Mrs. Alice Coale Simpers.
Reading edition
Mrs. Alice Coale Simpers was born in the old brick mansion known as “Traveler’s Repose,” a short distance south of Harrisville, in the Sixth district of Cecil county, on the first day of December, 1843.
The Coale family of which Mrs. Simpers is a member, trace their descent from Sir Philip Blodgett, a distinguished Englishman, who settled in Baltimore shortly after its foundation, and are related to the Matthews, Worthingtons, Jewetts, and other leading families of Harford county. On her mother’s side she is related to the Jacksons, Puseys, and other well-known Friends of Chester county, Pennsylvania, and Wilmington, Delaware.
Mrs. Simpers’ early education was received at Waring’s Friends’ School, near the village of Colora, which was kept up by a few families of Friends in the neighborhood. She also attended the State Normal School in Baltimore, and qualified herself for teaching in the public schools of the State, in which she taught for about ten years in Cecil county, and also in Dorchester county. She also taught school in the State of Illinois with great acceptability and success.
When Mrs. Simpers was quite young her father removed his family to the banks of the romantic Octoraro, near Rowlandville, and within less than two miles of the birth-place of the two poetic Ewings and the late John Cooley, and the romantic spot where Mrs. Hall lived when she wrote the poems which are published in this volume. The soul-inspiring beauty of this romantic region seems to have had the same effect upon her mind as it had upon the other persons composing the illustrious quintette, of which she is a distinguished member, and when only seventeen years of age she began to write poetry. At the solicitation of her friend, E.E. Ewing, she sent the first poem she published to him, who gave it a place in The Cecil Whig, of which he was the editor and proprietor.
In 1875 Mrs. Simpers began to write for the New York Mercury, which then numbered among its contributors Ned Buntline, Harriet Prescott, George Marshall, George Arnold, Bayard Taylor, W. Scott Way, and many other distinguished writers with whom she ranked as an equal in many respects, and many of whom she excelled as a brilliant satirist and pathetic painter of the quaint and the beautiful.
For ten years she continued to contribute letters, essays, stories and poems to the Mercury, and to advocate the claims of her sex to the right of suffrage, in which she still continues to be a firm believer. Mrs. Simpers has also contributed largely to the Woman’s Journal and other periodicals.
Though possessed of a brilliant poetic genius, Mrs. Simpers is best known as a writer of prose; and, in addition to the large quantity of matter she has contributed to the newspaper press, is the author of a story of about two hundred pages illustrative of the principles and practices and exemplifying the social life of the Friends, for which she received a prize of two hundred dollars. This story was highly spoken of by Dr. Shelton McKenzie, with whom she was on terms of intimacy for some years immediately before his death, and also by many other distinguished writers.
On the 22d of February, 1879, the subject of this sketch married Captain John G. Simpers, who served with distinction in the Second Regiment Delaware Volunteers in the war of the rebellion. They, at the time of writing this sketch, reside near the summit of Mount Pleasant, and within a short distance of the birth-place of Emma Alice Browne.
The Miller’s Romance.
The miller leaned o’er the oaken door, Quaint shadows swung on the dusty floor, The spider toiled in the dust o’erhead, With restless haste, and noiseless speed, Like one who toils for sorest need— Like one who toils for bread. “Ha!” says the miller, “does he pause to hark— Hark! Hark! Hark! To the voice of the waters, down in the dark— Dark! Dark! Dark! Turning the lumbering, mumbling wheel; Which moans and groans as tho’t could feel?” “Ha!” laughed the miller, “he pauses not and why— In the sunshine pausing and musing I? When the spiteful waves seem to repeat— Repeat! Repeat! Repeat! The hateful word deceit— Deceit! Deceit! Deceit” “Nay,” mused the miller, “their musical drip— Drip! Drip! Drip! Is like to naught but the trip— Trip! Trip! Trip! In the dance of her fairy feet, Or her rippling-laughter cool and sweet!”
