USA > Pennsylvania > Luzerne County > Wilkes-Barre > A history of Wilkes-Barre, Luzerne County, Pennsylvania : from its first beginnings to the present time, including chapters of newly-discovered early Wyoming Valley history, together with many biographical sketches and much genealogical material. Volume I > Part 9
Note: The text from this book was generated using artificial intelligence so there may be some errors. The full pages can be found on Archive.org (link on the Part 1 page).
Part 1 | Part 2 | Part 3 | Part 4 | Part 5 | Part 6 | Part 7 | Part 8 | Part 9 | Part 10 | Part 11 | Part 12 | Part 13 | Part 14 | Part 15 | Part 16 | Part 17 | Part 18 | Part 19 | Part 20 | Part 21 | Part 22 | Part 23 | Part 24 | Part 25 | Part 26 | Part 27 | Part 28 | Part 29 | Part 30 | Part 31 | Part 32 | Part 33 | Part 34 | Part 35 | Part 36 | Part 37 | Part 38 | Part 39 | Part 40 | Part 41 | Part 42 | Part 43 | Part 44 | Part 45 | Part 46 | Part 47 | Part 48 | Part 49 | Part 50 | Part 51 | Part 52 | Part 53 | Part 54 | Part 55 | Part 56 | Part 57 | Part 58 | Part 59 | Part 60 | Part 61 | Part 62 | Part 63 | Part 64 | Part 65 | Part 66 | Part 67 | Part 68 | Part 69 | Part 70 | Part 71 | Part 72 | Part 73 | Part 74 | Part 75 | Part 76 | Part 77 | Part 78 | Part 79 | Part 80 | Part 81 | Part 82 | Part 83 | Part 84 | Part 85 | Part 86 | Part 87 | Part 88 | Part 89 | Part 90 | Part 91 | Part 92 | Part 93 | Part 94 | Part 95 | Part 96 | Part 97 | Part 98 | Part 99 | Part 100 | Part 101 | Part 102 | Part 103
The following stanzas are from a poem entitled "Wyoming," com- posed by a now unknown author whose pen-name was "Desmond." The poem was originally published July 24, 1830, in Hazard's Register of Pennsylvania (VI : 61), and in all probability has been read by few persons of the present day.
"And is this Wyoming? O Wyoming ! Am I within thy fairy bowers? Are these The classic shades mine island bard doth sing So sweetly ? Was it 'neath those dark green trees That Henry woo'd his Gertrude ? Is this breeze, That fans my brow with its cool morning wing, The same that 'mid the sweeping circle bore Dark Outalissi's song around yon sunny shore ?
"O vale of bliss! Though bosomed in the wild, Deep in the silent west, thou'rt not unsung. How oft o'er yon blue sea, while yet a child, O'er tales of thee enraptured have I hung, And roam'd in fancy these wild shades among ; And now I smile to see thee, though exiled. Roll up, ye mists of morn ! that I may view If of those dewy bowers my childhood's dream be true.
"The same-yet no ! Not even the poet's song, Or pencil's skill, can sketch thy waters wide, Blue Susquehanna, as thou sweep'st along Through those wild woods that wave upon thy side- Here dashing o'er the rocks in crested pride, There stealing silently the shades among ; Here hiding thy bright ripples 'midst the trees, There flashing to the sun and foaming to the breeze.
"Genius of Europe ! Look'st thou on the Rhine With bold-swept lute and wildly beaming eyes? Do Thames' bright waters in thy numbers shine So oft, so brilliantly? Awake ! Arise ! The western world unveils its mysteries ! Come to these forests ! Turn that glance of thine On these majestic waters as they gleam ! What is thy wildest flood to them? A brook-a stream !
"One solitary lute has sung of thee, Fair Susquehanna ! While by bright Garonne A hundred bards awake their minstrelsy, Praising its beauties at the set of sun. Yet oh ! through yonder mists uprolling dun, How grandly wave your forests to the sky, Fresh as when first chaotic glooms uncurl'd, And show'd to angels' eyes the new-created world.
69
"And silent as that world these woods ! There wakes No shout from far ; that early banqueter, The bee, to his wild flowers amid the brakes, Hums gaily past ; the wild birds also stir, But still, in yon fair town, the villager Is wrapped in sleep ; abroad the wild deer takes A quiet glance, for in his native woods He hears no hunter's step stir on his solitudes.
