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To. H.C.H., Philadelphia—When I remark that it is a quarter of a century since you edited and I printed the Lewisburg Chronicle, it will acount for some crow’s feet about the eyes and white hairs on the crown. Well, in February, 1853, our business world was startled by a proposition from Chester County, to bridge or bind the West Branch and the Juniata rivers by an iron band, through Union, Centre, and Huntingdon Counties. A public meeting at the “Old Fort” called for a “Union, Centre and Huntington Railway Company.” Those named in the movement were good men and true—viz: Messrs. Boal, Gross, Smith, Love, Gregg, Buchanan, Hassan, Neff, Halloway, Watson, Gillil, Durst, Duncan and Burchfield. They were joined by many others in Centre and Union Counties. They mostly started with a capital of $40,000 in share of $50 each, with the privilege of increasing the same when needed. A charter was speedily obtained and a company, organized by the name of “Lewis-burg, Centre and Spruce Creek.” In May following in charge of Thomas A. Emmit, a survey was commenced at Lewisburg by John M. Sheafer and in July was published the account of two routes, one by Brush Valley and one by Penns Valley. There was little difference in the length but the grade was decidely in favor of Penns Valley. The estimated length was 78 miles— cost nearly $2,000,000, or $25,000 per mile. Some stock was secured and right of way. But the financial troubles of 1857 and the war for the Union, hindered and embarrassed the enterprise. Many earnest friends died without the sight, but others were hopeful and faithful. As I was disabled for business, and removed ten years ago, I can not detail the resumption of the work and its progress but I find the Pennsylvania Company have aided and a few months ago the railway reached Spring Mills, which is more than half the estimated miles of the road as surveyed in 1858. I think you have not yet been told the long delayed thoroughfare, on which we expanded so many prophesies and figures, in days of auld lang syne. Supposing you, and others like you now removed from the region may like to read about it, I thought I would get the printers to tell you how I found this L.C. & S.C.R.R. early in this glorious autumn 1877. The day was faultless. The fierce heat of summer had departed, and all nature was in such a state of sweet repose as might reconcile man to even a sin-and-sorrow— cursed earth. There had not been enough frost to kill leaf or vine. Yet the exhaustion of the sap of vegetation had commenced its timely, kindly work, and field and forest with the incipient breath of Indian summer over them, reminded one of Holland’s description of Americans woods in autumn. Here is the Colonel-President of the road. I have not seem him look so well since he used to go so faithfully to his boat yard, thirty years ago, but I know appearances are not always to be relied on, and was sorry to learn that although well bronzed by the summer’s supervision of the road, his health is not established. He has been a staunch supporter of the enterprise from its origin, and I hope may see it fully successful from river to river. With him was a gentleman engaged in the construction of the road. Behold, then, as a safeguard to this train— the President of the Company, a builder and a printer, who had uttered many compliments and risked many figures about a road into Penns Valley, where he had never been but whose citizens and whose wheat had been visible for three decades. This trio was helped to a seat over the cowcatcher, where they should have the first chances in any “discussion” between the train and rampant bull, careless cow, or other obstruction. It was a position of which I had often read, if I did not long for it. Oxygen is defined “the vital part of atmosphere,” and there you can get it pure. O, Harry, but you would have been tempted to borrow the widow’s mite, from the mint to share in that ride. Rushing into all the open outdoors, one gets as much “oxygen” as he can hold, and enough more to last years, if he had any where to keep it. With train in motion, all is right, only hold on to your grappling irons, but when the train is still, one needs an umbrella to keep off the sparks and soot from the engine, which keeps up a fire in the rear which might annoy Gen. Scott, but not the veterans on the cow-catcher that eventful morn. You know the route, commencing on the first street above the Lewisburg Market street bridge, we plunge among the rich farms south of Buffalo Crossroads, pass north of the center of Youngmanstown (Mifflinburg)— leave your former home at White Springs on the left (south), find a new town, Swengel, in Lewis Township, regret that the inexorable law of grade leaves Hartleton and Laurelton, out in the cold, on the north, or right, and nears Penns Creek at the royal farms of Lincoln. Thus far the route is easy, but the remainder has some steeper grades. There are some long straight lines. The valley narrows as we go up. At Cherry Run, Col. Moore, the chief contractor, leaves for his temporary home, and with McCurdy and Hartman’s passed we leave Hartley and enter Armagh, Mifflin County. This is a wild region where nature is steadily intruded upon. Nestled each side of this point where three counties are neighbors, are snug homes, where some visitors escape the heat of summer, and rest and recruit at little expense or trouble. In winter, it may not be so attractive, yet thousands of hardy, worthy families are reared in more wild, inaccessible regions that this. That part of Mifflin County seemed most quiet and unbroken of all. One can not ride too slow in such places (unless he is in