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Excerpts from Souvenir

Submitted by David M. Waid 

FAMILY PORTRAITS.

"Look here, upon this picture, and on this." 

        Sometimes in life we have to work and wait many years before our prayers are heard, or before we find the object of our wishes.  I am led to these thoughts by the pleasure I feel in being enabled to place in this volume portraits of myself and members of my family, including my deceased wife, Eliza, and myself; my present wife, Anna, and myself; and the family group consisting of my deceased wife, Eliza, myself and our three sons, Franklin I., Guinnip P. and Fred F., as well as portraits of my father and mother--Ira C. and Elizabeth P. Waid--and of my two brothers--R. L. Waid and G. N. Waid.

        Twenty-seven years ago (in 1862) my cousin Henry O. Allen painted portraits of my father and mother, also of my wife, Eliza, and myself; and so industrious was I then (and my friends say I am so still) that I took a pen and wrote on the back of my portrait my name and date of birth, thus:  Francis C. Waid, born April 23, A. D., 1833.  Eliza's portrait represents her holding a book in her right hand resting on the stand; my mother, who was noted for her industry among her many other amiable qualities, was attending to her knitting, as shown in her portrait; my father, who was a prudent man, and wiser perhaps than any of the rest of us, had his portrait taken without being represented as engaged in any kind of work; yet I will vouch for it he did not lack in any good qualities we may have possessed.  We should never be discouraged.  My desire to have my likeness taken in the act of writing is now granted, and I am happy in the thought that I can put it in the hands of kindred and friends, for it alone brings out a trait of my character--a trait peculiar to myself.  My mother, it is true, was fond of writing, for besides the household accounts she kept a sort of journal or diary, something she continued till the close of her life.  Oftentimes before her death, and more frequently since, have I perused her writings with pleasure and profit; and it is real happiness to me now to read my father's old copy-books written in Connecticut in his boyhood, before he came to Pennsylvania.  Then to be able to trace their lives, knowing them as I do, in their own handwriting, by diary, by book accounts, by letter or by journal, to the close of their days, brings an untold amount of good to me that I wish I could transfer to others.

        These thoughts have been housed up in me long enough, and they now seek utterance.  May they DO GOOD, and I hope that the portrait of myself, "only a plain farmer," will benefit the reader, by giving a comparatively correct idea of what the author of this book is like when at work with the pen.

        The following letter from Mr. W. F. Oldham, of Singapore, in the Straits Settlements, Malay Peninsula, India, appeared in a Meadville paper December 27, 1888.  In introducing the letter the editor of the paper makes the following remarks:

        "Our friend Francis C. Waid having received the following letter from W. F. Oldham, now a teacher and missionary in India, has kindly handed it to us for publication, knowing that it will prove interesting to a large number of acquaintances and friends.  Mr. Oldham was formerly a student at Allegheny College, and while pursuing his studies here gave many lectures in the vicinity.  He is a native of India."

SINGAPORE, NOV. 3, 1888.

        Dear Brother and Sister Waid:  We were pleased to receive your letter of April last, which I unhappily mislaid soon after receipt.  Sow that I have found it again, I write at once.

        I am, as you will see by consulting a map, at the southernmost extremity of Asia, within eighty miles of the equator.  This is a lovely place, where every prospect pleases, and only man is vile.  As I am presiding elder of a district, pastor of an English church, and principal of a large and growing school, you can imagine my hands are full.  God has prospered us beyond our expectations, as the little school I commenced among a few heathen boys is now a flourishing institution, educating 309 boys, paying its own current expenses, and, paying half the expense of its $14,000 building, into which we have just moved.  We have now a membership of sixty, and a promising congregation.  We have great joy in upbuilding a Methodist Church from nothing.  We have also services in Malay and Tamil, and one of our number is learning Chinese, which is very difficult..  We visit hundreds of heathen homes, and witness for Christ to scores of heathen souls.  We pay some attention to the American captains and sailors who come to this port.  As a result of these multiform activities, I must confess to being utterly worn out.  For four years I have had no single holiday, except when sick once for ten days and another time for six.  I have taught on an average forty hours a week, and preached four or five times a week.  I mention this to explain why you may probably see me in 1890 back to the U. S. (D. V.) to once more see the beautiful snow, and be invigorated by the tonics of cool weather and renewed Christian friendships.