"Dew-diamonds fall around me from the trees, And morning flow'rets peep from forth the maze Of the wild woods 'round. But what are these ? I heed them not. With fix'd glance still I gaze On yon bright flood. Alas ! far fiercer blaze Than now illumes thy wave my fancy sees, Fair river ! though thus smilingly you flow,- As if on thy green banks ne'er woke the wail of woe.
"Rush o'er my soul the horrors of that night, When on thy blood-stained wave pale look'd the moon !
"Not then, on smiling plains, fair Wyoming, Awoke as now the glorious eye of morn ; But pale forms on thy steep banks weltering- Thy homes in ruin-thy green forests torn- And here and there some bleeding swimmer borne Down the deep stream, all miadly buffeting For life the wave, yet pausing oft to hear If still the cry of blood rang on his tortur'd ear. X * * *
" "Tis past ! And ever past be that fell scene ! Ah ! lovely bowers, ye were not made for war ! Ne'er may your wave reflect a redder sheen Than the mild twinkle of the morning star ; Ne'er on this breeze may harsher music jar Than hunters' merry shout from forest green, The sheep-bell's distant tinkle on the gale, Or, whistling wild at eve, the wish-ton-wish's wail.
"And here, at eve, let sylvan lovers roam, Where once disturbed the woods the battle-cry ; Borne down the wave let the soft flute-note come, In sweet accordance with the lover's sigh ; Or, let some exile lone go musing by On the far beauties of his island honie ; Yet turning to find solace in the scene For Albion's broomy bourns or Erin's hills of green."
In 1843 Mrs. Lydia Huntley Sigourney,* having visited Wyoming, wrote and published the following poem, which was much admired at the time and appeared in various publications.
"TO THE SUSQUEHANNA," On its junction with the Lackawanna.
"Rush on, glad stream, in thy power and pride, To clain the hand of thy promised bride, For she hastes from the realın of the darkened mine To mingle her murmured vows with thine. Ye have met ! Ye have met ! and your shores prolong The liquid tone of your nuptial song.
* A well-known American authoress, born at Norwich, Connecticut, September 1, 1791 ; died at Hart- ford, Connecticut, June 10, 1865. In 1822 she published a descriptive poem entitled "Traits of the Aborig- ines of America," and in 1824 a "Sketch of Connecticut Forty Years Since." These were followed by many other poems and essays, and in 1840, having visited Europe, she wrote "Pleasant Memories of Pleasant Lands."
70
"Methinks ye wed as the white man's son And the child of the Indian king have done. I saw the bride as she strove in vain To cleanse her brow from the carbon stain ; But she brings thee a dowry so rich and true That thy love must not shrink from the tawney hue.
"Her birth was rude in a mountain cell, And her infant freaks there are none to tell ; Yet the path of her beauty was wild and free, And in dell and forest she hid from thee ; But the day of her fond caprice is o'er, And she seeks to part from thy breast no more.
"Pass on, in the joy of thy blended tide, Through the land where the blessed Miquon died ; No red man's blood, with its guilty stain, Hath cried unto God from that broad domain. With the seeds of peace they have sown the soil- Bring a harvest of wealth for their hour of toil.
"On, on through the vale where the brave ones sleep, Where the waving foliage is rich and deep. I have stood on the mountain, and roamed through the glen, To the beautiful homes of the Western men ; Yet naught in that region of glory could see So fair as the vale of Wyoming to me."
The following verses are from a poem by J. R. Barstow, of Phila- delphia, which appeared originally in The Model American Courier, and was reprinted in the Luzerne Democrat (Wilkes-Barré), February 21, 1849.
" PENNSYLVANIA,"
"A song of home, a song of modern days, A tribute to my glorious native land ! Oh ! would the muse but aid my feeble praise, And nerve with honest pride my faltering hand ! The Keystone of this mighty arch, which holds A continent within its vast embrace ; Which to the waiting eye of Hope unfolds Of Freedom and of Peace the resting place.
Far in her quiet valleys many a gem Of rarest beauty greets the asking eye, As emeralds of Nature's diadem Lie shining green beneath the bending sky.
