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Excerpts from Souvenir Submitted by David M. Waid |
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1889.
January 25, 1889--[To-day I wrote some "Retrospective
Thoughts," which may be found at page 98.]
February 28, 1889--[My visit to Washington, D. C., in company with
my brother-in-law, G. W. Cutshall, for an
account of which see page 99.]
March 26, 1889--I wrote the following while in Washington. "Weep not for the dead, Thy sighs and tears are unavailing; Vainly o'er the cold dark bed Breaks the voice of thy loud wailing. The dead--the dead they rest; Sorrow and strife and earthly woes No more shall harm the breast, Nor trouble their deep, calm repose. Weep not for the dead."
I have spoken in another place of my desire to leave this city in
order to attend my son's wedding. I
wish to give some of the reasons for my anxiety to be present, and to say
a few words concerning home life, as I experienced it, before and after my
marriage. I was married the
day that I attained my majority, and thirty-four years of married life
taught me the value of a good home. Peace
and order reigned in my father's house, but perhaps I did not quite so
thoroughly appreciate it then, as I did when, after marrying, I had my own
hearthstone and fire; but I must say that quiet and contentment are to me
the greatest blessing that can surround a home.
We should ask ourselves how ought we to live to bring about such a
state of blessedness in the little circle at home.
Let me answer in my own way and say that I am perfectly assured
that the homely but true sentence, "To be good is to be happy,"
is the key-note of happiness in families as it is in individuals.
Do right, and you will have a happy life on earth and a certain
home in heaven. I wish also
to speak of the value of a good companion in the highest sense of that
word, a companion that you can lean upon in time of trouble and distress,
and that will share heartily your joys as well as your sorrows, in fact
enter into and be a part of your very life.
You may see from this, again, how anxious I was to be near my son
when he chose his partner for this life's journeyings.
I had a companion such as I have described during all the years of
my manhood, and it is only since my dear wife died, July 4, 1888, to the
present writing, in March, 1889, that I have known what it is to be alone
without a congenial helpmate. What
has made my life colder and more devoid of joy in the past months will be
better understood when I tell you that, during my boyhood days, I had a
true and trusted twin brother who stood ever firmly by my side, and did
for me what none other could do in the way of companionable intercourse.
He died soon after he was twenty-one years of age, up to which time
my father's family had remained unbroken by death.
I do not mean it to be understood that I loved my twin brother so
dearly as to fall short in affection for the others, for such is not the
ease. The memory of all is
very dear to me. People have
asked me if I thought that there was more natural affection between twin
brothers than between others of the same family.
My brother and I were wedded by the ties of nature, and the natural
affection was fostered by our being encouraged to seek each other's
company, and to learn to love more and more day by day.
Added to this we were invariably dressed alike, got into trouble
and out of trouble together, slept together in our little trundle bed, and
were ever ready to stand up for each other.
We, in short, battled life together; when one fell the other lifted
him to his feet. From the
foregoing you will see that my minority was in the highest sense of the
word blessed by companionship.
But it is to my wife that I must now turn.
It must now be evident from what I have written how much of my life
my twin brother filled, and I cannot but think that it was well for me
that ere he had gone I had chosen my life's partner.
It was but a few weeks before his death, that Eliza
C. Masiker and I were married, and so that in my bereavement I had
not only comfort from on high, but the solace that is drawn from the
knowledge of possessing that nearest and dearest of all earthly friends, a
true loving wife. Solomon has
said: Whoso findeth a wife
findeth a good thing and obtaineth favor of the Lord.
Praise is certainly due unto the Lord, when I think what he hath
done for me. You may say to
me, my reader: "Certainly
you had reason to praise God, when in your youth you were surrounded by
loving kindred and had your still more loving wife at your side; but how
is it now that she has been taken away?"
Let me reply to you in the words of Job:
The Lord gave and the Lord hath taken away; blessed be the name of
the Lord.
I wish to write a few words in memory of my departed wife, whom I
trust, one day will be the first to greet as I pass to the other shore. She was dear to all, but especially dear unto me, who with
her shared equally the joys and sorrows of life for so many years.
During this time I knew to the fullest extent the blessing of God's
gift to man--a noble wife. We
frequently spoke together of the close of life, and at one time she said
to me earnestly: "Francis, you will be left alone."
I caressed her and asked her not to speak of death, for it pained
me deeply, and said that I might be the first to be taken away.
But she persisted, and repeated the words, the remembrance of which
comes to me now with great sorrow and a feeling of loneliness; "Dear
Francis, you will be left alone."
The feeling of being utterly alone, when you have had for so many
years a close companion, causes a sense of complete desolation.
This feeling is expressed in a letter of condolence I received from
a friend, Mr. J. M. Runk, just after my
wife's death; he says: "I
wish to extend to you my sincere sympathy in this the most lonely time of
your active life." I
feel the force of this most keenly, and I am to-day learning one of the
greatest lessons of life. The
master who is teaching it is too wise to err, and too good to be unkind,
and He afflicts only for our own sakes.
