Arthur Marcus Simpson, was the seventh child of John Simpson and Margaret Ann Dickson. He was also my paternal great Grandfather. He was born September 30, 1855, at Green Grove, Alabama, and died November 1, 1833, of Typhoid Fever, at the old Simpson plantation, near Triana, Alabama. His obituary says he was beautiful in person, lovely in character in the prime of early manhood, with the ardor of youth unquenched, eager with high hopes and pure ambitions and the energy for heroic endeavor. His nature was so sweet and generous that he found responsive affection at every turn, and during his illness neighbors and friends came from far and near to testify their sympathy and offer the solace of loving care. Even the wary, watchfulness of careful nurses could scarcely keep his room free from the obstructive sympathy of his Negro tenants. His anxieties were all for others; no impatient word rose to his lips, only those of lovely appreciation nad grateful affection. So saint-like and beautiful was the sufferer that the confines of his chamber wall seemed the vestibule of heaven.
Arthur Marcus Simpson, was the seventh child of John Simpson and Margaret Ann Dickson. He was also my paternal great Grandfather. He was born September 30, 1855, at Green Grove, Alabama, and died November 1, 1833, of Typhoid Fever, at the old Simpson plantation, near Triana, Alabama. His obituary says he was beautiful in person, lovely in character in the prime of early manhood, with the ardor of youth unquenched, eager with high hopes and pure ambitions and the energy for heroic endeavor. His nature was so sweet and generous that he found responsive affection at every turn, and during his illness neighbors and friends came from far and near to testify their sympathy and offer the solace of loving care. Even the wary, watchfulness of careful nurses could scarcely keep his room free from the obstructive sympathy of his Negro tenants. His anxieties were all for others; no impatient word rose to his lips, only those of lovely appreciation nad grateful affection. So saint-like and beautiful was the sufferer that the confines of his chamber wall seemed the vestibule of heaven.
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