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About Old Wilkes-Barre - 1847
A Well-Known Scrantonian's Reminiscences of Our Early Days
Trip on the Stage Coach to Wilkes-Barre
(E. Merrifield, Wilkes-Barre Times - February 4, 1896)

The time of which I write is between forty and fifty years ago (about 1847). There was no railroad to get there, hence I will take a seat on top of the old four-horse coach and with my visiting friend once more live over again, a trip down through the beautiful Lackawanna and Wyoming Valleys.

The home of old Uncle Jo Griffin is soon passed, presently coming to Capt. Albert Felts, who lived on the brow of the steep hill which the drivers always dreaded. On we go through the Atherton neighborhood, down past the Knapps, John Stewart and Erastus Smith, finally reining up in front of the well known tavern of Charles Drake. Here a stop for a few minutes to give the horses a slight rest, and some water.

"All aboard" is heard, the driver cracks his whip and away we go down by Babb's store, the Marcys, Browns and on top of the hill to the left the farm house of that well known citizen, Zenas Barnum. Soon the head of the North Branch is reached, where Tom Benedict has been making quite extensive improvements. Dr. Curtis's stone house is passed and presently we are stopping by the Sax tavern in Pittston. The mall bag is left at the postoffice to be overhauled; nevertheless the stay is quite limited and the driver hurries on. Acting in that capacity was either Harvey Nash or John Kennedy, than who no two men were better known or more respected between Carbondale and Wilkes-Barre.

Pittston was a straggling village. The Butler colliery was in operation; but whoever left at this time, and perchance should return in 1896, would scarcely find a landmark in the flourishing and go-ahead city. We probably take the river road, pass Blanchard's, Courtright's. the Searles's, Starks, all noted families; then stop at Sperring's tavern to refresh the horses. Again under way, the old Hollenback mill is passed, and the big hill climbed, and in a short distance we are on the streets of Wilkes-Barre.

We have been on the coach between three and four hours and gladly alight at the Phoenix Hotel, kept by that prince of landlords, P. McC. Gilchrist. Here was always a welcome for the traveler. If one wanted a good bed to sleep on, or good things to eat, here they were. Even the thirsty soul should slake its thirst with old rye or cognac, and Schnapps of the very best quality. How well I recall that wooden structure standing there on the banks of the Susquehanna and from whose porches there was such an extended and beautiful view of Wyoming Valley.

Here frequently congregated some of the ablest men of the town, my friend notices one now, whose fine appearance and address evidences no ordinary man. He is entertaining a coterie of congenial spirits. That is the popular and whole souled Henry M. Fuller, an able man and good lawyer, whose residence and office is just below the hotel.

But we must go out and take a stroll about the town. A short distance on the river and we turn to go up Market street. Here on the corner is the Hollenback store, old fashioned, but chuck full of merchandise. Do you see that short, heavy set man coming down the street? That's George M. Hollenback, by far the wealthiest man of the town. On this very spot his ancestors traded with the Indians and laid the foundation for the immense wealth which his son has so wisely managed. With it all he is good, universally respected, and one of the most affable of men.

On either side of the street we notice little else than low wooden buildings. Now my friend's attention is arrested by a large, remarkable looking man who is walking down on the other side. There is a man whose big proportions are not confined to the physical development. His intellect is massive. It is George W. Woodward, one of Wilkes-Barre's oldest lawyers and now president judge of one of the interior districts. He is undoubtedly returning to his home, so cosily situated on the side of the hill below Kingston. That young man who is waving a salutation to me is his son Stanley. He must be home on a vacation from college where he stands among the first of his class.

And here comes another fine looking gentleman, leisurely walking down towards his office, which we have just passed. This is the eloquent and aggressive Col. Hendrick B. Wright, one of the best of jury lawyers. He is paying a great deal of attention to politics and will no doubt be heard from in the national legislature.

There, do you see coming towards us that small, black eyed man? It is William C. Gildersleeve, one of the successful merchants, notorious as a great abolitionist, and who, not a long time ago, was visited with attempted personal violence on that account.

Here we are at the Public Square, and on which, directly facing Market street, is the old market house. Close by is the Academy. That large wooden building with the tall spire is the Methodist Church. Opposite, on the southerly side, stands the court house; a very ordinary structure you say for a rich county. On the easterly side is the stone house where the county records and offices are kept.

Around this square are most of the shops and business places, and we will walk on the northerly side up as far as Main street and step into Steeles' new brick hotel. There is sheriff George P. Steele, one of the most indefatigable and shrewdest of Luzerne's Democratic politicians. His amiability and kindness of heart are proverbial.

Just above the hotel is the hardware store of Ziba Bennett, another of the rich merchants, one of the most reliable and estimable men of the town. There he stands in the door and that young man who is talking with him is his confidential clerk, Charles Parrish.

Over on the other corner is the residence of Lord Butler, one of the first citizens of the place.