I have found, during this period of deep melancholy and
bereavement, that there is joy and comfort to be found in our Lord Jesus
Christ, and I have found His grace sufficient for me.
I have thought often during these past months of sorrow, that there
could be no journey too perilous to undertake, no danger too great to be
faced, no property too valuable to be hazarded for the inestimable
privilege of once again seeing my dear wife's face.
I would willingly go where the waves wash the lonely shore of the
farthest isle in the farthest sea, could I hope once more to look upon
her. But well knowing the
uselessness of such a voyage, I feel it better to turn unto Him who said:
Come unto me all ye that are heavy laden, and I wilt give you rest,
and there seek my peace. Jesus
also said: In my father's house are many mansions; I go to prepare a
place for you, that where I am there may ye be also; and when Eliza died
she smiled these words back to us: "I
will meet you in one of my Father's many mansions." My dying brother said: "I
will meet you in heaven," and from the thoughts of seeing them there
I draw my greatest comfort. The
influence of Eliza's life is helping me; it is a blessed memory, and I
must say with the Bible, that the righteous are had in everlasting
remembrance. Her thousand
acts of kindness live to comfort us, and none shared in them more deeply
than her husband and children.
My acquaintance with my wife began several years before our
engagement, I think that the first time I saw her was when going to her
father's house to borrow for my uncle, William Morehead, a cross-cut saw. Our courtship began some time after that, but we were not
formally engaged until March 25, 1853, thirty-six years ago yesterday.
Some of my younger readers may ask:
"How did you put the question, since you have been kind enough
to give the date?" Well, I will tell you: On
the evening mentioned, as we sat together with hands and hearts united, I
mustered up sufficient courage to say:
"Eliza, do you love me well enough to marry me?"
"Yes, Francis," she replied, "I think I do; in fact,
I know that I do." That was a happy day for me, and I have seen many since, and
I do not wish it thought that I am complaining when I speak now of my
loneliness and sorrow.
I will pass over the thirty-four years of our married life, and
speak of its close. Although
stricken by disease a year before her death, I thank my Heavenly Father
that my wife was, to a great extent, able to fulfill the little social
duties of life that rendered her last days cheerful.
She was able to call upon friends, and to drive out in pleasant
weather. Our last call was
made on Friday before she died, and was upon my son, Guinnip,
who lives at the old homestead of Ira C. Waid.
There our engagement was made, and our wedded life entered upon.
Near it we had lived, and to it was her last visit paid.
It seems to me remarkable that we should have been allowed to visit
the old place once more just as life for one of us was about to close.
Come now with me to the parlor of our home, for the last scene
draws nigh. Eliza was
apparently bright upon Sunday, and was engaged about the house to some
extent on Monday, but on Tuesday she began to fail rapidly.
I was by her side until 11 o'clock Tuesday evening, when I laid
down for a short time, and fell asleep.
I was soon aroused by the nurse, and hurrying to the parlor, where
my dear wife lay, I saw that the end was at hand.
The last vestige of hope fled as I looked upon her face.
My son, Fred, with the nurse and her
sister, were then present, and as I wished the entire family I sent for Guinnip,
Frank, Aunt Jane and Uncle George Cutshall.
They came, and, as we surrounded her bedside her pure spirit fled
to its Celestial Home, but not before her face was illumined by two
heavenly smiles, the memory of which will be effaced from our
hearts--never.
The following tribute to Eliza's memory is from the pen of her last
pastor, the Christian, kind-hearted Rev. M. Miller:
The writer of these lines officiated as pastor at the funeral of
Mrs. Eliza Waid, consort of F. C. Waid,
on the 5th of July, 1888, at the Methodist Episcopal Church in Blooming
Valley, Crawford County, Penn. The
large concourse of people there assembled told as to her standing in the
community. Because of her
noble Christian character I am glad to avail myself of the opportunity of
leaving a few lines on the pages of history to her honored memory.
Though an extreme sufferer for a long time she attended the house
of God, and listened with great delight to the precious Gospel until
within a few weeks of her death. She
was glad when they said unto her, "Let us go into the house of the
Lord." Her deep interest
in the sermon and her earnest testimony in the class-meeting were
inspiring to all. She fully
believed God's precious promises, and endured her afflictions as seeing
Him who is invisible. How
cheering to those who are bereft! what
a benediction to husband and children!
Her activity and great concern for the salvation of sinners was
certainly owned and blessed of God in the last protracted effort she
attended, but the element of character which surpassed all the rest
presents her in the light of a peacemaker.
How ready she was to labor with her neighbors in the interest of
reconciliation. Her's is the
promise "Blessed are the peacemakers, for they shall be called the
children of God." Let us
imitate her in this regard. Innocent
and harmless herself, she tried to make everyone else the same.
She will be greatly missed in her home, in the church and in the
community. But her record is
on high and she is doubly blessed with the saints on high.
She is calling us to follow on to know the Lord.
May God comfort the bereaved ones and help us all to imitate her
Godly example. Blessed are
the dead who die in the Lord.
Written at DuBois, Penn., November 13, 1888, by her last pastor, M.
MILLER.
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