Mrs. Alice Coale Simperswas 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 inThe Cecil Whig, of which he was the editor and proprietor.
In 1875 Mrs. Simpers began to write for the New YorkMercury, 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 theMercury, 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 theWoman’s Journaland 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 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 liedThe spell hath lost its power,For never a false heart brings my brideWhatever else her dower!”And louder yet the waves repeatTheir 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!
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 dartAimed 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.
And this is the end of it all!It rounds the years completeness,Though only a walk to the stileThrough 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 daysI 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 truthCuts 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 handFinds 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 waitAnd watch—so happy to see you pass,I could almost kiss your shadowAs it fell on the dewy grass.A love is but half a love,That contents itself with lessThan love’s utmost faith and truthAnd 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 toilFor the rich, red flower of love to grow,Were but a cold and barren soil:And so, good bye, good bye!
“Warden, wind the clock again!Mighty years are going onThrough the shadows, joy and pain,And the happy hearted dawn.”
High within Time’s temple hoarDoth this mystic timepiece stand,And when’er twelve moons have vanishedThe clock is wound by unseen hand;But we hear the pinions rushingThrough the storied air o’erhead,And our hearts grow sick and silentWith throbs of fear and dread;For the temple seemeth crowdedWith still forms all white and shrouded,Like the pale, uncoffined dead;Stirs the startled soul withinWith 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 agesEre the pens of seers and sagesWrote men’s deeds on fadeless pages.But lo! the warden winds again—And see yon radiant star ariseFlaming in the Orient skies;Hear the grand, glad, chorus ringing,Which the joyous hosts are singing,To the humble shepherds, keepingPatient 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 heavenShall the mystic key be foundOr the mighty clock be wound!
He’ah dat ole gray sinnaH’s jes brimful o’ gas,Singin’ dat tomfool dittyAs he goes hobblin’ pas’!He betta be prayin’ and mebbeH’ll git in de fold at las’!Yes, he’s gwine to de grabe up yonderBy de trees dar on de hill,Where all alone by hisself one dayHe buried po’ massa Will!You see dey war boys togedder;To-day dey’d cuss an’ fight;But dey’d make it up to-morrowAnd hunt fur coons at night.
It wasn’t much ob a massa,Ole missus made you see!Folks sed, “dem Walden niggasMought 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 plantationHe’d never set his foot again.
An’ suah befo’ de sun next day went down.To take dat nigga ReubenA trader had cum from town.I guess she was glad to sell ’mFur she needed de money bad,An’ meant to spen’ it mos’lyIn de schoolin’ ob her lad!But jes as dat ole traderHad 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 debilFaster dan you ’spec to go.”Den massa trader dustedAnd 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 lastAnd all de Souf lan’ echoedWith 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 plantationWe cum a broken ban’.But Rube had stayed heah faithful,Stayed by his massa’s side,And nussed him in de feverTill 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.
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 snowIn 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 goneAnd he was with th’ dead alone;
When the bare uncurtained roomGrew still and ghastly like a tomb,On the icy neck he fellAnd begged the death-sealed lips to tell
If one deed were left undone,—That in that radiance like the sunDidst shade with grief the spirit flown,Or dim the brightness of his crown!
Then heard his spirit’s inmost earA 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!”
David Scott(of James,) so called to distinguish him from his first cousin, David Scott (of John)—to a sketch of whose life the reader is referred for other information respecting the family—was born on his father’s farm, called “Scott’s Adventure,” on the road leading from Cowantown to Newark and about two miles from the former place, on January 7, 1824 and died at Elkton, May 13, 1879.
His early life was spent on the farm, and in learning the trade of auger making, at which his father was an expert workman. His education was obtained at the common schools of the neighborhood, except that which he obtained by attending Newark Academy for a few months in early manhood.
In early life he became enamoured of learning, and commenced teaching a private school in the family mansion in the winter of 1840, when only seventeen years old, and continued to teach in the neighborhood until 1851, when he was appointed Clerk to the County Commissioners and removed to Elkton. Mr. Scott was a Democrat, and from early life took an active part in the politics of his native country. After serving as Clerk to the Commissioners for one term of two years, Mr. Scott started a general warehouse business at the Elkton depot, in which he continued as head of the firm of D. Scott & Bro. until the time of his death.
