ble-like repose. In her last moments, she looked | miniature fell from it. I instantly recognized the into my eyes, and said-'Forgive me, Montres-likeness of a young man whom I had met once at sor, and be kind to my memory.' Mrs. Wilson's previous to my marriage. The truth flashed on me at once-she had loved him-and I had been accepted because I had wealth. "I have nothing to forgive, dearest Marion,' I whispered; 'I who have been so blessed in your affection.' "An expression of anguish passed over her features. 'Ah! 'tis that 'tis that, which haunts me now; forgive me, when you know all.' I believed her to be delirious then, and thought not of attaching any meaning to her words. "It was not until the sods were laid upon her grave, and I kneeled above them, that I felt how utter and hopeless was my bereavement. The worshipped one was gone forever, and henceforth I was alone_alone in my desolation. Oh! the agony of that hour, when we see the lip pale, and the eye, in whose beams we have lived, grow sightless! Who in their anguish can then say, 'Not my will, oh! God, but thine be done?' Yet with all its intensity of suffering, it is not in that hour that we most feel the extent of our loss. It is not while the angel of death is casting the shadow of his wings over the home once the abode of happiness, that we can feel how heavy is the bereavement; it is the daily, hourly missing of a dear, familiar face, and the pining of the heart for the sound of that voice which is now only for our dreams. | "There was a letter in the package for me: here it is-I will read it to you-it has never left me since that night." He took a sheet of paper from his pocket book, unfolded it, and in a husky voice, read the following words: "Montressor, can you forgive me for the life of duplicity I have led since I became your wife? If misery, such as rarely falls to the lot of woman, be an atonement, I surely have some claim on your pity. I never have loved you. All this while that I have tried to act as though my heart appreciated your kindness, I have felt what a wretch I am, unworthy of the devoted love which it has been my misfortune to inspire. "From childhood I was dependent, and bitterly was I made to feel it. I grew up with the belief that the worst of ills was poverty, and I resolved to marry for wealth. Alas! had I known you before I ever loved, my heart would have been yours; but ere we met, I became acquainted with him whose picture you will find in the packet, with these lines: need I say that we loved? loved as youth-passion--genius loves. He was poor, yet until I was sought by you, I suffered him to "Iyielded myself to the indulgence of the wildest sorrow, secluded myself from all companionship, | hope. recall that past whose brightness only made the "Mrs. Wilson pointed out to me the advantages present more intolerable. I usually sat in her of an union with you, and I listened with a calm room-it continued just as she had left it-there brow and a heart torn with conflicting emotions; was the book from which she had last read, with she enumerated all the benefits she had conferred a few scattered rose leaves on the page; the work- on me, and ended by saying, that if I was silly stand open with her needle-work where she had enough to refuse so unexceptionable an offer, her last thrown it; it was a robe she had been embroi- protection would henceforth be withdrawn from dering for her infant. In one corner was her me forever. I married you, and sealed my own writing desk; she had confided to me the key, and wretchedness. I believed that gratitude would be requested me to look over her papers, and burn the parent of love-but I knew not my own heart. the correspondence with some of her early friends Your affection was so trusting, so devoted, that I which it contained. I had been so absorbed in felt myself the veriest wretch on earth. Oftengrief, that the request had faded from my mind, often have my lips unclosed to reveal all that my until one day I accidentally found the key. I heart experienced, but the conviction would come shrank from the task, for I knew it would revive to me, that you, at least, were happy in the deluthe first bitterness of sorrow with which I had sion, and why should I destroy it? bent over her lifeless form, and felt that we were "I saw him once after our marriage; he came to No more! Oh, what agony upbraid me; and never to my dying hour will the can be conveyed in those brief words! memory of his words leave me. He reproached "I drew the desk near a window, and seated me with the fury of a maniac, and left me fainting myself to perform the harrowing task of looking on the grass. When I recovered, I returned to over the memorials which spoke so forcibly of my your house, to wear a smiling brow, and to appear lost Marion. The different packages of letters to listen to your voice breathing the words of were tied up with colored ribbons, and labelled tender affection, while the frenzied accents of with the names of the writers. Í hastily took another were ever ringing in my ears. Oh! them out, and beneath them