Tilden Blalack
TILDEN BLALACK
PAIN NOT PARTING THERE.
Newspaper.
On Saturday night last, Tilden, son of Mr. and Mrs. W. B. , of this place, died at the family residence in the 11th years of his age.
Death is so frequent and so common in this world of ours that life itself seems but a hasty march to the tomb. The silent throng that has gone before, the hushed and still pulses that beat no more lie along Life’s sequestered spots like leaves that fall in wintry weather. [....]
Tilden Blalack was a bright, promising little fellow in early childhood full of gayety, good humor and merriment. When a little over two years of age, he exhibited the first signs of ill health. An incurable spinal disease fastened upon him, filled his boyhood with eternal pain, distorted his body and finally brought him to the grave. He had been going down gradually for two years and for a portion of the time he had to be carried around by his brothers. Two weeks prior to his death he was confined to the house. [....]
THE DEATH SCENE.
On Saturday last the little sufferer was so unusually ill and his pain so great that the immediate family and a number of friends saw that death was near. The following persons, besides his parents and some of his brothers collected at the house during the early part of the night: Mrs. Sowell, Mrs. Mollie Blalack, Mr. Andrew Wetsel, and, perhaps, others. The restless woe which often is the precursor of everlasting calm was harassing Tilden’s last hours. In the throes of unutterable pain he uttered no word of complaint. He cringed under the terrible agony, his pitiful, wasted and distorted little body writhed when the paroxysms seized him, but his brave little heart had endured all and was unscathed by the pain and triumphant in its sublime courage. He spoke with calmness, clearness and self-reliance which astonished the watchers. "O, God let me die! O heaven let me die!" he pleaded in accents distinct and loud. To each of the persons present he put the question: "Are you willing for me to die?" They all told him they were, seeing he had suffered so long. Then he spoke of his dead sister Lizzie whom he hope to meet in heaven, and told Wetsel that Mrs. Wetsel had been kind to him, and that she was the best women in town. Then he said he wished he could go to sleep and never wake up; and in a little while declared he would not survive more than an hour. [....] He was buried, at his own request, by the side of his sister, Mrs. Ryon
PAIN NOT PARTING THERE.
Newspaper.
On Saturday night last, Tilden, son of Mr. and Mrs. W. B. , of this place, died at the family residence in the 11th years of his age.
Death is so frequent and so common in this world of ours that life itself seems but a hasty march to the tomb. The silent throng that has gone before, the hushed and still pulses that beat no more lie along Life’s sequestered spots like leaves that fall in wintry weather. [....]
Tilden Blalack was a bright, promising little fellow in early childhood full of gayety, good humor and merriment. When a little over two years of age, he exhibited the first signs of ill health. An incurable spinal disease fastened upon him, filled his boyhood with eternal pain, distorted his body and finally brought him to the grave. He had been going down gradually for two years and for a portion of the time he had to be carried around by his brothers. Two weeks prior to his death he was confined to the house. [....]
THE DEATH SCENE.
On Saturday last the little sufferer was so unusually ill and his pain so great that the immediate family and a number of friends saw that death was near. The following persons, besides his parents and some of his brothers collected at the house during the early part of the night: Mrs. Sowell, Mrs. Mollie Blalack, Mr. Andrew Wetsel, and, perhaps, others. The restless woe which often is the precursor of everlasting calm was harassing Tilden’s last hours. In the throes of unutterable pain he uttered no word of complaint. He cringed under the terrible agony, his pitiful, wasted and distorted little body writhed when the paroxysms seized him, but his brave little heart had endured all and was unscathed by the pain and triumphant in its sublime courage. He spoke with calmness, clearness and self-reliance which astonished the watchers. "O, God let me die! O heaven let me die!" he pleaded in accents distinct and loud. To each of the persons present he put the question: "Are you willing for me to die?" They all told him they were, seeing he had suffered so long. Then he spoke of his dead sister Lizzie whom he hope to meet in heaven, and told Wetsel that Mrs. Wetsel had been kind to him, and that she was the best women in town. Then he said he wished he could go to sleep and never wake up; and in a little while declared he would not survive more than an hour. [....] He was buried, at his own request, by the side of his sister, Mrs. Ryon