In 1867 he was elected Clerk of the Circuit Court for Cecil county, and served six years with great acceptability.
In 1876 Mr. Scott was appointed Chief Weigher, and continued to have charge of the State Cattle Scales in the city of Baltimore, until the time of his death.
In 1852 Mr. Scott was married to Miss Mary Jane Wilson, of Newark. They were the parents of three children, two of whom are now living. His first wife died in 1858, and he subsequently married Miss Annie Elizabeth Craig, who, with their four children, still survives him.
In early life Mr. Scott began to write poetry, and continued to write for the local newspapers under the nom de plume of “Anselmo,” and the PhiladelphiaDollar Newspaperduring the time he was engaged in teaching school, and occasionally for the county papers until the close of his life.
For many years Mr. Scott enjoyed the friendship of the literati of Newark, Delaware, and was one of a large number of poetical writers who contributed to the columns of the PhiladelphiaDollar Newspaper, with several of whom he enjoyed a personal acquaintance, and with several others of whom he carried on a literary correspondence for several years.
Mr. Scott, though not a voluminous writer, was the author of a considerable number of poems, all of which were of a highly intellectual character.
Can earthly commerce hush the music of the heart, and shut the door of memory on a friend?—Miss Whittlesey.
Can earthly commerce hush the music of the heart, and shut the door of memory on a friend?
—Miss Whittlesey.
Ah, that our natural wants and best affectionsShould thus in fierce, unnatural conflict struggle!Ah, that the spirit and its dear connections,Whose derelictions merit such corrections,Must bear the illicit smuggle!
We would it were not so. This compromising,Which cold, severe necessity hath bidden,Of higher natures, with the wants arisingFrom poor humanity—’tis a sympathizingThat may not all be hidden.
We both have learned there is a high soul feeling,That lifts the heart towards the stars and Heaven;And one of us, there is a sad congealingOf sweet affection!—a veil the rock concealing,Where hearts are rent and riven.
Ah, sorrow, change and death hold sad dominion;And arbitrary fate is earth’s arbiter;The adverse elements of a marvelous union,With counter-currents vex the spirit’s pinion,When high intents invite her.
It is a truth, the sad, unwelcome hearingMay wring the spirit with a quivering pain;Our hearts are half of earth, and the careeringOf highest thoughts in its divinest daring,Is but a momentary, blissful sharing,That flutters back again.
It may be ours to tread the vale of sorrow,Or wander withering in the maze of doubt,Anticipating scarce a joy to-morrow,Save what from the pale lamp of Song we borrow—That will not all go out.
Yes! there are bosom-chords—thanks to the Giver!The sad, low whisperings of which can neverBe all subdued, though they may shake and shiverWith death and coldness, if we brave the riverWith wise and strong endeavor.
O Song! O fount of sweetest nectar welling!Of thy refreshings let my sad heart drink;’Tis past!—too late—too late, vain trump, your swelling;My spirit ear hath heard a surer knelling—’Tis passing sweet, what these mule wires are telling—O what a joy to think!
Awake, my harp! a song for thee,While the mellow tinge of sunset lingers;’Tis an eve of June! and the sweets are free—Wilt thou trill to the touch of outwearied fingers?For the day’s well spent,And I’m content,Tho’ weary and worn, and worn and weary;’Tis a heaven below,The joys to know—The joys of a Cottage Home so cheery.
The world’s all beauteous now and bright,And calm as a cradled infant sleeping,And the chords of love are attuned aright,Far joyous thoughts in the heart are leapingAs free and sweetAs a brother’s greetIn a foreign land all strange and dreary;And halls more brightHave less delight,I ween, than my Cottage Home so cheery.
My Cottage Home! My Cottage Home!With its trellised vines around the casement clinging,And the happy strain of that sweet refrain,The gentle tones of loved ones ringing,When the day’s well spent,And all content.What though the o’er-labored limbs are weary?Our hearts are freeAnd merry, and weRejoice in a Cottage Home so cheery.
