 and never, never will I brave it more.
My rank and connections in life, unhappily for me, placed me in such a situation, that it was impossible for me to indulge my sincere wish of living in retirement whilst I remained in England. I was by many mistaken for an object of envy, and malice pursued my steps, tho' their traces were marked by sorrow—What then have I to regret in the world I have left? ought I not rather to rejoice in the idea of being forgotten by every acquaintance, and by every friend, except yourself, who ever knew or loved me?

The pains I have taken to conceal, even from you, the place of my retirement, must convince you that my resolution is not to be shaken—But though determined on an entire seclusion from the world, I still wish to preserve the tender attachment that has so long subsisted between us, and which is now the sole remaining charm that can render life supportable to me; you may therefore conclude that I desire to hear frequently from you; for when we say we wish to be forgotten by the whole universe, there is still one tender bosom where we would repose, one dear and faithful friend, in whose memory we desire even to survive ourselves.
I did not bring a single servant with me from England—I have settled Watson, who was so many years my maid, with her father at Canterbury—The old

man was my father's steward, and still is mine; his long and faithful services amply deserve the independence which he now enjoys. If I were capable of tasting pleasure, I should feel it, from the recollection of having rendered a very worthy family happy.
Watson is the only person to whom I have confided the place of my retreat; you must inclose your letters to him, and he will forward them to me.—You see how strongly I rely upon your friendship—I cannot fear that I shall ever be neglected or forgotten by your tenderness and virtue.
When I write next, I hope I shall be more composed.—Peace has began to dawn upon me since the determination of my purpose, and may perhaps again revisit my sad heart—Soon shall its faults

and follies be laid open to your friendly eye—But Oh, my Lucy, judge me not severely, and guard the fatal secret of
Your unhappy friend, J. HARLEY.


LADY STANLEY TO LADY JULIANA.
HOW have I trembled for the life, or what is dearer still, the reason, of my beloved Juliana; and though your letter has relieved my fears on the first subject, you must pardon my saying that I am
