Tuesday.--More than seven years have passed since I began this journal! I have just been looking over it from the commencement. Many and various are the feelings which it attempts to describe--anger, pique, joy, sorrow, hope, pleasure, weariness, ennui; but never, never once, humiliation or remorse!--these were not doomed to be my portion in the bright years of my earliest youth. How shall I describe them now? I have received--I have read, as well as my tears would let me, a long letter from Julia. It is true that I have not dared to write to her: when shall I answer this? She has showed me the state of my heart; I more than suspected it before. Could I have dreamed two months--six weeks--since that I should have a single feeling of which I could be ashamed? He has just been here He--the only one in the world, for all the world seems concentred in him. He observed my distress, for I looked on him; and my lips quivered and my eyes were full of tears. He came to me--he sat next to me--he whispered his interest, his anxiety--and was this all? Have I loved before I even knew that I was beloved? No, no; the tongue was silent, but the eye, the cheek, the manner--alas! these have been but too eloquent! Wednesday.--It was so sweet to listen to his low and tender voice; to watch the expression of his countenance--even to breathe the air that he inhaled. But now that I know its cause, I feel that this pleasure is a crime, and I am miserable even when he is with me. He has not been here to-day. It is past three. Will he come? I rise from my seat--I go to the window for breath--I am restless, agitated, disturbed. Lady Margaret speaks to me--I scarcely answer her. My boy--yes, my dear, dear Henry comes, and I feel that I am again a mother. Never will I betray that duty, though I have forgotten one as sacred though less dear! Never shall my son have cause to blush for his parent! I will fly hence-- I will see him no more! FROM ERASMUS FALKLAND, ESQ., TO THE HON. FREDERICK MONKTON. Write to me, Monkton--exhort me, admonish me, or forsake me for ever. I am happy yet wretched: I wander in the delirium of a fatal fever, in which I see dreams of a brighter life, but every one of them only brings me nearer to death. Day after day I have lingered here, until weeks have flown--and for what? Emily is not like the women of the world--virtue, honour, faith, are not to her the mere _convenances_ of society. "There is no crime," said Lady A., "where there is concealment." Such can never be the creed of Emily Mandeville. She will not disguise guilt either in the levity of the world, or in the affectations of sentiment. She will be wretched, and for ever. I hold the destinies of her future life, and yet I am base enough to hesitate whether to save or destroy her. Oh, how fearful, how selfish, how degrading, is unlawful love!