Reminiscences—(From the “Camden Courier.”)—AS I sat taking my evening sail across the Delaware in the staunch ferryboat “Beverly,” a night or two ago, I was join’d by two young reporter friends. “I have a message for you,” said one of them; “the C. folks told me to say they would like a piece sign’d by your name, to go in their first number. Can you do it for them?” “I guess so,” said I; “what might it be about?” “Well, anything on newspapers, or perhaps what you’ve done yourself, starting them.” And off the boys went, for we had reach’d the Philadelphia side. The hour was fine and mild, the bright half-moon shining; Venus, with excess of splendor, just setting in the west, and the great Scorpion rearing its length more than half up in the southeast. As I cross’d leisurely for an hour in the pleasant night-scene, my young friend’s words brought up quite a string of reminiscences.
I commenced when I was but a boy of eleven or twelve writing sentimental bits for the old “Long Island Patriot,” in Brooklyn; this was about 1832. Soon after, I had a piece or two in George P. Morris’s then celebrated and fashionable “Mirror,” of New York city. I remember with what half-suppress’d excitement I used to watch for the big, fat, red-faced, slow-moving, very old English carrier who distributed the “Mirror” in Brooklyn; and when I got one, opening and cutting the leaves with trembling fingers. How it made my heart double-beat to see my piece on the pretty white paper, in nice type.
My first real venture was the “Long Islander,” in my own beautiful town of Huntington, in 1839. I was about twenty years old. I had been teaching country school for two or three years in various parts of Suffolk and Queens counties, but liked printing; had been at it while a lad, learn’d the trade of compositor, and was encouraged to start a paper in the region where I was born. I went to New York, bought a press and types, hired some little help, but did most of the work myself, including the press-work. Everything seem’d turning out well; (only my own restlessness prevented me gradually establishing a permanent property there.) I bought a good horse, and every week went all round the country serving my papers, devoting one day and night to it. I never had happier jaunts—going over to south side, to Babylon, down the south road, across to Smithtown and Comac, and back home. The experiences of those jaunts, the dear old-fashion’d farmers and their wives, the stops by the hay-fields, the hospitality, nice dinners, occasional evenings, the girls, the rides through the brush, come up in my memory to this day.
I next went to the “Aurora” daily in New York city—a sort of free lance. Also wrote regularly for the “Tattler,” an evening paper. With these and a little outside work I was occupied off and on, until I went to edit the “Brooklyn Eagle,” where for two years I had one of the pleasantest sits of my life—a good owner, good pay, and easy work and hours. The troubles in the Democratic party broke forth about those times (1848–’49) and I split off with the radicals, which led to rows with the boss and “the party,” and I lost my place.
Being now out of a job, I was offer’d impromptu, (it happen’d between the acts one night in the lobby of the old Broadway theatre near Pearl street, New York city,) a good chance to go down to New Orleans on the staff of the “Crescent,” a daily to be started there with plenty of capital behind it. One of the owners, who was north buying material, met me walking in the lobby, and though that was our first acquaintance, after fifteen minutes’ talk (and a drink) we made a formal bargain, and he paid me two hundred dollars down to bind the contract and bear my expenses to New Orleans. I started two days afterwards; had a good leisurely time, as the paper wasn’t to be out in three weeks. I enjoy’d my journey and Louisiana life much. Returning to Brooklyn a year or two afterward I started the “Freeman,” first as a weekly, then daily. Pretty soon the secession war broke out, and I, too, got drawn in the current southward, and spent the following three years there, (as memorandized preceding.)
Besides starting them as aforementioned, I have had to do, one time or another, during my life, with a long list of papers, at divers places, sometimes under queer circumstances. During the war, the hospitals at Washington, among other means of amusement, printed a little sheet among themselves, surrounded by wounds and death, the “Armory Square Gazette,” to which I contributed. The same long afterward, casually, to a paper—I think it was call’d the “Jimplecute”—out in Colorado where I stopp’d at the time. When I was in Quebec province, in Canada, in 1880, I went into the queerest little old French printing office near Tadousac. It was far more primitive and ancient than my Camden friend William Kurtz’s place up on Federal street. I remember, as a youngster, several characteristic old printers of a kind hard to be seen these days.