more haste than I was). There is a network of mountains, the sides of some covered with stones, some with trees. Two sharp hills are tunneled, saving several miles by through cuts so short that the light is not lost. Higher and higher we go. I thought it like the trip to California— only six days shorter, and the mountains not so high nor so cold. Soon we reach the lower end of Penn’s Valley, in Centre County, where broad farms again spread out, and there is every sign of wealth and progress— and so (again I thought) here is coming down from the Sierra Nevadas into the valley where is Sacramento on the Pacific slope. But my companions had left at points where they had business, and I found myself in solitary grandeur— the only dignitary on the cow-catcher, and perchance looking as wise as any “railway king” with millions at control. Without time table, and on my first visit, I knew not that we had reached Spring Mills, with track laid I know not how many miles beyond, until I had been there some moments. The town and Duncan’s premises are not far off, and hotel and other signs of a village will doubtless soon arise, but when or how the other end of this road is to be built, I know not. Ere I come again, or you, may it be a “through” road. It seems to be well conducted but the cars that day, were old and worn out. Of the early patrons of the road, I met Coburn, Duncan and a Wilson, in the brief time between the arrival and the return of the train to Lewisburg. Sufficiently filled with “oxygen” and “grinded” with dust, yet with happy memories of an airy, breezy, joyous ride, I was content to return inside the cars just like common people. Remembering your visit to the Aaronsburg editor, when you could not speak German, and he could not speak English, I was not astonished to find how generally the German language is held in this part of Centre county. One dog undertook to run a race with the train, he kept ahead for awhile, but finally sheered off as if unwilling to own beat, but afraid to continue the contest. Cattle did not let us pass without looking at us, as they do elsewhere. Men, women, and children, standing at a safe distance from the track, with their best clothes and biggest eyes on, their unharnessed horses, safely tied, standing near, gazed on the train with unmistakable wonder, some holding up their little ones to see, and the latter either crowing and clapping for joy, or afraid and shrinking. One aged, plaindressed couple were taking their first ride-should go to Mifflinburg— perhaps even to Lewisburg, as contented to reach that foreign metropolis as most persons are to go to China. So much, friend Harry, for my first visit over the much talked of Spruce Creek road, which I enjoyed, and which you and thousands of others will enjoy in the long years to come. I can assure you that Buffalo and Penns Valleys lose nothing of their attractions by age. Mifflinburg is enlarging, constantly, especially on the West. Lewisburg is expanding in every direction, slowly but surely and improving old buildings as well as erecting new. Its seven churches are well sustained and to see their people dismissed on Sunday, all nearly at the same time, standing at Third and Market Streets, the mingling throngs seem like a mass meeting breaking up. But death has decimated nearly every household since twenty-five years ago, and removals have been numerous to and from. The heads of the middle-aged of our day are now crowned with white— have their glory on, and few men or women are ashamed to own it. The saddest thing to see or hear was that several sons (if not some daughters) of most respectable parents have become victims of intemperance in drink or drugs. Educated to the best habits and principles, yet they have fallen. It seems incredible, yet it is so. GOD HELP THEM. Since they defy reason and instruction, and despise the lessons of plainest observation before them, we can only hope that Almighty power may rescue and save them. Our old CHRONICLE speaks for itself. It wears well. Instead of the cooped up, half-lighted shop upstairs on Market Street, the enterprising publisher of 1877 has a large, two story building, well lighted on all sides, opposite the courthouse, on “Junior’s Hill,” basement, attic and both stories devoted to printing. A W.U. telegraph office for its own private use, and every way adapted to the purpose. It is a pleasure to do business and to work in such a well arranged, commodious building. “Lightning Jack” and his assistants seem to be full of work and ready and willing to do it and do it well. Long live the Lewisburg Chronicle its conductor and craftsman. Our hat is off in recognition of this faltering notice, and had our esteemed correspondent spread it on much thicker, we might have considered it an act of justifuble coutesy to remove the scalp with it. (Ed. Chron.) Notwithstanding schools have been established, on every hand, since its rise— each of which attracks some who would otherwise come here— the University holds the even tenor of its way. Its catalogue of talented useful men, once its students, wisely scattered now, is a most honorable one for its age and well increasing. Our friend, Aiken, is visiting his sister in Iowa, and I missed him the most of anyone. The oldest native of Lewisburg— one of the first Methodists, Abolitionists, Temper-ance men, James Kelly, is near his end. That was a sound quarto of Jameses we used, to know here, Linn, Ross, Lelly, and Aiken, but to indulge in reminiscences would consume too much time and paper, so I close with the best wishes. Yours truly, ONW. © Copyright 2010 by Mifflinburg Telegraph Weekly Newspaper Top of Page |
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