Fairest of these, and fairer far than all, Brightest of scenes whose beauties never pall, Queen of the Keystone, on thy mountain throne Thou reign'st, Wyoming, by thy grace alone ! The stranger pausing on the rocky brow
That far above absorbs the lingering glow Of the fast setting sun, will feel the power That oft, in such a scene and such an hour, Can lend imagination all it needs, Filling the heart with Poesy's bright seeds, And, but for Holy Writ, might locate there The garden of the lost, primeval pair, As if creating Nature, sunk to rest, Had laid her fairest offspring on her breast. * * *
O Susquehanna, on the earth's green breast No brighter river greets the morning ray ; No sweeter river, flowing to its rest, Adds its fresh tribute to the ocean's spray. I see in many a sorrow-fostered dream The mountain-guarded home of other years.
Thy shelving beach and rock-reflecting stream- They stir once more the fountain of my tears."
71
Thomas Buchanan Read (born 1822; died 1872), well known as an artist, a sculptor and a poet, but chiefly remembered as the author of "Sheridan's Ride"-that spirited poem, "one of the literary hits made during the American Civil War"-published in 1855 "The New Pastoral," from which the following verses have been extracted :
"Fair Pennsylvania ! than thy midland vales, Lying 'twixt hills of green, and bound afar By billowy mountains rolling in the blue, No lovelier landscape meets the traveler's eye. There Labor sows and reaps his sure reward, And Peace and Plenty walk amid the glow And perfume of full garners. I have seen In lands less free, less fair, but far more known, The streams which flow through history and wash The legendary shores, and cleave in twain Old capitals and towns, dividing oft Great empires and estates of petty kings And princes, whose domains full many a field, Rustling with maize along our native West, Out-measures and might put to shame ! And yet Nor Rhine, like Bacchus crowned, and reeling through His hills-nor Danube, marred with tyranny, His dull waves moaning on Hungarian shores, Nor rapid Po, his opaque waters pouring Athwart the fairest, fruitfulest and worst Enslaved of European lands-nor Seine, Winding uncertain through inconstant France, Are half so fair as thy broad stream whose breast Is gemmed with many isles, and whose proud name Shall yet become among the names of rivers A synonym of beauty-Susquehanna !"
The following poem was written in October, 1860, by George Alfred Townsend, well known to readers of the present day as a popular newspaper correspondent and writer of fiction over the pseu- donym "Gath."
" WYOMING," FROM PROSPECT ROCK. (During the State Agricultural Fair.)
"The dream of my childhood lies under my lashes ; Wyoming looks up from her Autumn repose ; I catch the sweet breath of the lingering rose, And see in the vale where the rivulet flashes.
These meadows are rich with old altars and ashes ; These bright skies are holy, and hymns haunt these hills ; Old tales tinkle up from these myriad rills,
And ghosts wander forth where the withered bough crashes ; Stealthy eyes glare like fiends where the thickets are gloaming, And the consecrate mountains are rumbling-'Wyoming.'
"I kneel where the savage looked down in the olden On glimpses of meadow and wilderness blue, And swore that the prow of his birchen canoe Should ripple again where the river was golden ; That the beautiful vale where his fathers were moulding The stranger should never forever profane, Though the hatchet should reek with the blood of the slain,
And the stars close their lids the red carnage beholding. The pale face survives, the red children are roaming, And the smoke of sweet households curls over Wyoming.
"I see the lone pine where the 'Shawnee' ascended, And mark the gray shaft where the martyrs are cherished ; And see the grim ridge where the pioneer perished, And gaze at the rock where the death-rite was ended. The homes have been blighted which heroes defended,
72
But here do the sons of the forefathers dwell, And Gertrudes yet wander o'er meadow and dell. All romance and song in this Aiden are blended ! These scenes like a dream on the pilgrim are gleamning, And blessed be the eyes which thus worship Wyoming.
"In this stillness ambition its murmuring hushes, And piety needs not in anguish to pray, For here there is heaven and beauty alway, And the clouds, looking down, lose their sadness in flushes. The glad Susquehanna sings ever and blushes, And ever looks back with a gurgling regret, And the tear-sparkling stars most reluctantly set ; And the screams of the hawk are as soft as the thrush's ; And the mountains, like caskets of azure are gloaming, To shut from the world the jewel Wyoming.
