When the effects of a deadly climate are added to the usual chances of war, the courage and endurance of the newspaper correspondent are doubly tried. The ‘specials’ of the principal London journals joined the Ashantee expedition with as much alacrity as if they had been going to a review in Hyde Park. Among them was Mr. Melton Prior, the artist of the Illustrated London News, who landed at Cape Coast Castle before the arrival of the British troops, marched with them to Coomassie, and remained in that place till it was destroyed by the victors. But the long march in such a climate had exhausted the strength of many, and the special artist was among the number. On nearing Coomassie he could no longer trust to his own unaided powers of locomotion, so he laid hold on the tail of a mule which he saw ambling before him, and so was helped forward. The gentleman who was riding the mule turned round, when it proved to be Sir Garnet Wolseley himself, who, in answer to the exhausted artist’s apologies, good-humouredly told him to ‘hold on!’
While coolness and courage are indispensable qualifications for the special artist, if he can sometimes accomplish a little harmless dissimulation he finds it very useful. In 1877, during the war between Russia and Turkey, a special artist overcame the difficulties he encountered in getting to the front by assuming the character of a camp-follower, and professing to sell composite candles, German sausages, Russian hams, dried fish, Dutch cheese, &c., and when passing Cossacks became importunate they were propitiated with a candle or two, a slice of cheese, or a packet of Roumanian tobacco. In like manner the artist who went to the port of Ferrol to accompany Cleopatra’s Needle to London shipped on board the tug Anglia as a coal-trimmer, and signed the usual articles as one of the crew, there being no room for passengers. After the successful voyage of the tug the artist left her at Gravesend, being anxious to bring his sketches to head-quarters; but until he was legally discharged from service he ran the unpleasant risk of being taken up for absconding from his ship.
| NEWSPAPER CORRESPONDENTS STARTING FOR SIBERIA. |
Not the least of a special artist’s troubles is to get his sketches sent home without loss of time. Mr. Simpson, who has had a large and varied experience as a special artist, having been all round the world in that capacity, gives it as his opinion that the first duty of a special correspondent when he arrives at the scene of action is to find out the post-office, if he happens to be in a part of the world where such a civilised institution exists. He should take care to post all his packets himself, and never trust to any one else. He says, ‘In all my various travels I never lost a packet but once, and that was during the week’s fighting at the time of the Commune in Paris. There were three sketches in the packet. I was very dubious about letting them out of my hands, but I had been all the week with the correspondent of the Times, who had spent a considerable sum of money upon messengers to get his letters taken through the lines outside Paris and off to London. I ventured to let my packet go with his, thinking it was safe, but neither of them ever reached their destination.’ In connexion with this subject I may quote the following story related by Mr. Prior to the editor of the Pall Mall Gazette:—‘I remember one time when I was attached to Mehemet Ali’s head-quarters in Bulgaria during the Russo-Turkish war. The Turkish censor stopped no fewer than six weeks of my sketches. Things were getting desperate. Our people were telegraphing out to know whether I was alive or dead; and, finding that something must be done, I determined to see the thing through or leave the camp. It so happened that I had been the witness of some peculiarly atrocious deeds perpetrated by Turks upon Bulgarians, so I set to work and drew half-a-dozen faithful representations of the sufferings which I had witnessed. Armed with these I went up to the censor’s office and asked that they might be stamped for transmission home. The censor looked at the first and said it was ridiculous. Couldn’t pass that; no such atrocities had ever been committed; and so forth. The second was condemned in the same way, and so on until the last was reached. When he had rejected that also I said to him very deliberately, “You are going to pass every one of these sketches!” “On the contrary,” said he, “I am going to tear them up.” “If you do,” said I, “I shall draw not only six but twelve pictures worse than these, and send them home by my own messenger.” “I will have him arrested then,” said the censor. “Very well, then, in that case I shall leave the camp at once, and in London I will draw twenty pictures all worse than these, and they will all be published, so that people may see the real truth about how you are behaving here.” The censor, like a sensible man, saw that it was no use carrying things with too high a hand, and came to terms. He admitted he had stopped all my sketches, promised to do so no more, and I left him with my atrocity pictures in my pocket, assuring him that the first sketch of mine that he stopped again the whole series should go to London by the next steamer. I never had any more trouble with him in that respect, though he paid me out by having me arrested some months later.’
