 free from the mortifying triumph of her detested rival;

and also, what part of the world Lady Juliana has retired to. Love to my sisters. I think I would not have Emma know that I am acquainted with her present situation; her delicacy will be wounded at knowing that I must despise her worthless husband. Adieu,
My dear Stanley,
C. EVELYN.


LADY JULIANA HARLEY TO LADY STANLEY.
The Continent.
DO not imagine, my dear Lucy, that I have not fully shared the anxiety you must have suffered from my unaccounted-for absence. Thank heaven, this is the only time I have ever wittingly given you pain since the first happy days we spent together in youthful innocence—Ah, why do I recall the fond remembrances?

I have heard it said that at the approach of death we become insensibly weaned from our dearest connections, the fibres of the heart grow relaxed, and those dear ties, which were so closely wound about it, loosen and decay, so as to make us willingly resign what we can no longer retain.—How highly favourable must such a dispensation be to the sons and daughters of sensibility! But why may not a living wretch partake of this indulgence? why must the absent forms of those from whom she is banished haunt her retirement, obtrude into her solitary cell, and skim along before her la•guid eyes.
Why do I still behold my Lucy's face, see the bright drop stand trembling in her eye, or silent steal along her blooming cheek, drawn forth by pity for her Juliana? Why does my brother's form appear

before me? why does contempt shoot from his angry eyes even through my sinking heart? But I have other visions still more dreadful—spectres, indeed, that have long stampt indelible impressions on my heart and mind.
Would I could tell you all—but soon I will—This bursting bosom shall have vent, and pour forth all its sorrows into yours.—A sad and cruel proof of friendship! yet when you know how dearly it must cost me, my Lucy will esteem it as she ought.
Judge, by your own feelings, what I must have suffered at tearing myself from you, without informing you of my intentions—Too well I knew that you would plead against my purpose, and I also knew, that even you must plead in vain.

Deprived of the only stay in life, that fate had left me, my unkind brother! on whom could I rely for comfort or protection? A little twig, bending beneath the blast, without one fostering tree to shelter or support it.—I have at length escaped the storm,
