a series of chapters upon the Rebellion, thusintroduced: – "Few wars have been so well chronicled, as that nowdesolating America. Its official narratives have been copious; thegreat newspapers of the land have been represented in all itscampaigns; private enterprise has classified and illustrated itsseveral events, and delegates of foreign countries have beenallowed to mingle freely with its soldiery, and to observe anddescribe its battles. The pen and the camera have accompanied itsbayonets, and there has not probably been any skirmish, howeverinsignificant, but a score of zealous scribes have remarked andrecorded it. "I have employed some leisure hours afforded me inEurope, to detail those parts of the struggle which I witnessed ina civil capacity. The Sketches which follow are entirely personal,and dwell less upon routine incidents, plans, and statistics, thanupon those lighter phases of war which fall beneath the dignity ofsevere history and are seldom related. I have endeavored toreproduce not only the adventures, but the impressions of anovitiate, and I have described not merely the army and itsoperations, but the country invaded, and the people who inhabit it."The most that I have hoped to do, is so to simplify a campaignthat the reader may realize it as if he had beheld it, travellingat will, as I did, and with no greater interest than to see howfields were fought and won."
To those chapters, I have added in this collection,some estimates of American life in Europe, and some Europeanestimates of American life; with my ultimate experiences in the Warafter my return to my own country. I cannot hope that they will bereceived with the same favor, either here or abroad, as that whichgreeted their original publication. But no man ought to let thefirst four years of his majority slip away unrecorded. I wouldrather publish a tolerable book now than a possibly good onehereafter.
CAMPAIGNS OF A NON-COMBATANT,
AND HIS
Romaunt abroad during the War.
CHAPTER I.
MY IMPRESSMENT. "Here is a piece of James Franklin'sprinting press, Mr. Townsend," said Mr. Pratt to me, at Newport theother day, – "Ben. Franklin wrote for the paper, and set type uponit. The press was imported from England in 1730, orthereabouts."
He produced a piece of wood, a foot in length, andthen laid it away in its drawer very sacredly. "I should like towrite to that press, Mr. Pratt," I said, – "there would be nonecessity in such a case of getting off six columns for to-night'smail." "Well!" said Mr. Pratt, philosophically, "I have a theorythat a man grows up to machinery. As your day so shall yourstrength be. I believe you have telegraphed up to a Houseinstrument, haven't you?" "Mr. Pratt," cried I, with someindignation, "your memory is too good. This is Newport, and I havecome down to see the surf. Pray, do not remind me of hot hours in anewspaper office, the click of a Morse dispatch, and work far intothe midnight!"
So I left Mr. Pratt, of the Newport Mercury ,with an ostentation of affront, and bade James Brady, the boatman,hoist sail and carry me over to Dumpling Rocks.
On the grassy parapet of the crumbling tower whichonce served the purposes of a fort, the transparent water hungeringat its base, the rocks covered with fringe spotting the channel,the ocean on my right hand lost in its own vastness, and Newportout of mind save when the town bells rang, or the dip of oars beatin the still swell of Narragansett, – I lay down, chafing and outof temper, to curse the only pleasurable labor I had everundertaken.
To me all places were workshops: the seaside, thesprings, the summer mountains, the cataracts, the theatres, thepanoramas of islet-fondled rivers speeding by strange cities. I wascondemned to look upon them all with mercenary eyes, to turn theirgladness into torpid prose, and speak their praises in turgidcolumns. Never nepenthe, never abandonne , always wide-awake,and watching for saliences, I had gone abroad like a falcon, androamed at home like a hungry jackal. Six fingers on my hand, onelong and pointed, and ever dropping gall; the ineradicable stainupon my thumb; the widest of my circuits, with all my adventure, apaltry sheet of foolscap; and the world in which I dwelt, no placefor thought, or dreaminess, or love-making, – only the fierce,fast, flippant existence of news!
And with this inward execration, I lay on DumplingRocks, looking to sea, and recalled the first fond hours of mynewspaper life.
To be a subject of old Hoe, the most voracious ofmen, I gave up the choice of three sage professions, and the sweetalternative of idling husbandry.
The day I graduated saw me an attaché of thePhiladelphia Chameleon . I was to receive three dollars aweek and be the heir to lordly prospects. In the long course ofpersevering years I might sit in the cushions of the night-editor,or speak of the striplings around me as " my reporters.""There is nothing which you cannot attain," said Mr. Axiom, myemployer, – "think of the influence you exercise! – more than aclergyman; Horace Greeley was an editor; so was George D. Prentice;the first has just been defeated for Congress; the last lecturedlast night and got fifty dollars for it."
