USA > Pennsylvania > The Wyoming Valley in 1892 > Part 13
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
The scoffer Doubt, with menacing and mock- And I withdraw niy hands. [ing;
Shall others call thee fair, oh, born of sorrow, Or is it only I ?
Should I unloose the cage that holds the cap- And bid thee outward fly ? [tive,
Is there a heart, of all that hold their throb- To listen human song, [bings To thrill responsive with the same sad passion, That swept my own so long ?
Into some home where souls are sick with wait- A sweet hope long deferred, [ing
Would the dull eye glance upward at thy com- As at the spring-time bird ? [ing,
If thou shouldst flutter softly forth, and follow The pathway of the morn,
Afar my life would watch thee, and remember The hour when thou wert born.
W. GEORGE POWELL
Was born at Scranton, in 1866, but lived during the most important period of his life at St. Clair, Schuylkill county. In 1885 he removed to Kingston, and three years later accepted the position of Principal of the Hyde Park Preparatory School in his native city, where he still remains. During the last summer he spent ten weeks in Europe, visiting poetic shrines in England, France, and
[46
LITERATURE OF
Switzerland. The literary productions of Mr. Powell nowhere betray the work of the novice. Whatever is attempted or determined upon is completed in, an artistic manner, strongly sustained, thorough and masterly. Neither is he lured away from the chosen line of pursuit by flowery by-paths into which so many are tempted. With a keen regard for consistency he keeps steadily on, satisfied to avail himself of the material that falls naturally in his way, never sacrificing the end in view to an undue poetic flight, a far-fetched figure or a brilliant array of well-sounding, but unnecessary words. Like all student authors, Mr. Powell is an experimenter and he has written on all sorts of subjects, both in prose and verse. But whatever the nature of the theme in hand, his style and expression are in true accord therewith, be it the creation of a poem, the analysis of a rock, or a critique on literature. But although brilliant as an all-around writer, it is chiefly as a poet we would regard him ; for whether he writes in verse or prose, whether he weaves the dainty texture of a dream or wields the sharp blade of literary or scientific discussion, his poetic temperament shines forth at times like mica in the sand, and again with the glory of dawn, but bespeaking ever the genuine poetic fire within. Were we disposed to find fault it would be an easy matter to point out defects as to minor particulars, versification and sentiment. Our greatest writers are not free from shortcomings, especially in their earlier writings. But if it be not out of order in the purpose of the present article, we might express the opinion that the greatest defect of our author is too violent self-criticism, the outcome of possessing a high ideal of the art and resulting in a temerity to spread his wings to a more untrammeled and lofty flight. This after a review of his published writings, but more especially of his many unpub- lished ones, which show in a greater degree the extent of his resources and the fertility of his powers. Were he less occupied in the educational field, wherein he is engaged, and more necessitated to write and publish, we believe he would prove himself capable of the highest results in literature.
REVERY. (Unpublished Poems, 1891.)
I walk beneath the dense, moon-hiding trees; The crickets rasp their wings more timidly, And not so much from fear, it seems, of me, As with a gentle reverence to please, [seize. Listening, as though my fancies they would I bend my head to their sweet courtesy;
Through them, I feel the earth's mute sym- pathy
With these high moods, to which speech has no key.
And now, I come into the open field,
With eyes uplifted toward creation's chart; The serious, patient stars are coldly steeled- They give no sign to make the true word start.
O soul, wilt thou not to expression yield ?
Why be nor deaf nor blind, yet dumb, O heart.
0
147
THE WYOMING VALLEY.
THACKERAY.
POETIC SATELLITES.
O Thackeray, not as it has been deemed By hasty readers, is thy flashing page;
But ill-concealed-as some have careless dreanı- Ah, no! thy wounded tone was such as beamed From heart where love was shut as in a cage, And captive held, while no one would assuage Its pangs with sympathy, like that which streamed
In its own saddened song.
Cherished caress
Not cynical, and cold, and showing rage [ed. Ne'er came, but icy fling of sphinx-like stare, To greet his fond affections in the ranks Of selfish men. They left him penniless,
Like a spendthrift robbed of all but care, His giant gift returned with dwarfish thanks.
THE QUIET EARTH. (Unpublished Poems, 1891.)
This noisy world-the phrase is often heard; But such the earth is not, except to him,
With pavement-staring eyes and fancy dim, Who ne'er beyond the city wall has stirred.
The stern, mute realm of space frights not the bird
Forever used o'er leagues of calm to skim; But, to your street-entangled burgher prim,
A silence is a mimic death incurred.