"On the massacre-plain mounds of canvas appear, And yeomen are clustering, armed for the battle ; With the neigh of the steed comes the lowing of cattle, And the plowshare flashes in lieu of the spear. The valley Gertrudes know never a fear, And the Indian Queen sleeps under the river ; The arrow is rusting, and rotting the quiver, The scalp of the crow and the blood of the deer Alone are sought, in the cornfield roaming, For the farmer has nestled in sweet Wyoming."
The following stanzas by an unknown author were printed in the Luzerne Federalist (Wilkes-Barré), November 14, 1806.
"When Nature's God outspread the earth, And gave to hills and valleys birth, What place was made of greatest worth ? Wyoming !
"When Boreas, roaring from the North, With Winter arm'd, comes raging forth, Thy mountains shield thee from his wroth, Wyoming.
"When Summer's sun resumes his sway, And beams intolerable day Then through thy vale cool breezes play, Wyoming.
"Thy fields are spread with fairest flowers, Thy air is cleared with freshest showers, And Ceres plenty on thee pours, Wyoming.
.' "When the rude savage from afar Pour'd on our land the scourge of war, On thee was left the deepest fear, Wyoming.
"To tell-it wrings my heart with pain- How many heroes press'd the plain, How many of thy sons were slain, Wyoming.
"But now, thank God ! we hear the sound Of peace and industry resound ; Thy plains with health and joy are crown'd, Wyoming.
The following "Lines, written on revisiting the Susquehanna," were printed in the Susquehanna Democrat (Wilkes-Barré), July 24, 1829.
VIEW DOWN THE VALLEY FROM THE LOWER END OF ROSS HILL. From a photograph taken in May, 1902.
73
"Still rolling on, resistless stream, How clear and calm thy waters run ! Or how, when vex'd, thy billows gleam And sparkle in the burning sun, And through romantic scenery roanı While hastening to thy ocean home !
"The oaks that shade thy smiling face, The cultured fields that grace thy banks, The scaly brood-the finny race- That in thy bosom play their pranks, Throw bright enchantment 'round the scene, And rouse the poet from his dream.
"And could thy rippling currents speak A language audible to man, From thy harsh tongue what strains would break, Of deeds too deep for eyes to scan ! When War stalked forth in open day, And thousands sank beneath his sway.
"Of Indian pow-wows on thy shore, Of battle brands and scalping-knives ; Of fairest fields drenched with red gore, In that wide waste of human lives 'Ere Freedom's angel from on high Waved her white banner through the sky.
"Yes, on the fair and pleasant site Where Wilkesbarre's thriving village stands, The red chief, in his hour of might, Sent forth his stern and harsh commands To fish, to fowl and beasts of prey, And tribes of men as wild as they.
"Nations have risen, flourished and then died ; Wooden nutmegs have had their day ; And works of art, displayed with pride, Have passed from splendor to decay. Sweet river, thou still flow'st sublime, Unmindful of the shifts of Time.
"Then still roll on, grand stream, and waft To busy marts our choicest wealth ; And send by the returning craft That best material-save health- The coin, for which man wastes his strength And dies a beggar-wretch at length." .
The following stanzas, originally published in the Mount Carmel Register, were reprinted in the Record of the Times (Wilkes-Barré), June 21, 1854. -
"There's a rolling stream with a silvery tide, And a moss clad valley deep and wide, And velvety banks with flowerets gay, And rock crags crowned with pine and bay, And laurel boughs, rich mantled o'er, Where the red man trod in days of yore. I love that stream !
"I've seen that stream in the moon's clear light, When silver tipped each dizzy height, And gauzy mists like fairies played On the mountain's brow in the inellow shade ; . And the twinkling stars, with diamond gleam, Gemmed the mirrored breast of that silver streanı. I loved that streanı !
74
"I've seen that stream when the demon roar Of the wild tornado swept its shore ; When the lightning fell with forked tongue, And thunder-bolts like hail were flung ; And the mountain pines from the rocks were reft, And the billowy foam by the crags was cleft- And I loved that stream.
"And when dread Winter's hoary chain, By the breath of Spring was cleft in twain, And the angry flood with hideous groan Mocked the growling ice-rift's thunder tone, I've seen that river's giant tide Spread desolation far and wide- Yet I loved that stream.