With wants so few, while hearts so true,With a fond concern, are beating near us;We’ll cheerfully toil while we meet the smile.The approving smile of Him to cheer us,Who makes us to knowThe poor and the low.Tho’ weary and worn, and worn and weary,At last will restWith the truly blest—O! this makes a Cottage Home so cheery.
You have felt his power—you have felt his power—For a mighty one is he:He is found in the field and is known in the bowerAnd hid in the cup of the tenderest flower,He lurks where you may not see.
He’s a sleepless sprite, and at dead of nightHe’ll come with his feathery tread,And dally with fancy, and play with your dreams,And light up your vision with silver beams,Though he leaves you an aching head.
Away, and away, like a thought, he flies,His home in the air and sea;Of all that is earth he claims a birth,And he speaks in the wind, and his voice goes forthOn the breeze’s back, unceasingly.
In the sea’s great deeps, where the mermaid sleeps,In chambers of coral and gold—Where the Sirocco sweeps and Loneliness weepsO’er temples all silent, where dark ivy creeps,And places that never were told—
He is everywhere, and very well knownIn palace, in court, and cot;Though ages have crumbled, and centuries flown,He is youthful and strong, and is still on his throne,And his chains are spells of thought.
The maiden has murmured in ’plaint so low,While the tear trickled over a smile,That scarcely a wo could be uttered, till “no,”Was the heart’s quick response, “I would not have him go—The ‘Annoyer’ may linger awhile.”
He shadows the pages of classic loreIn the student’s loneliest hour,And wakes up a thought that had slept before—An image is born that can die no more—The student feels his power.
A voice on the hill-top, a voice in the river,A voice in the song of birds;It hangs on the zephyr, it comes from the quiverOf oak, beech and fir-leaf—it speaketh foreverIn thrilling, mysterious words;
’Tis the voice of the strong one! Know ye well,His presence you may not shun;For he thrones in the heart, and he rules with a spell,And poets may sing us and sages may tellThat Love is a mighty one!
How long, ah me! this weary heart hath strivenWith vanity, and with a wild desire!How long, and yet how long, must this frail bark be driven,While these unsteady, fitful hope-lights given,One after one expire?
These earthly visions prove, alas! unstable;And we are all too prone to clutch them fast,Though false, aye, falser than the veriest fable,To which a “thread of gossamer is cable—”They cannot—cannot last!
Our eye must soon behold the appalling writing—The settlement of proud Belshazzar’s doom!These timely buds must early feel a blighting—This earthly strife—ah, ’tis a sorry fighting!The victory—the Tomb!
The dreams fond youth in years agone had cherished;The hopes that wove a rainbow tissue bright—Are they all gone—forever gone, and perished—Ev’n the last bud my silent tears had nourished—Have all been Death’s delight?
And will he come and mock me with his booty,And twirl my visions round his bony finger?And will he tell my heart no other beautyUpon the earth is mine—no other duty,Than for his mandate linger?
Up, rise, thou vital spark! not yet extinguished,Assert thy heritage—exert thy might;Though in the sloughs of sorrow thou hast languished,And pain and wrong’s envenomed part out-anguished,One ray breaks through the night.
There is, there is one blessed thought surviving;The heart’s sure fulcrum in the saddest strait—An overture to this unequal striving—A hope, a home, a last and blest arriving!Bear up, my heart, and wait.
Bear up, poor heart! be patient, and be meekful;A calm must follow each untoward blast;With steady eye look forward to the sequel;The common road will then seem less unequal,That brings us home “at last.”
Come trial, pain, and disappointment’s shiver,Ye are my kindsmen—brothers of this clay;We must abide and I must bear the quiverA little while, and we shall part forever—Beyond the surges of that shoreless riverYe cannot “come away.”
Toil, toil, toil,Ever, unceasingly;The sun gets up, and the sun goes down,Alike in the city, in field or town,He brings fresh toil to me,And I ply my hard, rough handsWith a heart as light and freeAs the birds that greet my early plow,Or the wind that fans my sunburnt browIn gusts of song and glee.