was a parcel addressed how did I sustain the unutterable wretchedness of to myself. I broke the seals, and a number of let - the many weary days that passed, before I heard ters, worn, and looking as if many tears had been from him? I wonder even now that my wan face shed over them, met my sight. As I raised one, a and tearful eyes did not unfold the secret unhap to meet no more. piness that was destroying me. I at last beard | "He died in infancy; he was placed with an that he had entered the navy, and the news spee-Irish nurse, who was devotedly attached to him, dily came that he had fallen a victim to the climate but he survived his ill-fated mother only a few of the West Indies, on which station his ship was. He wrote to me in his last moments: read that letter Montressor, and wonder not that I am dying with a broken heart. Physicians call it consumption. Ah! how often is that name given to the rending apart of all the ties we have cherished, and with them life itself. "I cannot die as I have lived, a deceiver, and of him who has been the best and truest friend I have ever known; perhaps you had been happier had this revelation not been made, but when I leave you I know that you will yield to the indulgence of a grief, which may unfit you for all intercourse with the world. Learn how unworthy I am of that grief, and return to the sphere which you are fitted to adorn. Bury the memory of our past in the grave, with the frail, weak being, whose last prayer is for forgiveness, and let not the faults of the mother alienate your heart from her child."" "Such were the words addressed to me," continued Montressor, in a deep, stern tone. "Such the reward of my confidence-my devotion. I read the letter to which she referred me, and even amid my own sufferings, I could sympathize with the deserted, forsaken writer-I had no forgiveness for her-true, she had died the victim of her own mistaken estimate of happiness; but he, whose noble heart she had wrung with anguish, had preceded her to the tomb, and I lived to feel my trust in human nature forever destroyed. months. That was another blow which fell with stunning force; for the boy was dear to me as my own soul, and I never look around me that I do not sigh to think, that the only scion of my house is a feeble girl, whose name will even pass away when she marries, without she fulfils the contract I have made for her." "Contract! father!" exclaimed Lucile, with a blanched cheek; " to what do you allude?” "Listen to me, calmly, Lucile, and do not look so unnecessarily alarmed. You have often heard of your cousin Victor-nay, have corresponded with him. He is my nephew-the son of my only brother, and bears my name. He is your destined husband; a few more weeks, and he will arrive at Havana; by that time you will be ready to receive him as your betrothed." Lucile arose calmly-" Father, I cannot-you have my confidence; how then can you ask me to receive Victor as my future husband, when my whole soul is devoted to another? Would you have me act the part you have so deeply condemned your lost Marion for?" "Girl! no!-but I would have you withdraw your affections from this pauper, on whom you have condescended to look with the eyes of favor. Marion was my equal in everything save fortune, while he-pshaw! I have not patience to argue with you. Come hither, child." He drew her to the window-a full unclouded moon was pouring its floods of light on the scene before her. "Look around you-see those broad lands stretching as far as the eye can reach, covered with my wealth, which hundreds of hands are employed to gather. All these and more are mine, and if you obey me, they will become yours." "Father," said Lucile, solemnly, "if many times the amount of your wealth were placed on one hand, and a competence offered me on the other, with Sidney to share it, I could not hesitate a moment in my choice. What, without him, would be to me all the splendor that gold can purchase?" "I became a wanderer on the face of the earth; for years I travelled over the fairest countries of the east, and became familiar with their habits, as though I had been a native of the clime. I then visited the Western world, and spent some years in the republic of the United States, which was "Aye, if competence were his to offer; but 'tis then in its infancy. In the interim, an uncle of not-he is dependent on me for the very bread he my mother, who had settled in the island of Cuba, eats, and think you I shall ever be wrought on to died and bequeathed this estate to me. I visited it, consider him a fitting match for my daughter? and was so much pleased with the situation, that I Insolent aspirant that he is, in offering to look so abandoned my paternal halls and settled here for far above his sphere; and how know you that he life. Here it was that I met with a young Creole, is not mercenary? seeking the heiress for her a perfect child of nature—she had never been wealth, and trusting to the blind idolatry of her old taught to veil her feelings by the conventional eti-father to forgive the misalliance, and receive him