afflicted mother, whose limited circumstances deprived her of the power of providing proper attendance for him in her own house. In this state of

deepest suffering to a maternal heart, she was compelled to part with the child of her love, the son of her pride and of her hope; she not only saw his fine talents obscured by the most humiliating malady that proud man is liable to, but she bitterly felt, that she must commit him to the care of men hardened by such sights. The unhappy patient, as is usual in such cases, was conveyed to the public asylum by a stratagem. When he arrived there, he had sufficient reason to discover his situation, and his soul was plunged into the deepest agony; he gave a loud shriek, and cast a wild and unsettled glance around the gloomy mansion. He became afterwards in some degree reconciled to his situation; his genius was not dormant ; his wandering thoughts, even in his lonely cell, took a form, and one evening, while writing by moonlight, some thin clouds shaded his paper; he looked up, and with a voice of authority cried out, "Great Jupiter, snuff the moon;" a black cloud almost entirely darkening the moon, he started up, and with great vehemence of tone and gesticulation exclaimed, "Thou stupid god, thou hast snuffed it out." It is curious to remark this anecdote, (which is given on good authority), so similar to the well-known one of Nathaniel Lee, and to inquire whether it could be a coincidence of thought, or the recollection of it floating in Fergusson's mind, even in his deranged state.

It was not long before he was visited by his mother and sister; they found him calm and collected: he conversed with them in the most endearing manner, saying to the former, "O mother, this is kind indeed;" and turning to his sister,

added, "Might you not come and sit by me thus? -you can't imagine how comfortable it would be.' He reminded them of his presentiment that he should be overwhelmed by this fatal calamity; but assured them, that he was humanely treated. All the fearful illusions of his disordered brain seemed to have subsided, and his anxious parent bade him farewell, cherishing a sanguine hope that he might be finally restored to reason. She had a remittance from her elder son, which she considered the blessed means of removing the younger from his dismal abode. Animated with this thought, she determined to bring him to her home, and immediately began preparations for his reception.

He

But alas! this plan of maternal love was not to be realized. Nature was exhausted; and Robert Fergusson expired in the asylum, on the 16th of October 1774, in the 24th year of his age. was interred in the Canongate churchyard: no stone marked his grave, till Burns, actuated by a generous admiration of similar talent, erected a simple monument, on which he inscribed the following epitaph::

"ROBERT FERGUSSON, POET. "No sculptur'd marble here, nor pompous lay! "No storied urn, nor animated bust!

"This simple stone directs pale Scotia's way, "To pour her sorrows o'er her poet's dust."

By special grant of the Managers

TO ROBERT BURNS, who erected this Stone, This Burial-place is ever to remain sacred to the Memory of

ROBERT FERGUSSON.

Previous to his confinement he had burned his manuscripts: when doing so, he observed, I am satisfied-I feel some consolation in never having written any thing against religion." His genius must be judged by his works; his dispositions were amiable; his affections warm and generous; his manners lively and engaging; his powers in conversation entertaining and diversified. He had a fine voice, and a superior taste in music. His figure was genteel, and well-formed; his countenance possessed considerable beauty, particularly his eyes, which were dark and brilliant.

ON THE

GENIUS AND WRITINGS

OF

FERGUSSON.

THERE can be no more striking proof of the degra dation of Scotland, after the transference of the seat of government to the capital of England, than that her native tongue fell into disrepute, and the majestic stream of her poetry, that had come down in one uninterrupted tenor from Barbour to James VI. absolutely ceased to flow. Edinburgh sank into the station of a provincial town. All the enterprising spirits of Scotland were attracted to London-the grand emporium of preferment, and as they valued success there, they were at pains to forget, not only the pronunciation, but even the vocabulary of their early years. Till that eventful period, Scotland had produced a race of poets, who contested the palm with the contemporary bards of the south. Barbour, James I. Dunbar, Gawin Douglas, and Drummond of Hawthornden, were, in their peculiar way, equal to the English poets of their own day. But from the time that the Scottish sovereigns ceased to hold their court in Scotland, the Scottish muse was not only neglected, but any commerce with her was deemed disgraceful. She indignantly stretched her wing, and fled the ungrateful country, and in her train the patriotic virtues departed; or if she lin

gered, it was in some lone glen, where she raised her voice in ancient song. There is between the love of country, and the cultivation of national poetry, a more intimate connexion than may at first sight appear; for as great national achievements furnish the best subjects for the native muse, she in turn inflames the spirit of the patriot to glorious deeds. The Stewarts were not merely lovers and patrons of Scottish literature, some of them were its brightest ornaments; and it would be difficult to name any English poet of his own age possessed of more poetical genius than James I. But when they were transplanted to England, they either forgot Scotland, or the troubles of the times furnished them other employment than the cultivation of literature; and to them succeeded a race, who not only knew her not, but even looked upon her with a jealous eye.

From that period, the degradation of Scottish poesy was complete, and in that state it remained, till Allan Ramsay arose from the lower class of the people, to restore the Scottish language, and to vindicate the honours of Scottish Song. It was from this source alone, that the revival of our national learning could be reasonably expected. The gentry, who looked to court for preferment in another country, or were ambitious of passing for men of fashion in their own, and the scholastic pedant, who had never cast his eye beyond the heavy walls of schools and colleges, alike affected to consider the Scots a barbarous jargon, unworthy either to be spoken or written; and the great glory of Ramsay is, that he was the first, who, for the long period of a century, had the courage to use his native language as the vehicle of poetic imagi nations. Bred among the remotest and the wildest mountains of his country, and acquainted only with