Toil, toil, toil,Early, and on, and late:They may call it mean and of low degree,But I smile to know that I’m strong and free,And the good alone are great.’Tis nature’s great command,And a pleasing task to me,For true life is action and usefulness;And I know an approving God will blessThe toiler abundantly.
Toil, toil, toil—Glory awaits that word;My arm is strong and my heart is whole,And exult as I toil with manly soulThat the voice of Truth is heard.On, Comrades! faint not now—Ours is a manly part!Toil, for a glorious meed is ours—The fulcrum of all earthly powersIs in our hands and heart.
Toil, toil, toil—Life is labor and love:Live, love and labor is then our song,Till we lay down our toils for the resting throng,With our Architect above.Then monuments will standThat need no polish’d rhyme—Firm as the everlasting hills,High as the clarion note that swellsThe “praises of all time.”
I do not fear thee, Death!I have a bantering thought!—though I am toldThou art inflexible, and stern, and bold;And that thy upas breathRides on the vital air;Monarch and Prince of universal clime,Executor of the decrees of Time—Sin’s dark, eternal heir.
Over the land and seaIs felt the swooping of thy ebon wings,And on my ear thy demon-chuckle rings,Over the feast the panting summer brings,“For me—’tis all for me!”All seasons and all climes—In city crowded, and in solitude,Ye gather your unsatisfying food;Ev’n through the rosy gates of joy intrudeThy deep, sepulchral chimes.
I know thee well, though young;Thrice, ruthlessly, this little circle brokeHast thou. A brother, sister—then the Oak,(Ah, hadst thou spared that last and hardest stroke,)Round which our young hopes clung!Ye wantonly have crush’d,By your untimely and avenging frost,The buds of hope which bid to promise most;Oh! had ye known the heart-consuming cost,Could ye, O! Death have hush’d
The music that endears,And makes this chill’d existence tolerable?Yet will I not such selfishness—’tis well;I hear, I hear a happier, holier swellFrom out the eternal spheres!I do defy thee, Death!Why flee me, like a debtor in arrears?To weary out the agony of years,With nothing but the bitter brine of tears,And scarcer existing breath.
My soul is growing strong,And somewhat fretful with its house of clay,And waiting quite impatiently to layIt off, and soar in light away,To hymn th’ “eternal song.”This is a cowardicePerhaps—a deep, mean selfishness withal.That whets our longings in the spirit’s thrallTo lay aside these trials, and forestallThe hours of Paradise.
Thou wise, Eternal God!Oh, let me not offend Thy great design!Teach thou thy erring mortal to resign,Make me be patient, let me not repineBeneath this chast’ning rod;Though storm and tempest whelm,And beat upon this naked barque, ’tis well;And I shall smile upon their heaviest swell—Hush, rebel thoughts!—my heart be calm and still,The Master’s at the helm!
Henry Vanderford, editor and journalist, was born at Hillsborough, Caroline county, Md., December 23, 1811. His maternal ancestors were from Wales, his paternal from Holland. He was educated at Hillsborough Academy, a celebrated institution at that time, having pupils from the adjoining counties of Queen Anne’s and Talbot. He acquired a knowledge of the art of printing in the office of theEaston Star, Thomas Perrin Smith, proprietor. From 1835 to 1837 he published theCaroline Advocate, Denton, Md., the only paper in the county, and neutral in politics, though the editor was always a decided Democrat, and took an active part in the reform movement of 1836, which resulted in the election of the “Glorious Nineteen” and the Twenty-one Electors. The press and type of theAdvocatewere transferred in 1837 to Centreville, Queen Anne’s county, where he founded theSentinel, the first Democratic paper published in that county, in January, 1838. He was appointed for three successive years by Governor Grason chief judge of the Magistrate’s Court, but declined the office. In 1840 he was appointed Deputy Marshal for Queen Anne’s, and took the census of that county in that year. In 1842 he sold theSentineland removed to Baltimore, where, three years later, he resumed his profession and foundedThe Ray, a weekly literary and educational journal, and the subsequent year published theBaltimore Daily News, and theWeekly Statesman, in company with Messrs. Adams and Brown, under the firm of Adams, Vanderford & Brown. TheNewsandStatesmanwere Democratic papers. In February, 1848, he boughtThe Cecil Democratof Thomas M. Coleman, enlarged the paper, quadrupled its circulation, and refitted it with new material. In 1865 he sold out theDemocratto Albert Constable and Judge Frederick Stump, and bought a farm in St. Mary’s county, Md., and engaged in agriculture. Three years later, failing health of himself and family, induced him to sell his farm and remove to Middletown, Del., where he founded theTranscript, and resumed the business of a printer and publisher. TheTranscriptwas the first paper published in that town, and was a success from the start. It was transferred in 1870 to his youngest son, Charles H. Vanderford. From 1870 to 1878 he was associated with his eldest son, William H. Vanderford, in the publication ofThe Democratic Advocate, Westminster, Md. In 1873 he was elected to the House of Delegates from Carroll county, and in 1879 to the Senate, in which body he held the important position of Chairman of the Committee on Finance, and was a member of the Committee on Engrossed Bills and the Committee on Printing.