If he but cast the shadow of a thought Upon the far stretches of ocean's waste;
On tropic selvas Alpine peaks snow-wrought; Old Egypt's sands; the Arctics, ice encased- He then will feel that all man's shrieking riot, Is but a sigh in earth's eternal quiet.
THE BETTER LIFE. (Unpublished Poems.)
The mountain height
Has brighter day and briefer night Than lowly vale. The air is clearer, And Heaven with its stars is nearer, Than through the vapors purple-pale Of dark-retreating, sunken dale.
And lo! these teach- Above the dull, brown earth of speech, The wings of thought Should soar transcendent, With glories of the soul attendant, To heights from purity snow-wrought, Where man to God is nearer brought.
HARRISON WRIGHT, PH. D.
Mr. Wright, probably the most scholarly of the historic Wright family, pre- pared many valuable papers, of a scientific, historical or a general character. His untimely death was a severe loss to higher culture in Wyoming Valley. The following verses represent his metrical compositions :
KLÆNGE DER LIEBE.
It was long, long ago, on a summer day, Far over the cruel sea,
That Gretchen at the piano sat Playing. " Klænge der Liebe " for me.
The piano was rickety, patched-up and old, And its tones were far from divine,
But the soul of the player was all my own, And its " Klænge der Liebe " were mine.
Young Gretchen died, so the sad news came Years ago from over the sea, But in memory I see her sitting there yet, Playing " Klænge der Liebe " to me.
148
LITERATURE OF
CELA FAIT UN EFFET SI DROLE.
Is it fair when you glance at a maid, In the glance throwing all of your soul,
To be told by the charming young maid " Cela fait un effet si drole ?"
Is it fair when you press a soft hand Till your warm blood tenipestuous doth roll,
To be told by the owner in fee,
"Cela fait un effet si drole ?"
Is it fair when you kiss ruby lips, Till your heart throbs you cannot control,
To hear then the same lips repeat "Cela fait un effet si drole ?"
SUSAN E. DICKINSON,
Sister of Anna Dickinson, has contributed to the metropolitan press for many years. She is now on the editorial staff of the Scranton Truth.
FISHER'S SONG. (Written to the air "Let All Obey," from Balfe's Opera, " The Enchantress.")
Wake, comrades, wake, to greet the morn! When sunrise smiles in orient skies,
Our boat upon the lake upborne Should gently float till daylight dies: CHORUS:
For us the forest's balmy air;
Ours, too, while summer days are long, The sweetest rest from toil and care.
CHORUS: No joy, etc.
No joy of summer's greenwood bowers Is like the angler's for delight;
Who spends with us the golden hours Will find them well his choice requite.
Haste, comrades, haste! Not ours to sigh, " Oh, for a boy's free life once more!" No child heart can earth, wave and sky So crown with gladness brimming o'er. CHORUS: No joy, etc.
For us the wood-thrush tunes his song;
MRS. VERONA COE HOLMES
Was born in Michigan. Her father was a minister. She was carefully educated and was a teacher for a number of years. She now resides in West Pittston. Some of her poems have not been surpassed by any lady writer of the present day.
ONE NIGHT.
(From the Wyoming Magazine.)
I heard the spring rain falling, in the night ; And lying long awake, bethought me, then, Of waste and solitary ways, of vale and height, Remote and vague, unvisited of men :
Of lone pine-barrens where the twinkling eyes Of forest-fires were winking, and of all The by and brambly paths, the wooded rise, The fallow fields whereon the night rains fall. I heard the risen stream, along the glade, Run noisily; and thought of nooks and caves Rain-drenched, of tiny, wrinkled lakelets made In grassy hollows,'twixt old church-yard graves,
I slipped, methought, the leash of flash and ran Untired, alone, among the rainy hills; Along the woods where restive buds began To bulge and burst. I felt impulsive thrills,
The inner tumult, and strenuous stir Of quickened germs; a sudden passion rife; In riven husk and seed-pod sepulcher, Declared the "Resurrection and the Life."
I, running, read the riddle of the earth The hidden thing, the subtle and the strange ; Perceived that Life led on from birth to birth Up, up the mounting spiral-rounds of change.
149
THE WYOMING VALLEY.
Life all about, in stem and bough and bud, Announced itself; where low in ruin lay The rotting bole, there life arose, renewed, Intensified and strengthened through decay.
I learned the vernal processes, the might Of moisture and of warnith. My spirit scanned The labors of the Lord by that strange "light That never is nor was on sea or land."