| CAMP OF THE ‘TIMES’ AND ‘ILLUSTRATED LONDON NEWS’' CORRESPONDENTS ATTACKED BY WOLVES. BULGARIA, 1877. |
During the Franco-German War Mr. Simpson often proved the advantage of his plan of always posting his sketches himself. At the fall of Strasburg he was in the advanced trench when the white flag was displayed from the tower of the cathedral. It was late in the evening when he got home to bed, but he was up with the first streak of dawn finishing his sketch of the historical event he had witnessed the day before. He then walked five miles to General Werder’s head-quarters to post the sketch. He wasted no time in trying to get a horse or carriage, in which he might have failed, nor would he trust the packet to a messenger. He knew that the slightest delay would postpone the publication of the sketch for a whole week. The sketch arrived in time, as he had calculated, for the next publication, and he had the satisfaction of knowing that on this occasion, as on many others, his promptitude and energy had well served the interests of the journal he represented.
| NEWSPAPER CORRESPONDENTS’ HUTS ON THE BATTLE-FIELD OF KACELJEVO, 1877. |
A special artist has to encounter many troubles and vexations apart from the dangers and difficulties of war time. When Mr. Simpson was at Brindisi, on his way to the opening of the Suez Canal, wishing to sketch the town and fortifications, he ensconced himself in a snug corner, well sheltered from the ‘Bora,’ or cold wind that was blowing, and had settled down comfortably to work, when he was interrupted by a man who addressed him in Italian, a language Simpson did not understand. He, however, made out that the man’s ‘padre’ or master would not like Simpson to be there; but the latter replied in plain English that he cared nothing for his ‘padre,’ that he had the permission of the Commandant to go where he pleased, and so he went on with his sketching. After much unintelligible talk the man attempted to stop the sketcher’s view by standing between him and the town, but finding the sketching went on just the same, he suddenly went away and then returned with a gun, pointing it in a threatening manner towards Simpson, who thought the gun was perhaps not loaded, or at all events that the man would never be such a fool as to shoot him, so he merely gave a majestic wave of his hand and went on with his work. The man’s rage then increased to such a degree that he seized the butt end of his gun, uttering a volley of curses, and from the word ‘testa’ Simpson supposed the man wanted to smash his head. However he never flinched, and the man, lowering his gun, muttered something about the ‘Cani,’ and went off again. Presently he returned dragging with him a huge dog. Simpson felt more afraid of the dog than the man, but it turned out that the dog had more sense than his master and refused on any terms to attack the artist. He bolted, the man after him, and Simpson then armed himself with two stones in case the attack should be renewed, resolving, like Tell when he devoted one of his arrows to Gessler, that one stone should be for the dog and the other for his oppressor. The man however could not get the dog to return to the attack. He had exhausted the whole of his resources, and was evidently astonished and annoyed to find he had failed to frighten the artist, so he finished off with a torrent of curses and then gradually calmed down. He remained watching the completion of the sketch, and then obligingly favoured the artist with some criticisms on his work. He pointed out that a ship in the harbour had been forgotten, and could not understand that it had been purposely left out because it interfered with one of the principal buildings. In this instance it was perhaps best for both parties that they did not understand each other’s language; but the special artist is occasionally placed at a disadvantage by not understanding the language of the country where he happens to be. However it rarely leads to more than a temporary embarrassment, and is often the cause of more amusement than vexation. Mr. G. H. Andrews on one occasion desired to have a couple of eggs for breakfast, but could not make the maid of the inn comprehend his meaning. He tried all he knew of French, Flemish, and German, but the girl shook her head. At length a bright idea struck the artist. He drew from his pocket a pencil and note-book, and sketched a couple of oval forms, meaning them for eggs, and explained by gestures that that was what he wanted. The girl’s face brightened at once when she saw the sketch, and with a nod of intelligence she tripped away. In a few minutes she returned and presented the hungry artist with—a pair of spectacles!
The late Mr. S. Read, who was one of the first special artists employed on the pictorial press, travelled much abroad, yet he knew little or nothing of any language save his mother tongue. Germany, Italy, Austria, Spain, France, Belgium, Switzerland, were all visited by him, and he got on very well without speaking the language of any of those countries. He was a man of genial humour, accustomed to make the best of everything, and not easily put out by trifles. He was once travelling in the south of France when a fellow-passenger in the train accosted him in French, and was much surprised to find he was not understood.
‘Vat!’ said the Frenchman; ‘you travel and speak no French! Speak you German?’