Information from Second Souvenirs, by Francis C. Waid, 1890, pp. 230-257 Extracts from his diary 1888 June 5, 1888--When walking along Park Avenue, in Meadville, to-day, I met Francis Fox, a mechanic, with whom I am acquainted, and after a hearty greeting, noticing that he held some tools in his hand, I said: "Those tools indicate that you are on your way to work." "Yes," he said, "I am going to help tear down the old academy." This answer struck me with surprise, for I had no idea that the time-honored institution of learning, the Meadville Academy, would be demolished. Before I left town I walked through Market Street, and found Mr. Fox and his men at work removing the old structure which was built in 1826, nearly seven years before I was born. I had lived to see the old Cowen School in our rural district removed to give place to a larger and better building. It was afterward converted into a dwelling, and as I have passed it I have always looked into it with pleasure born of recollection. The old academy in Meadville is another bright spot in the past. How well I remember my instructors, T. F. Thickstum and S. P. Bates, both of whom are still living. I attended but one term at the academy, and that was in the fall of 1853, but even a step in the direction of learning is not lost. I have looked upon the academy since then as an old friend, and I find that many others viewed it in the same light, for on the morning when it was being taken down, many had gathered to bid it good-by. The work of destruction occupied several days, during which time, the youth, middle-aged and those in more advanced years, looked upon the work, while memories of the days spent within its old and well-loved halls filled their minds and warmed their hearts. History tells us that there were two other buildings used as academies in Meadville prior to 1826, both of which are yet standing. One is at the corner of Chestnut and Liberty Streets, and the other near by upon the latter thoroughfare. The first step toward securing an academy was made in 1800. June 17, 1888--On this day died Mrs. Thomas Chipman, aged seventy-seven years. Her husband is still living, at the age of seventy-nine. I have known this aged couple for many years, their residence being the second Cowen schoolhouse, which, in my youth, I attended as a scholar and in which shortly after I was a teacher. It is situated at the foot of Schoolhouse Hill. The north point of the cross roads forms the corner of Blooming Valley Cemetery, a plot of seven acres. The portion near the Chipman residence descends to the north and northeast and form Schoolhouse Hill. On its summit stands the largest monument in the cemetery, erected to the memory of Henry B. Baxter, born December 17, 1827, died July 4, 1882. North of this lot lies the grave of Hulda Baxter, nee Chipman, the wife of Wallace Baxter. She was the daughter of Mrs. Chipman, whose funeral my brother and I attended to-day, June 19, 1888. Mrs. Chipman is interred at the foot of her daughter's grave, and within a few rods of her home. I do not remember having ever before attended a funeral where the interment was so close to the deceased's residence. The Changes from joy to sorrow and from sorrow to joy are ever occurring in this transitory life. One day we follow a friend to the silent grave, and the next we are cheered by a visit from a long absent, yet dear relative. The day following Mrs. Chipman's funeral, while working busily in the field, I heard a voice evidently addressing me, saying: "You are going to let me come way out here after you, are you?" I recognized the voice before seeing the speaker, and going toward him I said: "Willis Masiker, I knew your voice before I saw you, although you have been absent so many years. Perhaps, however, it is a good thing that we visited you as that visit probably aided memory." My visitor was my wife's brother who went to Lansing, Iowa, thirty-two years ago, and had not since visited his old home. My wife's illness was the prime cause of his coming at this time. On this day as Eliza had felt better she was driven to the old homestead, and there her brother and I followed, and we all dined with my son, Guinnip. During the afternoon Willis and I visited Blooming Valley Cemetery where we looked upon his father's grave. Leaving the cemetery we went to the home of Moses Masiker for supper, after which, as we drove slowly home, we passed the old Masiker homestead with its well-tilled farm, where Willis spent his happy childhood and where I with my bride so often visited her parents. July 2, 1888--Meeting with old friends is sweet, but parting is sadness itself. To-day, after a visit of twelve days, Willis leaves for his home. When he came here this morning to see his sister he spoke of the fact that whenever he approached the house he found me working. I told him that in my youth I had asked for a busy life; I obtained it, liked it and did not propose to give it up. We passed into the