quette of society-she loved me with truth and as his son?" fervor I married her-you, my child, can well remember your mother." "Ah, yes! but the child of Marion-what became of it?" Lucile raised her form to its utmost height, as she replied "To you who have known him from childhood, I need not defend him from such suspicion. Ah, no! too long have I seen his struggles to overcome his attachment, lest such a charge should be brought against him. I am loved for myself-I feel and know it. Were I this hour alone, friendless, fortuneless, he would be to me the same that he now is, only more kind-more tender. Poor he is, and low-born, according to your standard, but the day will come, when the lustre of his genius shall cast a halo of glory around his name, as imperishable as the light of yonder stars which shine above us." And her face was radiant with the enthusiasm of affection, proud of its object, and shrinking not from avowing that pride. FATE OF THE GIFTED. "As the body wastes, The spirit gathers strength, and sheds The first number of our sketches was devoted to the literary writings of Chester A. Griswold. The subject of our present sketch, from advantages of situation, was better known to fame. Many familiar memories will be revived, and many hearts will respond to our "Lucile," said her father, in a softened tone, "you are the last tie that binds me to earth, but much as I love you, I will never consent to so disgraceful an union. All that I have loved or cherished, have, one by one, been blotted from life's page,' until you are all that is left to me. You know me well-know me to be inflexible-then hear me swear, that with my consent, you never shall wed Sidney: if you rebel against my wishes, you go forth to the world, a portionless, helpless creature; and your desertion of your father in his old age, shall harden his heart against you. The hour that sees you his wife, sees my face turned from you forever: my feelings steeled into forget-fate. These we shall endeavor to give the reader, fulness, you shall become to me as nothing. You know my history, how I have suffered from the ingratitude of her I loved; I forgave her not, though she is now but dust and ashes; the memory of her duplicity is as green and fresh in my heart, as though only a day had passed since the wound was inflicted. I forgive not injury, neither do I forget. Remember all I have said, and if you decide to go forth from my roof, it will be without my blessing, and the portals are henceforth closed on you forever." own, when we mention the name of the lamented poet, JAMES OTIS ROCKWELL. "His life was the rainbow that's seen on the cloud, And his foes were the gloom that surrounds it!" We regret exceedingly our inability to do justice to the memory of Rockwell. We never enjoyed his acreaders knew him-by reputation. His articles were quaintance, but knew him, only as a great majority of always highly prized by us, and from this circumstance, aided by an unusual interest we felt in him from some slight knowledge we possessed of his circumstances, we have been led to many inquiries of his early history and He turned to hear her answer, but his daughter had fainted at his feet. In great alarm, he raised ber, and sprinkled water over her pale features; yet even when she lay in his arms, without sign of life, there was in his heart no relenting. In a few moments she recovered, and requested to be taken to her own apartment, there to recall her father's words, and to weep over the hopeless task of winning his consent to sanction her choice. (To be continued.) according to the best of our ability. If our imperfect tribute shall meet the eye of any one of Rockwell's literary cotemporaries and friends, and provoke him to do better justice to his memory, we shall not regret our work. James Otis Rockwell was a native of Lebanon, Connecticut. His parents were in humble circumstances, and his advantages for education extremely limited. Indeed, we feel safe in the assertion, that he did not receive what might properly be called "an education." While a boy, he went to reside at Patterson, New Jersey, (if we have been rightly informed,) and worked for some time in a cotton factory. When he had reached the fourteenth or fifteenth year of his age, his family removed to Manlius, New York, or vicinity, and Rockwell was apprenticed to Merrell & Hastings, printers, at Utica. It was here, amidst congenial pursuits, that Rocktalents to develope themselves. He felt "the divinity” well's mind began to expand, and his peculiar poetical within him, and yielded to its sway. Very soon, (doubtless too soon,) while only a boy, he commenced writing for the press. The reception his articles met, only served to incite still more his ambition-and while he seemed, to those around him, only the poor apprentice, the midnight saw the devoted student at his toil. The wife is ay welcome that comes wi' a crooked oxter. This, we think, marked his genius. That one who has enjoyed every opportunity for learning, that time and That is to say, with a present under her arm. This wealth can afford, can