On the 6th of June, 1839, he married Angelina, the daughter of Henry Vanderford, of Queen Anne’s county, a distant relative of his father. Mr. Vanderford is a member of the Masonic Order, and he and his wife are both communicants of the Protestant Episcopal Church, the Church of their ancestors, as far back as the history of the Church can be traced in the Eastern part of Maryland. Charles Vanderford, great grandfather of the subject of this sketch, was a vestryman of St. Paul’s Parish, Centreville, Md., in 1719. Charles Wrench Vanderford was his grandfather, and a member of the Old Maryland Line, in the Revolutionary war. William Vanderford, his father, was a native of Queen Anne’s county, where the family held a grant of land of one thousand acres from the crown, located between Wye Mills and Hall’s Cross Roads, on which the old mansion was built of brick imported from England.
Mr. Vanderford is now in retiracy, in the 76th year of his age, but still active, and in the possession of good health and as genial and cheerful as in the days of his prime.
Written after a visit to Rawley Springs, in the mountains of Virginia.
Written after a visit to Rawley Springs, in the mountains of Virginia.
On the mountains! Oh, how sweet!The busy world beneath my feet!Outspread before my raptur’d eyesThe wide unbounded prospect lies;The panoramic vision glowsIn beauty, grandeur and repose.I gaze into the vaulted blueAnd on the em’rald fields below;The genial sunlight shimmers downUpon the mountain’s rugged crown,The eye sweeps round the horizonUntil its utmost verge is won.The hoary peaks, with forests crown’d,Spread their vast solitudes around,And intervening rocks and rillsThe eye with very transport fills.The bosom wells with joy sereneWhile viewing all the lovely scene,The spirit soars on airy wingsAbove all sublunary things.I peer into the depths profoundOf the cerulean around,And ether’s far-off heights I scan,As if, to feeble finite man,The power of vision here were givenTo view the battlements of heaven.But, though I gaze and gaze intent,Close scanning all the firmament,No Mount of Vision unto meDoes this bold summit prove to be.Though in elysian wrapt the while,Where sublimated thoughts beguile,Icarian pinions, all too frail,Were sure my fancy’s flight to fail.Confined within this mortal clod,Vain man would yet ascend to God,Presumptuous, as of yore, to beThe heir of immortality.But, from those fair, celestial heightsOf fervid fancy’s loftiest flights,My airy visions topple downTo where cool reason’s realm is found,And fancy folds her weary wings,Content, the while, with earthly things.
“Man hath sought out many inventions.”
“Man hath sought out many inventions.”
The planets, forced by Nature’s law,Within their orbits ceaseless roll,And man the lesson thence may draw—By industry to reach his goal.
Hail! industry’s all-conquering might!Hail! engineering’s giant skill!That clambers up the mountain height,And intervening valleys fill.
The enterprise of man shall knowNo bounds upon this mundane sphere,Whate’er his hands may find to doHe executes with skill and care.
His genius Nature’s self subdues,And all her powers subservient lieAt his command, and pleas’d he viewsHis great resources multiply.
He mines the earth and skims the air,He plows the main, descends the deep,And through its silent chambers there,Electric forces flash and leap.