Hereat I was greatly encouraged, and proposed towrite a leader for next day's paper upon the evils of the FireDepartment. "Dear me," said Mr. Axiom, "you would ruin ourcirculation at a wink; what would become of our ball column? incase of a fire in the building we couldn't get a hose to play onit. Oh! no, Alfred, writing leaders is hard and dangerous; I wantyou first to learn the use of a beautiful pair of scissors."
I looked blank and chopfallen. "No man can write agood hand or a good style," he said, "without experience withscissors. They give your palm flexibility and that is soon impartedto the mind. But perfection is attained by an alternate use of thescissors and the pen; if a little paste be prescribed at the sametime, cohesion and steadfastness is imparted to the man."
His reasoning was incontrovertible; but I damned hisconclusions.
So, I spent one month in slashing several hundredexchanges a day, and paragraphing all the items. These reappearedin a column called "THE LATEST INFORMATION," and when I found themcopied into another journal, a flush of satisfaction rose to myface.
The editor of the Chameleon was an oldjournalist, whose face was a sealed book of Confucius, and whotalked to me, patronizingly, now and then, like the Delphic Oracle.His name was Watch, and he wore a prodigious pearl in hisshirt-bosom. He crept up to the editorial room at nine o'clockevery night, and dashed off an hour's worth of glitteringgeneralities, at the end of which time two or three gentlemen,blooming at the nose, and with cheeks resembling a map drawn in redink, sounded the pipe below stairs, and Mr. Watch said – "Mr.Townsend, I look to you to be on hand to-night; I am called away bythe Water-Gas Company."
Then, with enthusiasm up to blood-heat, aroused bythis mark of confidence, I used to set to, and scissor and writetill three o'clock, while Mr. Watch talked water-gas over brandyand water, and drew his thirty dollars punctually on Saturdays.
So it happened that my news paragraphs, sometimespointedly turned into a reflection, crept into the editorialcolumns, when water-gas was lively. Venturing more and more, theclipper finally indited a leader; and Mr. Watch, whose nosewater-gas was reddening, applauded me, and told me in his sublimeway, that, as a special favor, I might write all the leaders thenext night. Mr. Watch was seen no more in the sanctum for a week,and my three dollars carried on the concern.
When he returned, he generously gave me a dollar,and said that he had spoken of me to the Water-Gas Company as acapital secretary. Then he wrote me a pass for the Arch StreetTheatre, and told me, benevolently, to go off and rest thatnight.
For a month or more the responsibility of the Chameleon devolved almost entirely upon me. Child that Iwas, knowing no world but my own vanity, and pleased with those whofed its sensitive love of approbation rather than with the just andreticent, I harbored no distrust till one day when Axiom visitedthe office, and I was drawing my three dollars from the treasurer,I heard Mr. Watch exclaim, within the publisher's room – "Did youread my article on the Homestead Bill?" "Yes," answered Axiom; "itwas quite clever; your leaders are more alive and epigrammatic thanthey were."
I could stand it no more. I bolted into the office,and cried – "The article on the Homestead Bill is mine, so is everyother article in to-day's paper. Mr. Watch does not tell the truth;he is ungenerous!" "What's this, Watch?" said Axiom. "Alfred,"exclaimed Mr. Watch, majestically, "adopts my suggestions veryreadily, and is quite industrious. I recommend that we raise hissalary to five dollars a week. That is a large sum for a lad."
That night the manuscript was overhauled in thecomposing room. Watch's dereliction was manifest; but not a wordwas said commendatory of my labor; it was feared I might take"airs," or covet a further increase of wages. I only missed Watch'shugh pearl, and heard that he had been discharged, and was myselftaken from the drudgery of the scissors, and made a reporter.
All this was very recent, yet to me so far remote,that as I recall it all, I wonder if I am not old, and feelnervously of my hairs. For in the five intervening years I haveridden at Hoe speed down the groove of my steel-pen.
The pen is my traction engine; it has gone throughworlds of fancy and reflection, dragging me behind it; and longexperience has given it so great facility, that I have only to fireup, whistle, and fix my couplings, and away goes my locomotive withno end of cars in train.
Few jour