write respectably, is what every proverb has a griping, selfish sound, and is by no means one expects. But to see a boy, who has been emphaticomplimentary to "the wife with the crooked oxter." cally "cradled in the lap of poverty," almost immeIt plainly intimates what sort of reception she would diately on coming in contact with books and periodiget if she came like the servant sent forth by Timon of cals, delighting literary readers with the genius and Athens, with an empty box under his cloak instead of a brilliancy of his productions, is indeed wonderful! Our gift; and which box produces so much astonishment author's poems, even at this early time, were in a among his friends. [Allan Ramsay. good degree remarkable for the striking originality of VOL. IV.-56 thought and easy versification, (though at times faulty,) | cause or causes, Rockwell died suddenly at the early which afterward so peculiarly distinguished them. age of twenty-four years. At eighteen years of age, Rockwell left Utica, having already acquired, what is technically termed, "a newspaper reputation." He made a temporary residence in New York, still contributing to our periodical literature, and soon removed to Boston. Here he worked for a time as a journeyman printer, while his contributions to the press were received in the most flattering manner, and gave him unusual popularity. Kettell was then publishing his "Specimens of American Poetry," and Rockwell was allowed a place in the work, with one ، specimen poem." Soon after this, he | was employed as an assistant editor of the "BOSTON STATESMAN," and the star of his fortune was rapidly on the ascendant. How long he remained in the office of the "STATESMAN," we know not: in the autumn of 1829 he removed to Providence, Rhode Island, to take | opposing political journal. the senior (and we believe the sole) charge of the "PROVIDENCE PATRIOT." From the press, only one sentiment was expressedthat of heartfelt sympathy for his sufferings, and sorrow for his loss. His friends and admirers, regardless of partizan feelings, seemed to rally like a band of bereaved brothers around his bier, and many and grateful were the sentiments of esteem and manly regret universally expressed. We have ourself accidentally met with a large number of poetical tributes to his memory, (from one of which we selected the sentiment that accompa nies his name, at the head of our article,) many of which were sung by stranger bards, to whom his name and Song had become dear. We cannot better conclude our brief biographical sketch, than by quoting an article written at the time by the editor of the "New England Weekly Review," an "Oh how it seemeth idle "The last number of the Providence Patriot announces, by its mourning columns, the death of its editor, James O. Rockwell. He was but twenty-four years of age, and had seen little of the world. The finer faculties of his soul had not been matured into a perfect development. Yet he has left a name behind him which will be heard of hereafter-a self-established reputation of genius-which will linger over his grave, and bless it. We speak not so much of what he has done, as a poet, as of the evidence which he gave of high and noble capacities. He wrote always hastily, and without pruning away the superabundant fancies which sometimes marred the symmetry of his productions. His conceptions were always imbued with the same wild spirit of poetry-vivid, original, and sometimes very powerful-but they needed the polish of a disciplined This was an important, and in many respects an unhappy era in our author's life. He was now fully embarked under his own flag, in the political strife-a warfare not at all congenial to his feelings. With a constitutional sensitiveness, which amounted almost to a fault, and made him shrink instinctively from the rough contact of every-day life, he now found himself involved in the jarring perplexities of political turmoil. With the accustomed recklessness of partizan bellige rents, his opponents did not scruple to assail his private character; and, finding no other vulnerable point, meanly taunted him with his low birth, education, and former occupation. This, to a spirit like Rockwell's, was too severe strife. Still it was but the accustomed partizan abuse, and did not in the least affect his literary reputation abroad. This was constantly increasing and as proof of the amiability of our author's disposition, we may add, that many of his warmest personal friends were of opposing political sentiments. For a time--we know not precisely how long-Rock- | intellect. They were the rough ore of the mine-full well continued his editorial course with honor, and his name was every day gaining new renown-when, in the summer of 1831, with scarcely a note of warning, his friends were startled with news of his death. The last article he ever wrote was the following, in keeping with his wild and eccentric disposition: "THE CARD APOLOGETIC. "The editor of this paper has been accused of ill health--tried--found guilty-and condemned over to the physicians for punishment. When