Arduous Years In The Central West - 8

Arduous Years In The Central West - 8

This was one aspect of life as it presented itself to the sensitive and observant young

operator in Louisville. But there was another, more intellectual side, in the contact

afforded with journalism and its leaders, and the information taken in almost

unconsciously as to the political and social movements of the time. Mr. Edison looks

back on this with great satisfaction. "I remember," he says, "the discussions between the

celebrated poet and journalist George D. Prentice, then editor of the Courier-Journal, and

Mr. Tyler, of the Associated Press. I believe Prentice was the father of the humorous

paragraph of the American newspaper. He was poetic, highly educated, and a brilliant

talker. He was very thin and small. I do not think he weighed over one hundred and

twenty five pounds. Tyler was a graduate of Harvard, and had a very clear enunciation,

and, in sharp contrast to Prentice, he was a large man. After the paper had gone to press,

Prentice would generally come over to Tyler's office and start talking. Having while in

Tyler's office heard them arguing on the immortality of the soul, etc., I asked permission

of Mr. Tyler if, after finishing the press matter, I might come in and listen to the

conversation, which I did many times after. One thing I never could comprehend was that

Tyler had a sideboard with liquors and generally crackers. Prentice would pour out half a

glass of what they call corn whiskey, and would dip the crackers in it and eat them. Tyler

took it sans food. One teaspoonful of that stuff would put me to sleep."

Mr. Edison throws also a curious side-light on the origin of the comic column in the

modern American newspaper, the telegraph giving to a new joke or a good story the

ubiquity and instantaneity of an important historical event. "It was the practice of the

press operators all over the country at that time, when a lull occurred, to start in and send

jokes or stories the day men had collected; and these were copied and pasted up on the

bulletin-board. Cleveland was the originating office for `press,' which it received from

New York, and sent it out simultaneously to Milwaukee, Chicago, Toledo, Detroit,

Pittsburg, Columbus, Dayton, Cincinnati, Indianapolis, Vincennes, Terre Haute, St.

Louis, and Louisville. Cleveland would call first on Milwaukee, if he had anything. If so,

he would send it, and Cleveland would repeat it to all of us. Thus any joke or story

originating anywhere in that area was known the next day all over. The press men would

come in and copy anything which could be published, which was about three per cent. I

collected, too, quite a large scrap-book of it, but unfortunately have lost it."

Edison tells an amusing story of his own pursuits at this time. Always an omnivorous

reader, he had some difficulty in getting a sufficient quantity of literature for home

consumption, and was in the habit of buying books at auctions and second-hand stores.

One day at an auction-room he secured a stack of twenty unbound volumes of the North

American Review for two dollars. These he had bound and delivered at the telegraph

office. One morning, when he was free as usual at 3 o'clock, he started off at a rapid pace

with ten volumes on his shoulder. He found himself very soon the subject of a fusillade.

When he stopped, a breathless policeman grabbed him by the throat and ordered him to

drop his parcel and explain matters, as a suspicious character. He opened the package

showing the books, somewhat to the disgust of the officer, who imagined he had caught a

burglar sneaking away in the dark alley with his booty. Edison explained that being deaf

he had heard no challenge, and therefore had kept moving; and the policeman remarked

apologetically that it was fortunate for Edison he was not a better shot.

The incident is curiously revelatory of the character of the man, for it must be admitted

that while literary telegraphers are by no means scarce, there are very few who would

spend scant savings on back numbers of a ponderous review at an age when tragedy,

beer, and pretzels are far more enticing. Through all his travels Edison has preserved

those books, and has them now in his library at Llewellyn Park, on Orange Mountain,

New Jersey.