And I discerned in frost, and fire and wind,
Sun-warmth and vernal rains, in drouth and dearth,
Earthquake and flood, creative forces joined. To change and cheer, to mar and mold the earth.
" My homing spirit called aloud, elate- I see the broken bud, the leaf uncurled, The storms that smite, the seas that rise; I wait, I watch, the ceaseless building of a world."
I, THE CRICKET.
Kr-r-ee! Kr-r-ee !-
I sit on the door-stone and rasp my wings, As the cool comes on and the darkness brings Owlet and bat and fire-fly fine
Into this dusky domain of mine.
Kr-r-ee! Kr-r-ee !-
I keep open house, for a hinge let go [fro- In a month-ago wind-storm, and forward and At the beck of the breeze-tip-tilted, askew, Swings the door the day long or the gusty night through.
Kr-r-ee! Kr-r-ee !-
I keep open house; those holes in the wall
Out-staring, opaque, are the windows. The hall Opens wide to all weathers. The shower and the shine
Come at will, go at will, in this mansion of mine.
Kr-r-ee! Kr-r-ee !-
I'm a sociable soul. I've a comrade's regard For the burrowing mole, in the nettle-choked yard,
And the blundersome beetle, that buzzes and booms-
Of a moonlighted night-through the echoing rooms.
Kr-r-ee! Kr-r-ee !-
Here was gladness, here grief, in the days that are gone.
Here was warmth, where the hearthst. les lie shattered and prone.
But failed has the flame and the sight and. the song, [long.
And alone, I, the cricket, chirp blithely and Kr-r-ee! Kr-r-ee !- [set
Who were here have departed. The sweet brier Where a hedge was aforetime survives them as yet. [wall,
Near the jungle of vines in yon nook of the See, their pied tiger-lilies rise tawny and tall.
Kr-r-ee! Kr-r-ee !- [days
Yet to me what their feasts or their fasts, or the Of their births or bereavements? I lie in the
haze, [to be And the sumnier is sweet, and to breathe and Is wealth for a happy-go-lucky like me.
Kr-r-ee! Kr-r-ee !- [on ;
So I chirp my delight, when the evenings come Soft sandaled, gray-kirtled, from under the stone
At the spider-webbed door-way I flit unafraid, And my own love I woo, with my shrill sere- nade.
BENJAMIN H. PRATT
Was introduced to the light and air of this dizzy sphere of existence on the tenth day of August, 1834, in the town of Taunton, State of Massachusetts. He worried through teething in Boston, donned his first pants in New York city, endured his initial educational coercion in Brooklyn, New York, and con- tinued the ordeal of scholastic training in Williamsport, Pennsylvania. He was further grounded in the "three R's" at the district school of Ralston,
150
LITERATURE OF
Pennsylvania. His preparation for college was compelled at the Danville, Pennsylvania, Academy, and in 1853 he was matriculated at Lafayette College, Easton, Pennsylvania, from which institution he was graduated in 1857. The eight succeeding years were occupied with the study and practice of dentistry at Elmira and Bath, New York, when failing health caused an abandonment of his chosen profession. A two-years' course of medical study, combined with jour- nalistic work on the Elmira Advertiser and Gazette and the Troy Times, satisfied him that a due regard for health necessitated a change of occupation. Called to the principalship of the Danville, Pennsylvania, Academy, he filled that posi- tion three years, after which he became a member of the bookselling firm of Hall & Pratt, at Scranton, removing there in 1870. The life of the firm was three years, and Mr. Pratt became the city editor of the Scranton Daily Times, occupying the position four years. In 1877 he became the Legislative reporter of the Scranton Republican, and afterward its Wilkes-Barre manager. After oscillating between the Scranton and Wilkes-Barre departments of the Republi- can for twelve years, in 1889 he was appointed Assistant Postmaster at Scranton, Pennsylvania, which position he at present holds.
STRAPPING A TRUNK.
