the scorned-the contemned-her equal; nay, more-her superior; for if heaven has denied him fortune, it has gifted him with the mind to soar far, far above those whose only greatness is their pride of birth, or, more ignoble still-of gold. I love him, father, with that love which wanes not, dims not with time, absence, or even neglect."

would you leave the father who has loved you, as only an old, doating heart can love the being it has watched over from infancy?"

"I need not leave you, dearest father," said Lucile, in a low voice. "In giving me to Sidney, you would but gain a son instead of losing your daughter. He is not one to slight or wound the being that loves him."

“Ah! child, you know not what he may become. I once trusted, as you do now, and was

"This-this, to me! How dare you thus boldy avow your disgraceful passion for one whom it is impossible you shall ever wed? Nay, speak notI will not hear you; on this point I am inflexible. deceived. Lucile, I was young, thoughtless and Oh, Lucile Lucile! is it by you in whom I have garnered my heart,-in whom is bound up the scattered fragments of hopes that were early wrecked? is it by you that new wretchedness must be inflicted on me? Ungrateful girl! Is this the reward of all my fondness, my blind indulgence?"

Lucile threw herself on his bosom, and spite of his anger, Gen. Montressor clasped her to his heart, and covered her brow with kisses.

My sweet child, you will not persevere in this silly choice. You will act as becomes my daughter. Love does not last, believe me; not even such love as yours. I know it does not. Listen, my child, to my history, and profit by my experience. Come, sit beside me, love, and I will commit my heart's treasured secret to your keeping."

She placed herself on an ottoman at his feet, and as the brilliant glare of the lamp fell on her person, her father gazed admiringly on her.

"I wonder not at this presumptuous boy," thought he. "I should have foreseen this; for she has the dangerous gift of loveliness, and he possesses that genius which worships beauty in every form. Where could he find a being that would more nearly realize his ideal?”

There was a pause of some moments. At length Gen. Montressor spoke in a low, hoarse tone.

"It is many years since my lips have breathed the name of Marion Walters. Among men I dared not syllable it, fearing they might see the inward struggle which the sound of her name, who has long since mouldered into dust, caused me. In solitude I dared not breathe it, fearing that I might, when alone, be tempted to curse the being whom I had once loved with that utter devotion of feeling, mind and heart, which some natures are formed to experience. Oh, Lucile! better be one who is content to dwell in decencies forever,' than give your highest, holiest feelings to another, to have them crushed as mine have been. You possess that gift most dangerous to your sex, a proud, sensitive, yet affectionate heart. You are one to shrink from a breath of unkindness-to return not the bitter word-to turn with a wrung spirit from a cold glance, and yet speak not of the agony that is wasting your heart. Then why

gay. Reckless of the future-forgetful of the past, I alone lived for the present moment. I was rich, and much sought after in the gay circles in which I moved. One evening I received an invitation to dine the following week with an elderly lady who professed to have been an intimate friend of my mother. I accepted the invitation without hesitation, as any one who had been a friend to my dear and sainted mother, was sure to find an interested listener in her son. On the day appointed I went-I found a small, quiet looking woman, who spoke in a soft, lady-like manner, but not even her anecdotes of the youth of my mother could long confine my attention to her discourse. In the recess of a window, half hid by the falling drapery, was a young girl plucking the withered leaves from some geraniums. Her beauty was of a high and noble order; there was no radiance about it; she looked as if the clouds of life had thrown their shadows over her spirit at an age when hope is our most familiar companion. I inquired in a low tone who she was? An orphan dependent of mine,' was the reply of Mrs. Wilson. An orphan, and dependent? I no longer wondered at her sad countenance.

