ture we are condemned?

It was some weeks since Emily had written to Mrs. St. John; and her last
letter, in mentioning Falkland, had spoken of him with a reserve which
rather alarmed than deceived her friend. Mrs. St. John had indeed a
strong and secret reason for fear. Falkland had been the object of her
own and her earliest attachment, and she knew well the singular and
mysterious power which he exercised at will over the mind. He had, it is
true, never returned, nor even known of, her feelings towards him; and
during the years which had elapsed since she last saw him, and in the
new scenes which her marriage with Mr. St. John had opened, she had
almost forgotten her early attachment, when Lady Emily's letter renewed
its remembrance. She wrote in answer an impassioned and affectionate
caution to her friend. She spoke much (after complaining of Emily's late
silence) in condemnation of the character of Falkland, and in warning of
its fascinations; and she attempted to arouse alike the virtue and the
pride which so often triumph in alliance, when separately they would so
easily fail. In this Mrs. St. John probably imagined she was actuated
solely by friendship; but in the best actions there is always some
latent evil in the motive; and the selfishness of a jealousy, though
hopeless not conquered, perhaps predominated over the less interested
feelings which were all that she acknowledged to herself.

In this work it has been my object to portray the progress of the
passions; to chronicle a history rather by thoughts and feelings than
by incidents and events; and to lay open those minuter and more subtle
mazes and secrets of the human heart, which in modern writings have been
so sparingly exposed. It is with this view that I have from time to time
broken the thread of narration, in order to bring forward more vividly
the characters it contains; and in laying no claim to the ordinary
ambition of tale-writers, I have deemed myself at liberty to deviate
from the ordinary courses they pursue. Hence the motive and the excuse
for the insertion of the following extracts, and of occasional letters.
They portray the interior struggle when Narration would look only to
the external event, and trace the lightning "home to its cloud," when
History would only mark the spot where it scorched or destroyed.

EXTRACTS FROM THE JOURNAL OF LADY EMILY MANDEVILLE.

Tuesday.--More than seven years have passed since I began this journal!
I