Down about half way on the easterly side of the Square and we come to Maj. S. H. Puterbaugh's hotel. He is a very jolly and popular landlord.

Below the Square on East Market street stands the jail. Such an institution is never an inviting place, and this one in particular we will give a wide berth.

Do you see that three story brick on the south side of the Square? We notice it because such buildings are scarce. It is the residence of Joseph Slocum, one of the oldest and most respected residents. He was a boy when the Indians invaded the town and carried off his little sister Frances, about whom there is such a romantic history.

We pass along and see just turning the corner, down South Main an old man bent with the weight of ninety years. This is the old lawyer, Thomas Dyer, whose opinions on questions of law are universally repeated by the attorneys. He carries us away back into the past. Born before the revolution, he recollects distinctly the birth of our Republican government. What a world of memories cluster about that old man.

Who is that coming towards him and taking his hand with a friendly grasp? That is Senator William S. Ross, just coming up from his well cultivated fields but little more than a quarter of a mile below where he lives like a prince.

Court seems to be in session and we will step in. Not a very imposing room you say; nevertheless it has been the scene of many an intellectual contest that would have done honor to any court room on earth. Presiding there is that loved and eminent jurist, John N. Conyngham.

Evidently there is an important case on, for sitting at one of the tables you see Harrison Wright, Warren J. Woodward and Andrew T. McClintock. At the other, Judge O. B. Collins, Lyman Hakes and Edmund L. Dana. You can scarcely get together a greater array of legal giants. Undoubtedly McClintock on the one side, and Judge Collins on the other, are there for the wise and conservative counsel. Now watch Hakes; he has made an objection and is urging it with all the argumentative ability of which he is so complete a master. The judge is evidently inclined to assent to his proposition. But wait, Harrison Wright is to reply, and if there is any best lawyer at this bar this is the man. You can see that he feels that he is right. Those black eyes peering out from under his gold glasses are flashing fire as he flails away at the position of his antagonist and the seeming judicial acquiescence, until an array of facts and authorities are presented that are irresistible. Now you will see the action of a great judge. Never influenced by preconceived notions or by vehement language addressed, he calmly sees the error and is man enough to acknowledge it.

However interesting, we cannot tarry here; but before leaving will take a peep into the bar office, where wit, hilarity and law very frequently hold high carnival. Sure enough we are lucky, for there sit among others Garrick M. Harding, Henry M. Hoyt and Byron Nicholson, a galaxy of brilliant young lawyers. Garrick, I call him that because everybody else does. He is named after that great lawyer, Garrick Mallory, and has set out to add fame to the reputation of his distinguished prototype. He is telling a story, at which he is a great adept. It must be a good one, for it has provoked a ghostly smile on the face of Nicholson, and Hoyt laughs immoderately. That oldish gentleman sitting back there is Volney P. Maxwell, one of our most reliable office lawyers. Not a muscle of his face moves, but if you should perchance see him on the street to-morrow, more than likely he would break out into a hearty laugh; and it would all be over the story to which he has just been listening. This would be a good place to stay, but time forbids.

Out upon the street again the first man we meet is a gentleman whose long gray locks bespeak that he has for many years passed the meridian. That is the venerable and respected Charles Miner, the eloquent historian of Wyoming. His name will live so long as the valorous deeds of her noble men and women shall be read by the student of history.

You ask who those two men are so earnestly engaged in conversation. The tall man, who has just taken a pinch of snuff, is Samuel Collings, editor of the Democratic paper, and one of the moat incisive and able political writers of the State. They are evidently trying to settle some question of party politics, for the other gentleman is Andrew Beaumont, who has made a national reputation in Congress, and a man of undoubted integrity and ability. Dr. Miner comes along; a very able physician and withal an orator of the best type.

Fortunately we shall be able to get a look at another celebrity. Watch that humped back man as he approaches. He lives about four miles out. but is frequently seen on the streets of Wilkes-Barre. It is the Rev. Thomas P. Hunt, who has electrified audiences from one end of the country to the other, on the subject of temperance. They call him "Pappy" Hunt for short, and he can tell an anecdote equal to the best of them.

John Butler, a descendant of the revolutionary patriots and one of our honored representative men, is crossing over on purpose to meet him. If we were near enough we could hear some first class joking.

There are other noted people whom it would be a pleasure to point out—in fact, there, across the Square, are Judge Kidder, H. W. Nicholson and in another direction Revs. John Dorrance, Pearne and Nelson, all distinguished in their different callings— but the stage horn is blowing and we must haste to take our departure.

Thus ends these musings—they are suggestive of many and conflicting emotions—pleasure to look upon the faces of those who in the long ago were helping to manage and move the destinies of our adored country,—sorrow to think that of all the number herein mentioned, but three are left with us. Though gathered to their fathers, it is gratifying that there are still many left who delight to cherish and honor their memory.

E. Merrifield