he shall have recovered his health, he will throw physic to the dogs, and resume his duties." Alas! his hope was never realized. The same paper that contained his singular card, or the next one succeeding it, was dressed in mourning for its editor! Respecting the cause of his death, there has always been some mystery. True, he was ill; but this by no means clears the matter. It has been said, that he was troubled at the thought of some paltry obligation for two or three hundred dollars, which, from not receiving his own honest dues, he was unable to meet; and his too sensitive spirit shrunk from the gloomy prospect of a "Debtor's Prison." Again, it has been said, that disappointed affection had a part in the event. But, whatever may have been the immediate of intrinsic worth, but unshapely, and unprepared by the ordeal of severe reflection and extensive learning. And how could it be otherwise ? Instead of treading his way to fame over flowers and greenness-instead of reclining in studious ease in the halls of learningRockwell was compelled to win his way upward through a thousand difficulties. He was a poor, unlearned boy-unhackneyed in the ways of the worldand with no friends to urge him onward in the career of ambition. Nor were there wanting those who were ready to oppose his early efforts to stand in the aristocracy of their learning, and haughtily gesture back the young aspirant. And one-a miserable hackney scribbler-an unread, unreadable author-not long since attacked him in a witless but malignant satire, the venom of whose shaft was counteracted by the weakness of the bow which propelled it. Let him now breathe his loathsome malignity over the green grave of Rockwell with what satisfaction he may. "We knew Rockwell personally. He was our friend. We loved him for his enthusiasm—his generosity-his singleness of heart. For some time past he has been the editor of a paper directly opposed, in a political point of view, to our own sentiments. But Rockwell was not formed by nature for the strife and "Faded Wave! a joy to thee, Now thy flight and toil are over! Calm as thine, thou ocean rover ! On the shore of time is driven- To be lost away in heaven!" bitterness of politics. We knew that he loathed the task which necessity had imposed upon him-that his spirit shrank from communion with the ruder ones of those who surrounded him—that he longed for the still waters of quiet contemplation-and for the beautiful flowers of poetry, with a thirst ardent and unceasing. To a mind like that of Rockwell's, nothing is more uncongenial. than the stormy strife of party. With him that strife is now over-and the political enemies of the living will weep over the grave of the dead. The fame which he The following lines of nearly the same style of longed for while living, shall flourish greenly over his verse with the former-are decidedly superior. The quiet tombstone. And while the gay will laugh as be-third and fourth stanzas, particularly, exhibit a most fore, and each one of the busy world continue to chase happy flight of fancy, while the whole article is rehis favorite phantom,' one heart at least will cherish his markable for harmony and melody: memory, and breathe in sincerity the prayer of Halleck over the grave of his companion- "Green be the turf above thee, Friend of my better days."" We very much regret that Rockwell's poems have never been published in a connected form. But they never have been, and probably many of them are lost. We shall present the reader a few of them, from the small collection of articles which we have been enabled to make; and if among them he recognizes any familiar ones, we trust he will not regret a re-perusal. We first select his beautiful and much admired stan zas "TO A WAVE. "List! thou child of wind and sea, "Wave! now on the golden sands, Silent as thou art, and broken, Bear'st thou not from distant strands To my heart some pleasant token ? Tales of mountains of the south, Spangles of the ore of silver; Which with playful singing mouth, Thou hast leaped on high to pilfer? "Mournful Wave! I deemed thy song Was telling of a mournful prison, Which when tempests sweep along, And the mighty winds were risen, Foundered in the ocean's grasp, While the brave and fair were dying. Wave! didst mark a white hand clasp In thy folds as thou wert flying? "Hast thou seen the hallowed rock Where the pride of kings reposes, Crowned with many a misty lock, Wreathed with sapphire green and roses ? Or with joyous playful leap, Hast thou been a tribute flinging, Up that bold and jutty steep, Pearls upon the south wind stringing. "THE LOST AT SEA. "Wife, who in thy deep devotion Hope no more-his course is done. That he slumbers by thy side, “Children, who, as sweet flowers growing, For your father, lost and gone? "When the sun looked on the water, Where the giant currents rolled, "And the violet sunbeams slanted, Wavering through the crystal deep, "So we left him; and to tell thee Of our sorrow and thine own,- "Children, whose meek eyes, inquiring, That ye are an orphan race? Father, mother, both no more! |