The Democratic advocate. [volume] (Westminster, Md.) 1865-1972, 1873-12-13

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daughter endeavored to show that she could
love such q kind protector, and such an
honorable, worthy young gentleman. So I
went on until had told him all. sHe shall
have you, Judiths he deserves to have you I;
ne is the very man to make you happy
Then was the joy Of my love complete.
hoped in fortnight or sooner TO receive
o friendly letter, telling me Of your safe return
II nothing more. The fortnight seemed very
long; and when a month passed without
bringing me letter, il seemed to have been
year eBut am sure Of one by Mr. Levi,
said SO | endeayored to comfort myself.
] could hardly wait until he should come, and
when at last was told that be had arrived,
and actually in the house, ran breathless
with joy and demanded my letter. ssNone,
lsaid he'll went to the post Office the first
OF June, and found none foryon." ''None?r
said /, mo, sure not one" / remembered
nothing more, until found myselfin bed and
the physician by my side.
Still, though stricken down, was not in
despair. "Some accident has disappointed
me, lsaid the letter may have been mis-.
carried or he may choose 10 come, and give
me joyful surprise BY bearing his own
tidings. | shall hear or see before long. p
But another month passed--so long--yet no
tidings. We heard Of New York packet.
ship wrecked on the coast Of Ireland the
letter bag lost--and some passengers-but
your name was not among them. On this
chance Of your letter being lost, fed nv
declining hope. But long months Of fruitless
expectation compelled me at last to conclude
that you had found the scheme Of our union
unpropitions to your hopes Of happiness, and
that your kind compassion would not suffer
you TO tell me so. / had promised not TO
blame you--I did not-but my heart bled
neyertheless--ah, many q weary day and
weary night. fed from the crowded city 10
hide my grief, and if possible to relieve, it
among the lakes and mountains Of Cumber.
land. They reminded me Of the delightful
scenery which you had described--where YOU
made me hope TO live, eommunine with
nature and with the dear friends whose hearts
seemed purposely formed to sympathize with
mine. But must not pain that dear friend
with the recital Of my sorrows.
Long was the time before could give You
up with dutful resignation. imagined
various reasons for your long silence, and
sometimes renewed my hope on the ground
OF some vain supposition. Sometimes again
! feared that you were dead; and then
mourned for you as for my brother. But |
was relieved Of this painful apprehension two
months ago. A friend Of my fathers has
some lands in the mountains Of Virginia.
When he went to see them, my father request
ed him 70 visit your village and enquire after
you. de learned that you were alive and
well. Then knew that you had abandoned
our engagement, and that longer hope was
vain if not sinful. Often had dreamed both
asleep and awake Of rural felicity with you,
my comforter inrsorrow and my chosen com
far lsfn n.t t~,-l. 1 =. IL i.
was dream, and that / must resign my heart
to widowhood, resisted the fondness Of 4
love that could only make me miserable.
Hard wasittobring SO sweet one and 50 cherish.
ed a passion within the bounds Of moderation.
Often would It invite the fond illusion, that
your difficulties might yet be removed, and
that your love for me was yet sufficient to bring
you over the waters in search Of your Judith.
But one long year, and months of another
passed away, during which all the winds OF
Heaven had blown without waiting TO me
even a sigh from my friend. How then
could the faintest illusion Of hope remain
even dawn upon the darkness Of my soul I
''No, Thought y that dearly remembered night
Of our parting made me feel the last throbs
that | shall ever feel, Of heart that
viii be dear to me, until this poor heart
Of mine shall throb no moren When this
second summer came, and my last day Of
hope was gone, fed again to the woods and
the lakes, and there, after many PRAYER and
many struggle subdued my heart to q merely
kind and grateful remembrance of you. 50
at least / thought, but what mean these
frequent returns ofmy pen TO the passionate
expressions Of tenderness, which flow spon-
taneously from my heart, and which after
repeated trials find will flow and mingle
with the simple narrative that l meant to
give? And what meant the tears and sobs
which almost disable me from writing7 Nav
the gracious Redeemer, who knows what
human frailties are, enable me to be faithful
My friend oh my friend must not, dare
not love you now, as / formerly loved you.
When my heart abandoned itself to widow
hood, and ! sought consolation from the
Most High, among shades and rocks and
waters, where, as wen as in His word, the
Divine spirit dwells, | happened to meet q
strsnger, on q visit 70 the same retreats, one
who, in mind and person, in tastes and princi-
Piles, resembles you, my dear friend and
who for that season interested me In my
desolate state. His company and converse
tion last year, soothed and instructed me I;
but then my heart was beyond the reach Of
his love. A friendly acquaintance was all
t&Aat O(C4lAta uttHtru u1 until lufH summer
when returned in my despair 10 the woods
and lakes, where ! unexpectedly met with
him again. He sought my company, | was
pleased with his; he saw that was a mourn
er, aud he comforted me he had learned that
l was Jewess, and he labored faithfully and
devoutedly for my conversion to christianity.
BY the blessing Of God, be succeeded in re-
moving all my remaining doubts, and Difficult.
ties respecting the christian faith. / was
almost persuaded when parted with you !;
but 1 would not suggest hopes on that subject,
until should be fully persuaded. Now my
faith in Jesus Of Nazareth, is my chief consola-
ton and the eloquent and pious friend who
won me finally to Christ. has also gained 50
much Of my esteem and affection, that have
after much hesitation accepted his offer, and
we are betrofhed, Now, my dear preserver,
hear the last request Of one whom you once
tenderly loved, and whom no changes can
release from her obligations to you. Should
you ever find that or my friends can do You
any sort of service, l entreat you, BY the
remembrance Of our voyage together, and BY
all the love that you may still bear me, to let
rs know il. Call on us,--or If death should
have taken me away-or my father or my
sister--for all the assistance that you may
need. The half Of my fortune | can easily
spare, and would rejoice to impart 70 friend
whose disinterested kindness and essential
service TO me, can never repay--but thank
Heaven If an opportunity be given me to
prove that am, and viii ever be your great
and devoted friend. JuDITH BKxsADDI.
Before had finished reading, my eyes grew
dim. Selfreproach for my unjust snspicions
and my fatal procrastination, wrung my
heart. The knen Of departed hope doomed
on my ears, as if the gentle murmur Of the
river had swollen to the roar ofa cataract.
fell back and lay in a stupor Of astonishment
at my late blindness Of years, and at the
unrolled serool Of my hapless destiny. Twas
for some time prostrated, my soul and body,
at the astounding revelation. When | re-
covered strength 70 rise, the sun was shooting
his rays horizontally from mountain top to
mountain topi The turtle dove, from her
withered tree in the field, was cooing forth
her evening lamentation. Shades almost as
gloomy as my soul were thickened around me,
Frantic with grief, / called to the dark-frown.
ing rocks snd TO the waters that were rolling
by, to pity me. / made thaechoes respond to
the name Of my love and Lost Judith. One
while my perturbed imagination pictured her
looking down on me from the cedars Of the
cliff and illuminating my dark retreat with the
love-inspiring radiance Of her countenance--
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