The romance of a summer trip consists en- trifle mad by this tinie, you cut carelessly and tirely in thinking about it. It's all very pleas- sever the strap. Then you are nad. You ex- amine the trunk carefully and conclude that one strap will hold it, so you give all your muscle to the other one, and just as you are congratulating yourself that the buckle-tongue is going nicely into the hole, wife calls from below to say the hack's conie and are you ready? and you give one final strain which bursts the buckle off, and as it's too late for re- pairs you are well nigh a maniac in looks and feelings and actions. But you smother your wrath and wipe your face with your span clean handkerchief, telling the hackman to take the trunk and go to - well, wherever you're going ; and you tear around in such a state as to overhear your wife say to a neighbor, who has called to say good by, "it always makes him mad to strap a trunk," and she's right. If we have to strap trunks we want a harness shop handy by, and somebody to call on for appropriate expressions that hasn't got any quaker notions in his head about some things not orthodox. ant to think up what you'll wear, and all the nice places you'll go to and see, and how you'll do just as you please, with no business to both- er you, and all that. The reality of the thing, however, is very irksonie, and about the first real drawback you experience is in getting your trunk ready for the hackman. Wife comes to you all smiles and just running over with the joy and excitement of going away, and reports everything all ready except "O, Dearie ! there is that trunk of mine to be clos- ed up and strapped." You find the trunk in a hot closet ; it's just foaming over with ap- parel. You begin to poke and prod it-push and squeeze it-press the lid down and find it won't shut within three inches-repeat the pro- cess-sit down on it- jump on it-and finally get it sprung to. Then you find the straps and try to buckle one-pull and tug and sweat- hole doesn't come right. You take your jack- knife and make a new hole, and pulling it through the buckle, try again with no success- hole isn't big enough-cut again, and being a
.
151
THE WYOMING VALLEY.
MINT JULEP.
If there is any doubt in your mind as to the theni, and their reminders of your marital nature of this compound, you may satisfy your- self by having a few made to order, and absorb- ing them into your system. You will discover, upon going out, that nature has assunied a misty veil, and single objects are becoming twofold in character, and are flippantly en- gaged in tripping each other fantastically. The walks will playfully remind you of " tick- ly bender" days, and ebb and flow in graceful undulations beneath and about you, If you can tear yourself from the fascinations of these novel scenes, and seek the quiet precincts of your cottage honie, you will be surprised at the number of residences on your street, sim- ilar to your own, and smile at your success in being able to enter them all at once. The plu- rality of wives and children within, and espec- ially the twin babies, will absorb your interest for a while, so that you will scarcely mind the tears of your several wives, and their repeated inquiries as to what respect you can have for
proniises to respect, etc. You will find relief possibly in mentioning to them that there is no law compelling them to stay there, and that upon second thought it would improve matters to eliminate the whole party. It may enter your mind to apply physical force in effecting this, and over estimation of your ability may result in a reverse, and the fracture of sundry articles of the household, in the possession of which you have been in the afore tinie proud. Then you will lie down, and gaze upon a pecu- liar figure in the carpet, display your disgust therefor by covering it ignominiously with a miscellaneous compound, the several ingredi- ents of which will be recognized as being a portion of the viands your dinner table afford- ed. Sleep will doubtless close the animated scene, and on the following morning you will probably decline the delicacies your only re- maining wife has so thoughtfully provided for her wretch.
LUCK !
Don't believe in it? We do. We believe in lucky stars. Some folks are always lucky-al- ways getting the drawing ticket in a lottery- are invariably finding something-never lose anything-everything goes swimmingly with them. In infancy they don't get colic, nor birch, and have a grandmother always on hand. In boyhood the lucky chap always wins all the marbles-has a new jack-knife-goes barefoot in summer-escapes all the chores-has a nice lie handy for every occasion-gains the smiles of the prettiest girl-doesn't have mumps and measles and itch-never stubs his toe-the girls give him candy-the boys lend hin balls
and fish hooks and forget all about it-he doesn't tear his trowsers-doesn't go 'round with a toothache-never has to sleep alone --- goes home when he likes-has an aunt to fur- nish him pocket money. When a man he doesn't have any poor relations-pays no taxes -doesn't have to sit on a jury-never is asked to "subscribe"-never misses a train-isn't dead broke-isn't called upon to make a speech -doesn't have to edit a paper-goes to all tlie shows-waited on first at table-doesn't have bilious spells-wife doesn't blow him up-for he's one of the jolly dogs that ill luck doesn't touch. We believe in luck.
FRANK HUMPHREYS,
Was born near Minersville, Schuylkill county, Pennsylvania, on June 2, 1859, and removed to this city in 1873. He learned the printing trade. When nine- teen years of age he made a tour of the United States with the Wallace Sisters' Dramatic Combination as a flutist, and he has several times since traveled with show parties. The subject of our sketch is now employed as a flutist at Glen Summit in the summer season, and in Wilkes-Barre during the balance of the
I52
LITERATURE OF
year. The longest and most ambitious poem he has yet published is " Amabel," a tale of Wyoming Valley.
A MAY OF LONG AGO.
'Twas in a May of a Long Ago- How long it seems to me !
The earth and the sky, to my witched eye- The earth and the sky and and the sea- Were fairer than ever a dream of heaven,- Were fairer than dream to the sanctified given :- "Twas the light of love, reflected above,- 'Twas the light of the form by me.
