 not yet at peace upon the last.
Say, my unkind mysterious friend, what are those cruel ills your youth has suffered, that have determined you to

quit a world you scarce have entered? Blest as you are with every outward sign of happiness, with beauty, rank, and fortune, what are those secret pangs that prey upon your heart? A life of innocence should be a life of peace; and sure I am my Juliana knows no guilt.
The only misfortune that has ever attended you was the death of Mr. Harley, or perhaps, I might rather say, your marriage with him. But those events are passed long since; and had you loved your husband with the tenderest fondness, time would ere now have softened your distress.—The youthful eye bends not its speculation always on the grave—Yours should look forward to long smiling scenes of happiness that wait you—Such should your visions be, because you have a right to hope they would be realized.

I cannot think so slightly of your understanding, as to suppose your quarrel with your brother should disgust you with all the rest of the world.—Indeed, Juliana, you want not his support, but you want firmness to support yourself—The little tittle-tattle relative to my brother must have quickly blown over—You have sunk beneath a whisper, not a storm.
Return, my friend, return, and face your foes; they will vanish at your presence, their malice shall recoil upon themselves, and your fair fame appear more bright from their attempts to sully it. Flight is always construed into a confession of guilt; there is no retreating from slander; we must confront the blatant beast, or never hope to quell it.
I flatter myself this hint will have due weight with you, and make you reflect

that you ought not to let your enemies triumph over you, for the sake of your friends, your family, and yourself.
I am firmly persuaded that a great part of your unhappiness is constitutional, and proceeds from the weakness of your nerves; and hence arise those spectres that you say haunt your retirement: they are fancy-bred, Juliana, and would quickly vanish in the dissipation of the gay world—'Tis only in the gloom of solitude they ever dwell—Do not then mortify me, by preferring such horrid company to mine.
I believe it is near a dozen years since we were first acquainted, and during that whole time have I been striving to enliven your spirits; for you have been addicted to melancholy, even from your childhood, and of all persons breathing

are the most unfit for solitude—There may be truth in
