 wandered through my mind—Long have I languished for that peaceful haven, in which this tempest-beaten bark can only anchor.
Too much a slave to all the fond affections of the heart, love for my brother tempted me to hope that his society might sooth my griefs, and lull my cares to rest—The thought was weak and vain—Blest be the disappointment I have met with—Had it not happened, the arrow must have festered in the wound, and rankled there for ever—It may now be drawn forth, and the allhealing power of true contrition soften every pang.

This language must appear obscure to you, who, judging from your own unspotted life, must have pronounced mine innocent.—Alas! you know me not—Peace flies from hidden guilt, nor can even penitence reclaim the wanderer back, while close concealment bars the door against it: confession must be added to contrition, and for such an act of humiliation the season now approaches.
Commune with yourself, my friend, and try your fortitude before you open the enclosed recital; if you shrink back from pain, commit it to the flames, and let the remembrance of the sad reciter perish with it—O no! that will not be; the tear of pity glistens in your eye, and purity like yours will weep for faults it could not have committed.
When you have read my story, you will be convinced that it is not the weakness

of my head that has conjured up spectres to haunt me—and yet I trust in the unbounded mercy of that gracious Power, whose eye alone pervades the human heart; that these sad objects shall be banished from me, and peaceful visions bless my nightly slumbers.—My hopes thus raised, I cannot, will not, doubt of more than pardon, of pity, from my friend—'Tis all I now can ask, or you bestow, on the unhappy
J. HARLEY.
P. S. To any one but my Lucy, the enclosed narrative would afford little entertainment; it is not a series of events, but a continued conflict of the mind, and is a history of passions, not of persons.

STORY OF LADY JULIANA HARLEY.
Though my loved Lucy is alalready acquainted with all the little events of those blessed days we passed in youthful innocence together, and that I have already informed you of the cause of the separation that took place between my parents while I was a child, you must allow me to recur back again to that fatal circumstance, from which I have cause to date my every misery.
My mother, as you know, died at Dijon, a real martyr to the Catholic religion, which