parlor, where, upon her sick couch lay his sister bearing her sufferings so patiently. Willis had spoken to me of the fear that he might never see her again. I saw their pathetic parting and heard the whispered goodby as they seperated never to meet again in this world. The joy that had lightened their faces during his visit had now departed, and sorrow dwelt in its place. But hold one moment; I read something in their faces that means more than joy--it is HOPE--hope of a meeting in the blessed hereafter that brings that look of peace. My dear wife died on the fourth, and was buried on the fifth. My sorrow is too great to write of the circumstances at present, but at seine future date I will endeavor to say a few words about my great affliction (On March 26, 1889. Mr. Waid has in his diary some retrospective thoughts anent his wife's death. [Editor.]). Soon after the death of Eliza I wrote to Willis Masiker, and in reply he said that he was not at all surprised to hear of his sister's death, that he knew she must die at the time of this sorrowful parting, and that the time of her death on the morning of July 4 was just two hours after he had reached home. The Commencement Exercises of Allegheny College occurred to-day, there being twenty-six graduates, seven young ladies and nineteen young men ready to go into the world to better its condition. Gen. James A. Beaver, Governor of Pennsylvania, was present and delivered an address. I had heard Gen. Beaver before, but was glad of this additional opportunity. All the exercises pleased me greatly. The Governor spoke in terms of praise of Allegheny College, and said that instead of concentrating the institutions of learning in Pennsylvania into one grand university, he was in favor of doubling their number. Before relating the events of interest that occurred while on a trip to Jamestown and Chautauqua, N. Y., early in August of this year, I wish to speak of the peculiar circumstances under which/he journey was taken. I remember when I left home first, as a boy, just what my feelings were at the parting with the dear. ones, and how I anticipated great pleasure in relating my experiences upon my return. I was but a boy, and the journey was but a short one, merely extending to Orange County, N. Y., where I was to assist in driving a drove of cattle, yet to me it seemed of the utmost importance, and I mingled not a little romance in my thoughts of what was to befall me on the way. Since then I have had many opportunities to leave home, and have availed myself of most of them. Many, many times have Eliza and I alone, or with our children, as the case might be, left home, the dearest spot on earth to us, and gone forth for the purpose of visiting friends or places at a distance. Those were indeed happy days, and my heart beats with gratitude as I recall them. Blest be the tie that binds us in union here on earth! but, alas! all earthly ties are made but to be broken asunder, and now the dear one, the better half, is no longer here. I have lived long enough to know what the loss of father and mother means, and before realizing that I felt poignant grief over the death of my twin brother; but who can estimate the greatness of the loss of a loving and true wife. Since July 4, I have been studying from this new book of experience. I had heard others tell of loneliness, but what it meant in its fullest force I did not know until I started to leave home on August 3, 1888. I had hardly realized my position until now; my mind had been clouded by the shock of my wife's death; but now the cloud was dissipated, and I felt that I was indeed alone. In the words of Bunyan: "The heart must be beaten and bruised, and then the sweet scent will come out." Upon this journey Eliza was neither to go with me nor to remain at home; she had already departed to return no more. The thought of going away without her overwhelmed me; I hardly knew how to get ready to go, and my situation and feelings were desolate indeed. At length the words of Divine comfort came to me: I will never leave thee, nor forsake thee, and I took heart and left home upon my short tour, which was to include Jamestown and Chautauqua. At Jamestown I saw Mr. F. Simmons, and spent the night at my cousins', the Colts, with whom my Aunt Mary Ann resides. My aunt's mind had been failing for some time, but she gratified me by remembering me, for, when her daughter, Mrs. Colt, said, "Do you know who this is?" she replied, "Yes, it's a gentleman from Meadville; don't you think I know Francis?" After that she addressed me as Francis often, somewhat to their surprise. I reached Chautauqua on Saturday, August 4, at noon, and went to the house of my friend, Mr. Mathews, on Ramble Avenue, whence I went, at a later hour, to hear Dr. Talmage lecture on the subject: "The School for Scandal." At eight in the evening there was an entertainment, entitled "Picturesque America and British America," given by Philip Philips More to follow, David