* * * * * *
Once more, The miller leans o’er the oaken door. Still play the shadows upon the floor, Still toils the spider overhead; Like one who toils for daily bread— “Since the red lips unto me have lied The spell hath lost its power, For never a false heart brings my bride Whatever else her dower!” And louder yet the waves repeat Their burthen old, deceit, deceit!
* * * * * *
In flocks of brown, the leaves haste down, And floods, in the wild March weather; While the mill, the miller, and the miller’s love dream, Have all grown old together!
The Last Time.
We shall see the daylight breaking, Watch the rosy dawn awaking; We shall see the twilight fading— Adown the path the elms are shading, For the last, last time.
We shall see the blossoms swelling, Watch the spring-bird build his dwelling, See the dead leaves downward sailing, While the Autumn winds are wailing, For the last, last time.
We shall hear the song of pleasure, Join the dance’s merry measure; Shrink and dread the form of sorrow, Which may meet us on the morrow, For the last, last time.
We shall feel hates’ venomed dart Aimed to pierce the inmost heart; We shall know love’s sweet caressing, Breathed from lips our own are pressing, For the last, last time.
But in that land where we are going, Where the skies are ever glowing; In that fair and fadeless clime, Never comes the last, last time.
Only a Simple Maid!
And this is the end of it all! It rounds the years completeness, Though only a walk to the stile Through fields a-foam with sweetness. Only the sunset light, Purple and red on the river, Only a calm “good night,” That means good bye forever!
I can only go back to my simple ways— To my homely household cares; And yet,—and yet—in after days I shall think of you in my prayers. We can bear so much in youth; Who cares for a swift sharp pain? The two-edged sword of truth Cuts deep, but leaves no stain, And over the ways we have trod together, My foot shall fall as lightly, As though my heart were a feather.
Only a woman’s heart, strong to have and to keep; Patient when children cry, Soft to lull them to sleep; Glad when another delving hand Finds a gem to wear on the breast, While hers found only sand; Good bye, but as oft as the blossoms come, The peach with its waxen pink, The waving snow of the plum; I shall think how I used to wait And watch—so happy to see you pass, I could almost kiss your shadow As it fell on the dewy grass. A love is but half a love, That contents itself with less Than love’s utmost faith and truth And love’s unwavering tenderness.
Only this walk to the stile— This parting word by the river; It seems to me whatever shall go or come— Memory shall hold forever! Sweetheart, good bye, good bye, After all—drear poverty and toil For the rich, red flower of love to grow, Were but a cold and barren soil: And so, good bye, good bye!
The Mystic Clock.
A New Year’s Poem.
“Warden, wind the clock again! Mighty years are going on Through the shadows, joy and pain, And the happy hearted dawn.”
High within Time’s temple hoar Doth this mystic timepiece stand, And when’er twelve moons have vanished The clock is wound by unseen hand; But we hear the pinions rushing Through the storied air o’erhead, And our hearts grow sick and silent With throbs of fear and dread; For the temple seemeth crowded With still forms all white and shrouded, Like the pale, uncoffined dead; Stirs the startled soul within With a grief too deep for tears, Bowing with a mighty anguish— O’er our dead and wasted years.
* * * * * *
“Warden, wind the clock again!” O’er the horologe’s mystic dial, Watch the sweep of shadowy ages Ere the pens of seers and sages Wrote men’s deeds on fadeless pages. But lo! the warden winds again— And see yon radiant star arise Flaming in the Orient skies; Hear the grand, glad, chorus ringing, Which the joyous hosts are singing, To the humble shepherds, keeping Patient watch, while kings are sleeping! See the wise men in the manger, Bow before the Heavenly stranger! Lowliest born beneath the sun! Yet He the jeweled throne shall banish, And the sword and sceptre vanish, Ere His given work be done!
* * * * * *
“Warden, wind the clock again!” But in vain the charge is given, For see the mighty Angel stand, One foot on sea, and one on land, Swearing with uplifted hand, Nevermore in earth or heaven Shall the mystic key be found Or the mighty clock be wound!
“Rube” and “Will.”
