tion enabled him to take some refreshment with a good appetite. After dinner he reviewed the events of his life since his arrival in London, and discovered that his open and unsuspicious heart misled him to cherish too good an opinion of mankind. But Lady Frances, the lovely and tender Lady Frances, surely she was not deceitful; that idea alone operated as a cordial to his spirits; but he recollected with grief, that it was impossible for him to gratify their mutual wishes by an elopement. An apology was indispensable: he did not think it decorous to date his letter from a prison; and therefore wrote as it appeared from the Chapter Coffee House, informing her that an unforeseen event put it totally out of his power to meet her on the fol lowing evening.

On the fourth afternoon of Edmund's confinement Mr. Bolton again visited him, and informed him that his father had arrived that morning, and was busily engaged in consulting lawyers on the nature of the charge against him, and the possibility of effecting his speedy liberation. The tears filled Edmund's eyes, and his bosom heaved with filial gratitude and affection to so good a parent. "He will visit you this evening, my friend," said Mr. Bolton," so keep up your spirits and hope the best. Your other relations have not forgot you; here is a letter from

your

mother, which you will probably like to read without witnesses; I shall, therefore, retire." With these words he left the room, and Edmund with a palpitating heart, and almost overpowered by his emotions, perused the following effusion of maternal love.

A MOTHER'S LETTER TO HER SON.

This is my first letter to my only son, and oh! in what a situation is my Edmund ?-The child of my youth, and the darling of my heart, in prison-perhaps in chains! Oh Edmund! forgive your mother's womanish lamentation, for I must pour forth the feelings of my full heart to you, my dearest child :—instead of imparting comfort to you, I myself need consolation-for anguish, bitter and indescribable anguish, has taken possession of my soul. I tremble at every sound-I dread every knock at my door, lest intelligence, not to be survived, should be announced by some messenger. When you set out for London, I felt sad forebodings of evil; but confiding in the virtue of my son, I hoped would escape the spares of that seat of folly and iniquity.

you

I looked into Cowper's Task the other day,

P

and turning to his description of London, met the following passage:

"The shark is there,

And the shark's prey."

I shuddered at the danger with which you were surrounded. The next day's post brought the dreadful tidings, that you were imprisoned in Newgate on a charge of forgery! In an instant, Spring Hill House, so long the abode of innocence and serenity, was changed into a house of mourning. "A letter from Mr. Bolton," said your father. "Are there no letters from Edmund, Sir ?" exclaimed Maria and Harriet both at once. "No," was the reply. I kept my eye on your father while he read, awaiting in anxious expectation of hearing some news from you. He suddenly ceased to read-turned pale-and rising, walked up stairs with the open letter in his hand. I followed him in breathless terror. "Is Edmund ill, my dear ?" said I. "No," said your father, in a hollow tone that pierced my heart. He threw himself on a sofa-gasped for breath-and seemed actually dying, when the first tears I ever saw him shed, afforded him momentary relief. I threw my arms round his neck and wept with him, still ignorant of the full extent of our common calamity. At length

your father said in a low and solemn tone, "Edmund a criminal-in irons-and in jeopardy of his life!—bankruptcy, beggary, pain, nay even death itself were felicity to a degradation like this." I could hear no more-my head grew gid dy--the sight forsook my eyes, and with a groan I swooned away. On my recovery, I found your father and sisters supporting me in bed, and mingling their tears. "She lives! our beloved mother and friend lives!" exclaimed Maria. "Thank God! thank God!" was all your father could utter, with his eyes turned towards heaven in solemn devotion.

Since that time I have been rather unwell. I weep, yet tears give me little relief; for the horror I feel every time I think that my only-my amiable boy a youth so universally esteemed and beloved, has become the victim of villains, for their accomplice he can never have been-to think that my kind-hearted Edmund, the pride and hope of our family, now lies imprisoned for a crime, which is of such a nature as to render even mercy inexorable-that he may be tried, convicted, condemned-I would not conclude the sentence for the wealth of England! My child, on whose honest brow, the dignity of virtue is so distinctly impressed, can never suffer******. No! that Providence which protected his infancy and youth, will, if a mother's prayers are heard, yet

interpose to save my beloved; restore him to hónourable society, and defeat all the artifices of the emissaries of hell.

Your pocket-bible now lies open before me, and I find the following words marked with a pencil, perhaps by your own hand: "My son, when sinners entice thee, consent thou not." Why did not my dearest child take this celestial moni tor with him to London? What are the accomplishments of polished life, or the curiosities invented by human ingenuity, in comparison to that wisdom which at once humanizes, enlightens, exalts, and renovates; and that faith which

the portals of immortality and happiness?

opens

I send this letter under cover to Mr. Bolton: your father set out yesterday for London. Adieu, my son! The blessing of a tender, solicitous, and mournful mother, and above all the protection and blessing of HIM who is able to save, be your safeguard and consolation in this period of dire tribulation-of imminent peril! Farewell, my beloved Edmund! Your sisters join their prayers and tears with mine. Farewell.

MARY VERE. Spring-Hill House, January 20, 1820. This tender and monitory letter was perused Edmund with various emotions. Sometimes a strong sense of shame at his own folly, in being so easily outwitted by a sharper; then indigna

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