"On its silvery breast, when the night was young, With early friends I've floated and sung To the mellow tones of the breathing flute, And the ringing viol's thrilling note ; While the merry jest and repartee Gave fairy wings to the hours of glee- And I loved that stream.
"Sweet river ! in memory's fading dream I see thy bold, majestic stream, Thy sparkling ripples and glittering spray, Though I, alas ! am far away. Thou rollest ever, but I decay, And soon from hence shall pass away. Then gladly I'd rest, when my toil is o'er, 'Neath the deep, cool shade on the pebbly shore, For I love that stream."
The following poem, entitled "Wyoming," was written in 1872 by Miss Susan E. Dickinson, who, at a later period, was for some years a resident of Wyoming Valley and was quite widely known as a news- paper correspondent and a writer of verse.
"Storm has gone by ; the trailing clouds that linger, Add glory to the October afternoon- Touched by the artist sun with loving finger, With gold and rose hues of a dawn of June.
"On the far hill-range purple mists are lying, Struck through with golden light in wavering gleanis ; On nearer slopes the Autumn woods are dying, Robed in rich tints that mock the artist's dreams.
"The rare day woos us forth to gather treasure Of unexpressed delight for heart and brain ; Each moment brings us some new sense of pleasure, Or takes away some touch of former pain.
"We trace the mountain road, each turn unfolding A rarer beauty to the raptured eye ; Each glen and stream and deep ravine is holding. Its own rich store of Autumn's pageantry.
"Our hearts spring up-the clear brook by us flowing Voices our gladness with its silver tone. We find the keen, clear air new life bestowing, More sweet than Summer's breath o'er roses blown.
"Fain would we linger ; but at last, regaining The open vale, new joy each spirit thrills. No Alpine roseate glow, the ice-peaks staining, Outrivals that which crowns these eastern hills.
A VIEW OF WYOMING VALLEY FROM THE UPPER END OF ROSS HILL, NEAR THE WOODWARD COLLIERY. From a photograph taken in May, 1902.
75
"Above the western slopes the sun, retiring, Sends ever and anon a surge of gold ; Now rising, now retreating, now expiring- How should such scenes be fitly sung or told ?
"O fair vale of Wyoming ! O soft splendor Of hill and stream and rare, autumnal skies ! One heart will thrill with recollections tender Of all your beauty, until memory dies !"
Theron G. Osborne, a resident of Wyoming Valley, and an occasional contributor of poetry to the periodical press, is the author of the follow- ing pleasing verses-first published in The Evening Leader (Wilkes- Barré), August 19, 1895.
"SUSQUEHANNA."
"Flashing love-light from her waters To her streamlets every one, Peerless Susquehanna loiters On her pathway in the sun ; 'Mid her hills of darksome verdure, And her meadows smiling green,
'Neath the cliffs that she has fashioned- High, precipitous, serene-
Where the mountain-pine stands sentry, Firm, though scant his foothold be, Cleaving skyward, staunchly builded, True to God and gravity. 'Round her bluffs of furrowed granite, O'er her fields of pebbles spread- With the quiet in her bosom Of the azure overhead- Loiters on, her love-light flashing To her streanilets every one,
As she dreams through pool and shallow In the shimmer of the sun- Bends and winds and stretches languid, Like a serpent in the sun."
So much having been published respecting conditions picturesque and matters romantic and fanciful in Wyoming, as well as concerning its historic events, one may readily believe that the name and the fame of the valley are wide-extended. And furthermore, that her name and her fame will live "till time shall be no more"; for the events, the scenes and the legends of Wyoming will never be forgotten while the grand old valley has a name, or as long as she has a descendant to keep her in memory. Her name will certainly live, for, through either hier loving and loyal descendants or her admirers, it has been conferred upon the next to the newest-but one of the most interesting-of the States of the Union, upon three counties in three different States, upon four townships in as many different States, upon thirteen villages and towns in the same number of States, and upon one village in the Province of Ontario, Canada ; while in the cities of Washington, St. Louis, Scranton and Williamsport, and a score of other cities and towns outside Wyo- ming Valley, there are streets and avenues bearing the name "Wyoming."
