The Thomas A. Edison Papers Digital Edition

Transcription

Fort Myers, Fla. March 15, 1892.
To the Editor of THE HERALD:
Agreeable to promise and request I send you a short account of what has happened us since we left, with our present surroundings. On the 18th of January we left and took the cars from Detroit to St. Louis on the Wabash system, and right here I remark, honor to whom honor is due—for splendor of equipment, magnificence of construction and solicitous care for the comfort of and convenience of the public no such cars exist on any other system that I have ever seen. Single chairs constructed on the principle of surgeon's chairs or invalid chairs, whereby the back can be let down to any angle either for rest or sleep. Queen Victoria never rode upon any such cars and never will—if it would not be too absurd to make comparison between this system and that which has existed in Great Britain and all European countries since the origin of railroads. It seems incredible, but every person who has traveled in Great Britain will corroborate my statement. A train of cars there resembles an aggregation of our dump construction cars in size and equipment—they hold each about 10 or 12 people, no provision or convenience for any exigency whatever. These thrifty feudalized companies have got their work in and the leiges not knowing any better are content. The fact is, the Americans have shown more humanity, more benevolence, more consideration in the transportation of their live hogs to the eastern market than ever these iron clad gentlemen have shown for the comfort or convenience of the traveling public.
We left St. Louis for New Orleans. A storm had come from the southwest, entailing much suffering on the people unprepared for it. Snow on the ground till within 150 miles of New Orleans. We were interviewed by the newspaper men of the city, who all reported that Mr. Edison had a striking resemblance to Mr. James G. Blaine, to which Edison demurs—says he, Edison, is a handsomer man and has purer politics. We made careful note of the enormous cotton and sugar and molasses trade. Went six miles down the river to Jackson's battle ground. Received much kindness and attention from the keeper of Chalmette cemetery, which is just adjoining Jackson's line of defense. In that city of the dead 12,600 soldiers sleep their last sleep. All has been done by the government that could be done to embellish and adorn this last resting place. The cypress, the emblem of funerial gloom, waves here; the palm, emblem of victory and immortality, waves here also. This cemetery, beautiful in its surroundings and order, is just adjoining Jackson's line, and we had an opportunity to study the generalship of the conflict. The object of the British expedition was to pillage and destroy the city of New Orleans. No jetties nor steamboats then, they could not sail up the Mississippi; but they came across the lake below in pinnaces adapted to shallow water. If they would reach New Orleans they must come up a narrow strip of land between the Mississippi and an impenetrable swamp—this passage was about half a mile wide. Now, Andrew was a cunning old fellow. He conceived the idea of cutting a ditch across the solid ground from the Mississippi to the swamp, throwing the embankment on the New Orleans side. Now, we all know he was stubborn and headstrong, but just the man for the crisis. He proclaimed martial law and made everybody that could handle a spade or pick axe help to dig that ditch. He had all New Orleans helping to dig that ditch. To keep the enemy back till the ditch was ready he had to go down and fight them for three or four days. When the ditch was done he let in the Mississippi. The ditch was 10 feet deep and 20 feet wide. Now he said we are ready. The men behind this embankment were mainly back woods men from Tennessee and Kentucky, fellows who could shoot off the head of a squirrel as far as [DAMAGE] [Jackson?] told them not [DAMAGE] worse of wear.
We went across to Mobile, on the Alabama river, and staid there four days—a fine city, saw everything that was to be seen there. Went down the Gulf 500 miles on the San Antoine, by way of Tampa, to our old headquarters, and are now living the life of Sybarites. Amidst the oranges and everlasting flowers, our enjoyments are best described in the words of Sir Walter Scott—
Through groves of palm
Sigh gales of balm,
Fireflies on the air are wheeling;
While through the bloom
Come soft perfume,
The distant beds of flowers revealing. 
Being both good men went to church to here Bishop Weed, and here comes in Sancho Panzo's [Sancho Panza's] benediction. "Blessed are they that expect nothing, for when it is found they will not be disappointed." We found [illegible]; but we did not fully share in Sancho's benediction, for we expected something and got nothing—a hetergeneous farrago of talk leading nowhere—the talk of boys playing at marbles with the intellectual part left out. I once heard Bishop Jock Strahan, of Toronto, and it was even worse than Jocki's essay, for Jock, though not having the ideality of a salt water clam, was practical, and his essay though tending downward tended somewhere. A laughing incident is related of Jock. He knew his defects, but they were fully compensated by his diabolic cunning. He sought to open correspondence with men of talent or genius. He was once over in London about some clergy reserve plunder. Hearing that the great pulpit orator, Dr. Chalmers, was in London, and availing himself of the fact that they had been school boys together, he found him at Edward Irvines', a preacher scarcely second to Chalmers—he and Carlyle, Irvines' friend, was there also—intruded himself into the presence of these three men of genius, and his talk was mainly of the tribulations he had to endure in Canada, for those infernal Yankees would come across and put notions into the heads of the lieges inimical to the loyalty and duties due the Crown. Carlyle sat and grimly looked him over, and took his measure and summed him up in seven words. After his departure Carlyle remarked, "Surely that wretch has been in hell."
Yours truly,
JAS. SYMINGTON