"Mrs. Wilson called her to her side, and we were introduced. I loved Marion-wooed, and won her. We were married, and never was lover more devoted than I; her slightest wish was to me a law. I have sat for hours beside her, drinking in the music of her tones, and I have kissed the flowers that her hand had touched, or the page which her eye had dwelt on, when she was not observing me; for so utter was my devotion, that I was ashamed to betray it to my idol— and she-she seemed to love me! All this while that I was lavishing on her my heart's wealth, she was ever gentle, kind, and I thought that she regarded me with the affection of a grateful heart, which was incapable of any deeper feeling. Deep— deep dissembler, that she was! I believed not the power was in human nature to act with such consummate duplicity!

"She lived but two years: she faded slowly from my side, and I watched over her with that hope which is born of despair, until I could hope no more. I refused to believe that she could die, until I felt the head pillowed on my bosom grow cold, and saw those still features stiffen into their mar

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 hope.

"I yielded myself to the indulgence of the wildest sorrow, secluded myself from all companionship, to 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 correspondence with some of her early friends which it contained. I had been so absorbed in grief, that the request had faded from my mind, until one day I accidentally found the key. I shrank from the task, for I knew it would revive the first bitterness of sorrow with which I had bent over her lifeless form, and felt that we were to meet no more. No more! Oh, what agony can be conveyed in those brief words!

the parent of love-but I knew not my own heart. Your affection was so trusting, so devoted, that I felt myself the veriest wretch on earth. Oftenoften have my lips unclosed to reveal all that my heart experienced, but the conviction would come to me, that you, at least, were happy in the delusion, and why should I destroy it?

I saw him once after our marriage; he came to upbraid me; and never to my dying hour will the 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. I 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

piness that was destroying me. I at last beard that he had entered the navy, and the news speedily came that he had fallen a victim to the climate 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 is a feeble girl, whose name will even pass away rending apart of all the ties we have cherished, and with them life itself.

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.

NO. IL

"As the body wastes,

The spirit gathers strength, and sheds
On the admiring world supernal light.
Alas! that eloquence will soon be mute-
That harp unstrung, shall lose its loveliness,
Nor know its own sweet sound again!"

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 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 ac

"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, quaintance, but knew him, only as a great majority of readers knew him-by reputation. His articles were you go forth to the world, a portionless, helpless always highly prized by us, and from this circumstance, creature; and your desertion of your father in his aided by an unusual interest we felt in him from some old age, shall harden his heart against you. The slight knowledge we possessed of his circumstances, we hour that sees you his wife, sees my face turned have been led to many inquiries of his early history and 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."

He turned to hear her answer, but his daughter had fainted at his feet. In great alarm, he raised her, 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, Conand his advantages for education extremely limited. necticut. His parents were in humble circumstances, 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 Rockwell's mind began to expand, and his peculiar poetical talents to develope themselves. He felt "the divinity" 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. This, we think, marked his genius. That one who has enjoyed every opportunity for learning, that time and wealth can afford, can write respectably, is what every one expects. But to see a boy, who has been emphatically "cradled in the lap of poverty," almost immediately on coming in contact with books and periodicals, delighting literary readers with the genius and brilliancy of his productions, is indeed wonderful! Our author's poems, even at this early time, were in a [Allan Ramsay. good degree remarkable for the striking originality of VOL. IV.-56

The wife is ay welcome that comes wi' a crooked oxter. That is to say, with a present under her arm. This proverb has a griping, selfish sound, and is by no means complimentary to "the wife with the crooked oxter." It plainly intimates what sort of reception she would get if she came like the servant sent forth by Timon of Athens, with an empty box under his cloak instead of a gift; and which box produces so much astonishment among his friends.

thought and easy versification, (though at times faulty,) | which afterward so peculiarly distinguished them.

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 the senior (and we believe the sole) charge of the "PROVIDENCE PATRIOT."

cause or causes, Rockwell died suddenly at the early age of twenty-four years.

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 accompanies 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 opposing political journal.

"Oh how it seemeth idle

To talk about the dead,
When praise availeth only

To tell us they have fled.'

"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 belligerents, 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