It must be borne in mind that ours is the original Wyoming. And it is doubtful if the name of any town or locality in the United States has been put to so many and such varied uses as· has the name of this valley. Relative to this the editor of the Record of the Times (Wilkes- Barré) printed the following paragraph in his paper in December, 1857 :
76
"A writer in the Scranton Republican very properly protests against giving the name 'Wyoming' to all the oyster-saloons, barber-shops and halls in Scranton. We are glad to see this protest. A beautiful name belonging to this valley has been 'run into the ground'-to use a common expression-by attaching it to counties, hotels and post- offices all over the country."
The editor might have added "breweries," "brass-bands" and "canal- boats" to his list, and yet have kept within bounds. Apropos of this, the present writer well remembers that about 1863 (at which period there were very few colored people in Wyoming Valley) a number of colored women in Wilkes-Barré, banded together for some purpose or another, in order to raise funds for their organization arranged to provide a supper for the public's patronage. Outside the hall where the supper was served they hung up a banner bearing this inscription : "Supper by the Daughters of Wyoming !" It seems needless to state that, while it is probable that the supper of the "Daughters of Wyoming" did not receive an overwhelming patronage, yet it is certain that their banner was the subject of a large amount of curious comment.
Within recent years all sorts of things constructed by the hand of man-from ferry-boats to apartment-houses, in the city of New York and elsewhere-have been named "Wyoming"; and quite lately a horse, presented to the President of the United States by admiring friends in the State of Wyoming, was given the same name. As early as 1830 a merchant-vessel bearing the name Wyoming was sailing between Phila- delphia and certain Mediterranean ports ; and in the Spring of 1846 a handsome packet-ship christened Wyoming, belonging to the line of boats operated by the Messrs. Cope between Philadelphia and Liverpool, made her first voyage to the latter port.
In 1858 eight "third-class steamers" were being constructed for the United States Government, and in March, 1859, the Navy Department directed that one of the largest of these should be named Wyoming. She was built by Merrick and Company of Philadelphia, and was a sloop-of-war of 726 tons, carrying four 32-pounder broadside guns, two 11-inch Dahlgren pivot guns and a complement of 160 officers and men. Her sister-ship was the Kearsarge, later to acquire success and fame in naval affairs during the War for the Union. In 1863 there was a rebellion in one of the provinces of Japan, and from their forts and armed boats the rebels fired upon certain alien vessels-among them a steamer bearing the United States flag. The little wooden Wyoming, then attached to the Asiatic Fleet, was hurried by her commander (Captain McDougal) to the scene of trouble in Japanese waters, and there, in the Straits of Shimonoséki, July 14, 1863, performed what has been described as "the most gallant action of a single ship under a single commander known in the annals of the United States Navy." "The Wyoming fired fifty-five rounds in seventy minutes, and came out of the battle in good fighting trim, though hulled ten times and struck in ten other places." In 1867-still on the Asiatic Station-the Wyoming, in connection with the U. S. S. Hartford, performed important services at the island of Formosa.
The active life of that old-fashioned war-vessel came to an end a number of years ago, but her name once more appears in the Register of the Navy attached to a steel-sheathed monitor 252 feet in length, of 3,214 tons displacement, with engines of 2,400 horse-power, and carry-
77
ing six guns in her main battery. This Wyoming, although a new vessel, belongs to a class of war-ships that is fast disappearing from the navy lists of the powers. She is one of the last group of "harbor-defense vessels" that is ever likely to be built. She was launched at San Francisco September 8, 1900-the event being made a feature of the semi-centennial celebration of California's admission into the Union. Early in 1903 this latest-born Wyoming went into commission.
RYLAND
CHAPTER III.
THE AMERIND PEOPLE-THE MOUND-BUILDERS-THE ABORIGINALS OF NEW YORK AND PENNSYLVANIA.
"Not many generations ago, where you now sit circled with all that exalts and embellishes civilized life, the rank thistle nodded in the wind, and the wild fox dug his hole unscared. Here lived and loved another race of beings. Beneath the same sun that rolls over your heads, the Indian hunter pursued the panting deer ; gazing on the same moon that smiles for you, the Indian lover wooed his dusky mate."
Need help finding more records? Try our genealogical records directory which has more than 1 million sources to help you more easily locate the available records.