        With much interest shall I then revisit State Street Church, and shall be very glad, if you will have me, to preach once more the Gospel of Jesus Christ to my old friends.

        Please remember me to Brother and Sister Reynolds, the Sacketts, Auntie Brown, the old brother class leader (I forget his name) and all others whom I learned to love in the Lord.

        Mrs. Oldham is not well, but improves.

Yours sincerely,

W. F. OLDHAM.

In Memoriam

MRS. ELIZA C. WAID,

Who died at Blooming Valley, Penn., July 4, 1888.

"Farewell, Francis dear, farewell,

Adieu, farewell to thee;

And you my children all,

Farewell, farewell to you."

Our mother is gone, and we are left

The loss of her to mourn.

But then we hope to meet with her

With Christ before God's throne.

Call not back the dear departed

Anchored safe where storms are over;

On the border land we left her,

Soon to meet and part no more,

Far beyond this world of changes,

Far beyond this world of care;

We shall find our missing loved one

In our Father's mansion fair.

'Tis hard to break the tender cord

When love has bound the heart;

'Tis hard, so hard, to speak the words,

"We must on earth forever part."

Dearest loved one we must lay thee

In the peaceful grave's embrace;

But thy memory will be cherished

Till we see thy heavenly face.

Through all pains at times she'd smile.

A smile of heavenly birth;

And when the angels called her home,

She smiled farewell to earth.

Heaven retaineth now our treasure,

Earth the lonely casket keeps;

And the sunbeams love to linger

Where our sainted mother sleeps.

Yes Eliza, sleep, but turn I

Back to a busy world of strife;

For a place awaits my coming

On the battlefield of life.

But ere I go, a promise sweet

Is to my spirit given,

That we shall meet beyond the grave;

Yes, meet again, in heaven.

        *Written on the death of Mrs. F. C. Waid, by a devoted friend, Mrs. M. N. 

        These lines appeared in print--first on July 6, 1888, and again, in a slightly amended form, on November 29, 1888, in the Pennsylvania Farmer. 

        The following beautiful tribute to the memory of Mrs. Eliza C. Waid, a woman who held so enviable a position in the affection of husband, children and friends, appeared in a local paper.  It was sent to the bereaved husband by his esteemed friend, J. Y. Gilmore, editor of the New Orleans Sugar Bowl and Farm Journal, accompanied by a warm letter of condolence and sympathy.

        "She is dead," Simple words are these, lightly spoken by many, and scarcely heeded by the masses, ordinarily; but when it has reference to one who is near and dear to us, either from lifelong friendship or of kindred tie, how differently sounds that sentence!

        School ourselves as we may in the belief that death is a natural event, which should be expected, and by which we should not be grieved when it comes, there is another natural consequence--that of strong attachment, which grieves at parting--that completely overcomes all cold philosophy when the trial comes.

        These reflections are caused by the receipt of the unexpected news of the death of Mrs. Francis C. Waid, nee Eliza C. Masiker, a lifelong friend and early schoolmate of this writer.  Meeting, as we did, but a few months before, she apparently in perfect  health, with that pleasant face and roseate hue for which she was always noticeable, none, unless told, would have suspected that a fatal malady was daily doing its deadly work.  She knew the end was approaching, but, with that Christian fortitude so characteristic of her, she murmured not; but that noble life, which had been one long sacrifice to a deep sense of duty, was laid upon this last altar, and, while painful, she peacefully passed away.  Although gone before, her memory lingers to bless her friends who are made better by remembering her example, if they but seek to emulate it.  She has passed to a more blessed state, and may we all so live that our lives may be as pure and our reconciliation to death as complete as was hers.