commanding virtues, his name would have gone down with an unsullied lustre to posterity.

The poet has left behind him a wife and four sons, who have been liberally assisted by subscriptions. The handsome edition of his works, in four octavo volumes, recently published, is intended to produce them some substantial advantage. May the benevolent purpose be abundantly answered! The biography of Burns, written by Dr. Currie, and contained in the first volume, is replete with entertainment. The style is elegant, whilst the sentiments breathe the most refined and honourable sensibility. The second volume comprehends the poet's Letters, which are highly pleasing-the third comprises those Poems, chiefly in the Scottish dialect, which brought him so much celebrity-the fourth, and last, includes Miscellaneous Pieces, both in prose and poetry. Altogether, we may pronounce it the most interesting work that ever engaged our attention.

As the writer of this article is wholly unacquainted with the Scotch dialect, in which most of the poems of Burns are written, he cannot offer his own judgment. But he has frequently heard Scotchmen, of genius and learning, speak of them in the highest strains of applause. Indeed, the few pieces in English are exquisite, particularly Man was made to Mourn, which we mean soon to insert in our Miscellany. A plaintive tenderness and an unaffected simplicity, are the traits for which the Caledonian bard was chiefly distinguished. Peace be to his memory!

To the Editor of the Monthly Visitor.

THE following simple narrative (from the Edin.. burgh Fugitive Pieces) speaks much instruction, and may be of use to parents and youth.

A. B. C.

A

THE

PENITENT PROSTITUTE

GENTLEMAN, in the medical line, was some time ago asked to visit a patient, and was conducted by an elderly woman up three pair of stairs, to a gloomy, shabby, sky-lighted apartment. When he entered, he perceived two young females sitting on the side of a dirty bed, without curtains. On approaching, he found one of them nearly in the agonies of death, supported by the other, who was persuading her to take a bit of bread dipped in wine. The pale emaciated figure refused, saying, in a feeble languid voice," that it would but prolong her misery, which, she hoped, was near at an end."-Looking at the doctor with earnestness, she said, "You have come too late, sir, I want not your assistance.

"O, could'st thou minister to a mind diseas'd,
Or stop th' access and passage of remorse."

Here she fetched a deep sigh, and dropped upon the bed-every means of relief was afforded, but in vain; for, in less than an hour, she expired.

In a small box, by the side of the bed, were found some papers, by which it appeared, that the unhappy young woman had had more than an ordinary education; she had changed her name, and concealed that of her parents, whom she sincerely

pitied, and whose greatest fault had been too much indulgence, and a misplaced confidence in the prudence of their favourite daughter. With some directions, respecting her funeral, the following pathetic lines were found, and some little money in the corner of the box was assigned to have them engraved on her tomb-stone.

VERSES

FOR MY TOMB-STONE, IF EVER I SHALL HAVE ONE BY A

PROSTITUTE, AND A PENITENT.

"Here rest the reliques of a nymph undone, Who dying, wish'd her days had ne'er begun.”

THE wretched victim of a quick decay,
Reliev'd from life-on this cold bed of clay,
(The last and only refuge from my woes)
À lost, love-ruin'd female, I repose.

From the sad hour I listen'd to his charms,
Yielding, half-forc'd in the deceiver's arms,
To that, whose aweful veil hides ev'ry fault,
Sheltering my sufferings in this welcome vault;
When pamper'd, starv'd, abandon'd, or in drink,
My thoughts were rack'd in striving not to think;
Nor could rejected conscience gain the pow'r
Of calm reflection, for one serious hour;

I durst not look to what I was before,

My soul shrunk back, and wish'd to be no more;
One step to vice, stole on without controul,
Till, step by step, perdition wreck'd the soul.
Of eye undaunted, and of touch impure,
Old, e'er of age, worn out, when scarce mature,
Daily debas'd, to stifle my disgust

Of life, which sunk me with the lowest dust;
Cover'd with guilt, infection, debt, and want,
My home's a brothel and the street my haunt;

Full seven long years in infamy I've pin'd,
And fondled, loath'd, and prey'd upon mankind,
Till, the full course of sin and vice gone through,
My shatter'd fabric fail'd at twenty-two;
Then death, with every horror in his train,
Clos'd the sad scene of riot, guilt, and pain.
O! could it shut the future from my view,
Nor dread eternity! my life renew ;
Renew to anguish, and the deepest woe,
While endless ages never cease to flow !

Ye fair associates of my opening bloom!
O! come and weep, and profit at my tomb-
To me sweet peace and virtue ne'er were known,
"And peace, O virtue! peace is all thy own."
Let my short youth-my blighted beauty prove,
The fatal poison of unlawful love;

"Let jealous fears your every step attend,
Mark well the flatt'rer from the real friend."
Chaste keep the mind; preserve the manners purc,
If peace at home, or love you would secure.
O! think how quick my foul career I ran,
The DUPE of passion, vanity, and man;

Then shun the path where soft temptation shine,
Your's be the lesson-sad experience mine.

PASSAGES TRANSCRIBED

THIS

FROM

BURNS' LETTERS.

By John Evans, A. M.

(Concluded from page 287.)

HIS world of ours, notwithstanding it has many things in it, yet it has ever had this curse, that two or three people who would be the happier the oftener they met together, are almost, without exception, always so placed as never to meet but once or twice a year, which, considering the few years of a man's life, is a very great evil ander the sun, which I do not recollect that Solo

mon has mentioned in his catalogue of the miseries of man. I hope, and believe, that there is a state of existence beyond the grave, where the worthy of this life will renew their former intimacies, with this endearing addition, that we meet to part no more!

......

"Tell us, ye dead,

Will none of you in pity disclose the secret, What 'tis you are, and we must shortly be!" A thousand times have I made this apostrophe to the departed sons of men, but not one of thein has ever thought fit to answer the question. some courteous ghost would blab it out!" but it cannot be; you and I, my friend, must make the experiment by ourselves and for ourselves.

"O that

However, I am so convinced that an unshaken faith in the doctrines of religion is not only necessary, by making us better men, but also by making us happier men, that I shall take every care that your little godson, and every little creature that shall call me father, shall be taught them. So ends this heterogenous letter, written at this wild place of the world, (Annan Water Foot, Aug. 22, 1792,) in the intervals of my labour of discharging a vessel of rum from Antigua.

Alas, Madam! who would wish for many years! What is it but to drag existence until our joys gradually expire and leave us in a night of misery

like the gloom, which blots out the stars one by one from the face of night, and leaves us without a ray of comfort in the howling waste!

Of all the qualities we assign to the author and director of nature, by far the most enviable is—to