He flies, upon the wings of steam,Mounts up with ærostatic pow’r,He paints with every solar beam—Unfolds new wonders ev’ry hour!
Not in material things aloneDoes Progress mark its high career,Fair science builds her regal throne,And morals her triumphal car.
Man stands erect—his image fairIn God’s own likeness first was cast,His high prerogatives appear,He seeks his destiny at last.
Upward and onward is his course,In mental and in moral life,With higher purpose, now, perforce,With loftier aspirations rife.
In matters both of Church and State,A high ambition spurs him on,With buoyancy and hope elate,He plies his task till it be done.
Written in the month of January, the ground covered with snow.
Written in the month of January, the ground covered with snow.
’Tis winter, drear winter, and cold the winds blow,The ground is all cover’d with ice and with snow,The trees are all gemm’d with a crystalline sheen,No birdling or blossom are now to be seen.
The landscape is wearing a mantle of white,Its verdure lies wither’d and hidden from sight,Rude Borean blasts bleakly blow o’er the hills,’Till the life-current, coursing, his icy-breath chills.
The rills in their ice-fetters firmly are boundAs the frost-spirit breathes o’er the face of the groundThe icicles pendant hang over the eaves,And the wind whirls in eddies the rustling leaves.
It shrieks through the casement and in at the door—All through the long night hear it fitfully roar,The mitre ethereal silently fliesSo keen and so cutting through storm-troubled skies.
The dark leaden clouds dim the light of the sun,And the dull dreary hours drone slothfully on,Euroclydon forges the cold biting sleet,And the snow-drifts he piles at the traveler’s feet.
The wealthy, at ease in their mansions so warm,Heed not the rude blast of the pitiless storm—The loud-roaring tempest, the elements din,Serve only to heighten their comforts within.
The poor, in their hovels, feel keenly the blast,And shudder and shake as the storm-sprite goes past;Oh! pity the poor, in their lowly estate,And turn them not empty away from your gate.
At an early hour of the Sabbath morn,Beside the ancient, sacred pile, I stoodOf old St. Ann’s. The ivy careless clamber’dAlong its moss-grown, antique walls;The sun-light bathed in golden gloryThe calm, sequester’d scene, and silenceReigned through all the leafy grove,Save where the warbling songster pour’dHis wood-notes wild, or where “the gray old trunksThat high in heaven mingled their mossy boughs,”Murmur’d with sound of “the invisible breathThat played among their giant branches,”And “bowed the wrapt spirit with the thoughtOf boundless power and inaccessible majesty.”Within the lone church no loitering footfallO’er threshold, aisle, or chancel echoed,No sound intruded on the hush profoundOf that ancient temple. The pale sleepersIn the weird city of the dead lay mute,Their mouldering ashes mingling with the dust,While sculptured tablets with memorial brief,Their memories from oblivion rescued.
As thus upon the scene around I gazed,The fresh-turned earth upon a new-made grave,Within its marble confines neat enclosed,My vision steadfast fixed, and I beheldThree maidens, bearing each a rich bouquet,Approach the tomb, and softly by its sideStoop down and place thereon their floral gemsIn token of the love they bore the friendSo late inurned, whom yet they fondly cherish’d.Full preparation one had duly madeTo stand beside her at the bridal altar;But now, beside her early grave she stood,With floral tokens of unfailing loveFor the fair young wither’d flower beneath.Touching and beautiful the lovely sightOf such devotion deep at friendship’s shrine.My sterner heart, in welling sympathy,Throbb’d its response to this ennobling actOf these fair sisters, and did them homageDeep down within its silent recesses.Oh, when with them life’s fitful fever endsMay ne’er be wanted hand of sympathyTo strew affection’s token o’er their graves.
Ethereal mildness, gentle showers.Springing verdure, opening flowers,Apple blossoms, bobolinks,Budding roses, blushing pinks,Cherries snowy, peach buds sleek,Rivaling a maiden’s cheek,Balmy zephyrs, halcyon hours,Song of birds and scent of flowers,Vernal season, swelling spray,All belong to Merry May.