91st PA: William C Reiff, obituary W. C. REIFF BURIED.

Body Consigned to the Tomb With the Honors Due a Nation's Soldier
McLenathen's Address.

Sunday afternoon the last rites were said over the body of W. C. Reiff, and his body committed to the keeping of mother earth. A short service was said at the Baptist church

The body was escorted from the home to the church by the Knights of Pythias and other citizens, the pall bearers being A. N. Pratt, Arthur O'Quinn, Lucius Anderson, R. J. Toffelmire, J. R. Linn and W. E. Smith. Mr. C. H. McLenathen speaking from a long friendship with the dead soldier The body was escorted to the grave by Co. B. N. M. M. G. and a firing squad saluted with three volleys that woke the echos [sic] from the surrounding hills as the body was lowered. Taps was blown on the bugle, and the victorious career of a gllant [sic] soldier was ended. A large number of his townsmen were at the services. In speaking of his friend, Mr. McLenathen said:

William Coffin Reiff was born at Philadelphia in 1845.

On his 16th birth-day, he enlisted in the 91st Pennsylvania Volunteers and served four years or until the close of the civil war.

In the fall of 1865, he was converted, and joined the Baptist church, of which organization he has been an active and consistant [sic] member for nearly half a century.

He graduated from the Crittendon Business College and from the Pennsylvania State Normal School.

He was preparing himself for missionary work in Japan when his throat became affected, forcing him to change his life plan and to engage in other avocations. His work was principally along educational lines either as teacher or superintendent.

In 1874 he was married to Miss Sara Ann Curl, who survives him.

In 1878 the family moved to Kansas and owing to continued ill health came to the Pecos Valley on October 25th, 1892, where for years he was engaged in the real estate business.

His strength was not equal to the strain and during the greater portion [of] his residence here he was too ill to work.

He died on April 4th.

Industrious, economical and thrifty he was unable to accumlate [sic] wealth. Mentally active, morally upright and intellectually acute, he was unable to accomplish great results. Why?

A reason so common place and familiar that it is not appreciated. Poor health. From every material standpoint, his life was a failure, from every spiritual a heritage.

We cannot understand the mystery of life. We cannot comprehend the mystery of death. The relation of this life to that which follows has been the theme of poets, philosophers and prophets since the morning stars sung together at creation's dawn. No definite conclusions have been reached, not even a definite hypothesis established. We do not know why the wicked flourish like the green bay tree planted by the rivers of water while heavy burdens of sorrow are laid upon the shoulders of the virtuous and the devout. We are groping in the darkness, seeking the light. We realize that now we see as through a glass dimly but that in the better land, illumined by the sun of righteousness, we shall see more clearly. What will it profit us to strike the sounding board of God's inscrutable Providences [sic] and listen to the echo of our own speculations? And yet we must ask, why?

Who are the real heroes of the world? Who are entitled to our admiration as possessing virtues worthy of our imitation? It is generally conceded that the great men who have led armies to victory, founded states and built empires, are the great heros [sic] of the ages. Not so. Their hands have been reddened with the blood of their fellows. True heroism is not the spectacular display of courage in the lime light of public observation. It certainly requires strength and bravery to confront a sudden danger wherein one's life is imperiled either in self defense or in the protection or rescue of a fellow creature. For such acts of valor, medals and decorations are given. The Brittish [sic] solider [sic] who saves the life of a comrade at the peril of his own wears on his breast the Victoria Cross--the highest attainable honor. There are many heroes not decorated and many unknown.

The man who for years bears the burden of an incurable malady with patience and good cheer is a real hero. Those of you who are physically fit, strong of arm and robust of body do not realize the heavyl [sic] load carried by your less fortunate brother, who is handicapped by physical weakness and bodily suffering. The coveted prizes of this life are won by the strong. They only who have suffered, can appreciate the chargin [sic], disappointment, the utter despair felt by the intellectually competent as these prizes are snatched from their nerveless grasp. But it is, when with palsied arm or halting step, one hears his loved ones cry for bread and is impotent to answer the call, that the fangs of anguish are driven deep into his very soul. When time with leaden step drags on from year to year and the grim conviction grows stronger and stronger that the supreme blessing of an ability to labor is never to be attained, then the real test comes. Then the victim sinks into snarling impotency or rises calm, serene and hopeful to the measure of true greatness. To bear this burden with patience, fortitude and good cheer is the index of high character. Have any of you planned for years a certain life work and then just as you were to reailze [sic] your ambition been robbed of the ability to do the work-like as the death angel snatches the blooming bride from the loving arms of the bridegroom? No. Then you have not drank the wormwood and the gall.

You have not bourne [sic] the supreme burden. You have not wrestled with the grim Giant Despair in the gloomy shades of Gethsemene. It is in this garden of Gethsemene that are developed the rarest flowers and fruitage of the chastened soul.

Our departed brother suffered much and was patient. He endured the supreme disappointment of blighted hopes and was cheerful. In bodily pain, he never complained and in anguish of soul he never murmured. With faith unabated and with courage unshaken, he looked into the very blackest of all human tradgies [sic] and said: "Not my will, but Thine."

What a blessed heritage for those who are left behind is such a life and such a character. Treasure its memories and may your endeavors be strengthened and your stricken hearts comforted.


[The Carlsbad Current Argus 11 April 1913 (volume 24 number 19), page 1]

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