The Pacific Monthly/Volume 2/Sam Simpson As I Knew Him

Sam Simpson as I Knew Him.

By FRED A. DUNHAM.

The living thoughts he gave the world are living yet;
He's gone from us, yet we may not forget;
The rythmic words his willing pen outlined
In living song are round our hearts entwined.

TO attempt to limn a sketch of Sam Simpson is to attempt that which, were he with us today, he would himself concede to be impossible. He did not understand himself—how then could others understand his complex nature?

From a worldly point of view Sam Simpson was, not a success, and had he been asked the cause he would have unhesitatingly replied, "Sam Simpson." He was conscious of his own failing's, and allowed that consciousness to humble his pride, kill his aggressiveness and dull his aspirations.

His mind was a storehouse of beautiful thoughts, and a liberal education and much reading fitted him to express those thoughts in significant and rythmic words.

He was the son of a pioneer family of Oregon, his father being the Hon. Ben Simpson. His life was passed amid the beautiful scenery of Oregon, the glory of which he has so often portrayed. He attended the district schools of Clackamas and Polk counties until the age of 15, when, together with his brother, he was sent to Willamette University, from which institution he graduated in 1866 with the degree of A. B. He then studied law, and was admitted to the bar, practicing his professeion for a short time very successfully. Perhaps in the law he might have achieved success, as the world estimates it, for he was possessed of a quick and tenacious mind, and while he was not a brilliant orator, he had the faculty of presenting his argument in a logical and concise manner. His large acquaintance with men and affairs in this state would have insured him honor in the legal profession had he been of the slow, prodding temperament necessary to the practice of law in a small community. But such temperament was not his. Since his college days, and even before, he had written much that bore evidence of practical genius and literary ability. "He therefore turned to the mere congenial field of journalism.

That move was a dismal failure and a brilliant success. A failure, inasmuch as he chose the wrong location and the wrong sphere in which to exercise his talents. As editor and proprietor of the Corvallis Gazette, with all the varied and petty details incident to the duties of a country editor, and with his temperament averse to detail, diametrically opposed to plodding business, he courted failure and met the inevitable. Had he gone to the centres of population and sold the product of his brain he would have reaped the wealth and fame others less gifted than himself have garnered.

The move was a success in that it gave to us much of the best literature, both poetry and prose ever produced in this state, and Oregon is the richer for his effort. Afterwards he was engaged at various times, as a writer on Pacific Coast papers, and as editor for Bancroft & Co. on their series of school readers and History of the Pacific Coast. Meanwhile he wrote many poems of much merit, but made no effort to obtain either financial returns or recognition for his work.

The question may very well be asked, why, if his work was meritorious, did he not win the position others of talent have won? The answer is best given perhaps in nearly his own words. When asked one day by the writer why he did not publish his poetry in a volume, and strive for the fame and incident financial reward, he answered: "I have not even a copy of my poems. I have never written anything that satisfied me. There are so many half-way poets deluging the world with so-called poetry that I am disgusted, and do not wish to add to the burdens of the long-suffering public. I believe my sister has the most of my writings, but they shall never be published while I am alive."

And that to a very great extent is the secret of his apparent non-success. He had looked into himself and was not satisfied with what he saw there. That habit of introspection made him cynical to a certain degree. Not that he desired to avenge himself upon the world, for he was one of the gentlest men I have ever met. but rather he sought to scourge him- self for his own shortcomings.

Like most poets he had a horror of writing to order. The Mexican or Spanish manana (tomorrow) was his answer if asked when a promised poem would be finished, and the tomorrow never came.

The writer once engaged him to furnish a poem for a publication on a certain date. Day after day passed, but no poem materialized, and finaly the publication went to press without it. It was not because he did not desire to serve me, but simply because his muse would not "work to order," as he explained. He would supply me with poems unasked and unpaid for, but could not or would not furnish them by request. Readers of his poetry, some of which is published in this issue, will be struck with the grace of his style and the power of the words used to express his ideas. He was Oregon's sweetest singer, and leaves a place by his untimely death, which there is none to fill. That he was held in high esteem for his talents was evident by the array of prominent jurists, journalists and business men who followed him to the grave ; and it is a sad thought that one so fitted to challenge esteem could not have been lifted to a position which his genius deserved, while living. His name is not written high upon the scroll of fame, yet who shall say his life was not of value to the world?

Phoebe.

I am not blinded to the truth;
The beauties, form and mind,
That make so fair bright Phoebe's youth,
Were net for me designed.


Yet will I linger while I may
Within her gentle sphere;
Her soul contemplate, day by day,
So tender, pure, sincere.


And when our lives are forced apart,
I still will bear with me,
Enshrined within my inmost heart,
Her sacred memory.


The bard has sweetly sung the vase
Made sweet by scents confined;
So will the perfume of her grace
Through life pervade my mind.

The constant law of life is change;
Naught may escape its power;
From passion we to passion range,
As bees from flower to flower.


No more shall we be glad in spring,
Since 'tis not always May?
Nor more grand autumn's glories sing,
Since they must pass away?


True wisdom quarrels not with heaven,
Whatever fate it send:
Thankful when life's bright joys are given-
Submissive when they end.


So will I linger, while I may
In Phoebe's gentle sphere;
Her soul contemplate day by day,
So tender, pure, sincere.


And when our lives are forced apart,
I still will bear with me,
Enshrined within my inmost heart,
Her sacred memory.


S. E.