Oh, fair was the moon in that Long Ago, And sweet was the song of the breeze ! Each glorious star sent its twinkling afar To brighten the whispering trees ;
But fairer by far than the moon in her pride,
Or the stars round about was the form by niy side ;
And sweeter the charm of the vanished form Than the tenderest song of the breeze.
There's been many a May since that Long Ago, And many a song of the wind ; [shone And oft have the moon and the bright stars On the boughs as they gently entwined ; But fled is the grace of the Long Ago,
And I would that the Mays were more swift in their flow ;
For gone is the form, and gone is May's charm, And dull is the song of the wind.
MARIE M. PURSEL,
Born in Wilkes-Barre, graduated from the public schools in 1873. First writ- ings appeared in Wyoming Magazine. Taught in public schools in Wilkes- Barre. Daughter of S. C. Montanye.
UNDER THE BRIDGE.
Under the bridge the river flows, Over the bridge a toiler goes, Weary his footsteps, heavy and slow, Swiftly the water rushes below, Over the bridge waits sorrow and care, Under-the water looks cooling and fair, Murmuring accents his dull ears greet, " Rest is sweet-rest is sweet Under the bridge."
Pausing he listens, and looks below Where phantom arms wierd shadows throw As they reach above from the deep dark pool, Beckoning down to the waters cool- "Come ! here is rest from toil and pain ; " "Come ! here's relief for the weary brain ; ". A moment he lingers, a murmured prayer, A plunge-and the river runs smoothly and fair Under the bridge.
" Only a suicide gone to his doom," As they gaze on the form in the darkened room ;
" One more soul from the world apart,"
" One man less with an aching heart." And the busy crowd goes hurrying on, Caring naught for the one just gone. Over the bridge quick footsteps go, Cool and inviting the waters flow Under the bridge.
Over the lengthening bridge of time Millions are passing, men in their prime, Age, bent under the weight of years, Childhood, careless of grief and fears, Youth in its beauty-quickly and slow Over the wonderful bridge they go ; Over with haste, in the world's mad quest To find at the end but a long, last rest Under the bridge.
HON. STEUBEN JENKINS.
Mr. Jenkins was naturally of antiquarian and literary tastes. He spent much time in the study of local history, and wrote extensively on this subject, intend-
I53
THE WYOMING VALLEY.
ing to publish what he hoped should stand among thejconsiderable number of local histories, as the Wyoming history. A number of papers on special points were made up by him from this main work, and read at the Commemorative Associa- tion and other meetings of a historical character, and some of these papers have been printed. Most of this matter, however, remains in manuscript. He con- tributed much to other writers on this subject and not a few who have published, make more or less full acknowledgement of his assistance. There were, perhaps, others where such acknowledgement was deserved but omitted. As a diver- sion, he sometimes attempted verse. In the judgment of the writer hereof, of some of his best efforts in this line, had for their inspiration local events, and were satirical in character. He was not given to public criticism, but could not resist an inclination to these literary effusions, and usually, after perhaps read- ing them to a friend or two, destroyed them. He had studied Latin and Greek at school and read them freely all his life. Finding use for them in his histori- cal research, he afterwards mastered French, Italian, and German, and trans- lated considerably from them. During his legislative terms he made some speeches of more than passing interest, but these, like most of his work in his profession of the law, would hardly be classed as literary work. His literary reputation will undoubtedly rest, principally upon his historical addresses and the, as yet, unpublished Wyoming History.
MASSACRE OF WYOMING. (Read at monument, 3rd July, 1878.)
To rid us of a tyrant's chain Our fathers fell ; and not in vain They marched to battle and were slain, And with their blood bedewed this plain ; They fought for home and liberty.
A British-Tory-Savage band . Had come to desolate their land :- Should they like cowards fly ? or stand And meet th' invaders hand to hand And drive them back, if that they may ?
Like freemen, valiant, true and brave, They marched to victory.or the grave, While o'er their head their banners wave, And from their God, they blessings crave, To guide them on to victory.
They met in battle's stern array ; Dire was the conflict ; dire the day ; Borne down by odds, in short, sharp fray, The gallant patriot-band gave way, And fled from horrid slaughtering.
Th' invading host was fierce and strong, They swift pursued the flying throng, They swept the plain, they passed along And killed or captured old and young ; And few they saved for torturing.
They gave no quarters, spared no life, Of all, who, in the battle's strife, Had fought for home, for children, wife,- With spear, and tomahawk, and knife,
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.