An Episode Related by Aunt Sheba.
He’ah dat ole gray sinna H’s jes brimful o’ gas, Singin’ dat tomfool ditty As he goes hobblin’ pas’! He betta be prayin’ and mebbe H’ll git in de fold at las’! Yes, he’s gwine to de grabe up yonder By de trees dar on de hill, Where all alone by hisself one day He buried po’ massa Will! You see dey war boys togedder; To-day dey’d cuss an’ fight; But dey’d make it up to-morrow And hunt fur coons at night.
It wasn’t much ob a massa, Ole missus made you see! Folks sed, “dem Walden niggas Mought about as well be free.” Once dey went fur de turkeys, Dat’s Rube and Massa Will, Wid roastin’ ears fur stuffin’, Made a barbecue behind de mill! But dey couln’d keep it secret, Ole missus found ’m out, An’ she vow’d to sell dat nigga— He was a thievin’ lazy lout, He was a ruinin’ Massa Willum; Dat fac’, she said, was plain; She’d sell him! On her plantation He’d never set his foot again.
An’ suah befo’ de sun next day went down. To take dat nigga Reuben A trader had cum from town. I guess she was glad to sell ’m Fur she needed de money bad, An’ meant to spen’ it mos’ly In de schoolin’ ob her lad! But jes as dat ole trader Had slipt de han’cuffs on, We sees young massa cumin’ Ridin’ cross de lawn; He stopped right dar afore ’m, His face was pale as death, With all his might he shouted, Soon as he got his bref: “Take dem right off dat nigga! (and jerkin’ his pistol out) Take ’em off I tell you! An’ min’ what you’re about; Or I’ll send you to de debil Faster dan you ’spec to go.” Den massa trader dusted And he didn’t trabbel slow.
* * * * * *
Ah me! dem times seems like a dream, It was so long ago! Ole missus died next year, De war cum’d on at last And all de Souf lan’ echoed With de joyful freedom blast. We lef’ de ole plantation, We trabbled de Norf lan’ thro; Chilled by de winds in Winter, In Summer drenched wid dew; But we neber cum to Canaan, Nor found de promised lan’, And back to de ole plantation We cum a broken ban’. But Rube had stayed heah faithful, Stayed by his massa’s side, And nussed him in de fever Till in his arms he died; But de freedum star in Hebben, It brightens year by year, An’ our chillun has foun’ de Canaan, Oh yes! des foun’ it here; So I don’t care what you call us, De tribes ob Sham or Hem, Dat blessed lan’ o’ promise, Has come right home to dem.
The Legend of St. Bavon!
Shaded lights were burning low— Muffled bells swung to and fro— Solemn monks were chanting slow— Chanting of the Crucified; When the good St. Bavon died.
Oft had he trod the jeering street, With bare and bleeding feet; Leaving crimson-flecked the snow In memory of his Master’s woe;
With grief closed lips, sat he apart, The comrade of the dead man’s heart; At last the chanting throng were gone And he was with th’ dead alone;
When the bare uncurtained room Grew still and ghastly like a tomb, On the icy neck he fell And begged the death-sealed lips to tell
If one deed were left undone,— That in that radiance like the sun Didst shade with grief the spirit flown, Or dim the brightness of his crown!
Then heard his spirit’s inmost ear A voice that he alone could hear, “A shadow walks with me akin to pain, I seek to shun it, but in vain,
“For as I left the life of time, And journeyed toward th’ blessed clime, I passed along that darkened shore. Where wail the lost forevermore.
“As on that awful gulf I walked, A black-robed demon with me talked: ‘Behold yon spirit lost!’ I heard him cry, ‘’Tis one we strove o’er, thou and I.
“‘I, with the tempter’s gilded snare, Thou, with the pleading voice of prayer; Hadst thou but prayed till set of sun, My power had vanished; thou hadst won.’
“Above the harps and angel’s songs I hear, The demon’s laugh, and taunting jeer; Oh, comrade! brother! saint! Pray for the tempted; oh, pray and do not faint!”