This unfortunate Scottish bard was born in Edinburgh on the 17th (some
say the 5th) of October 1751. His father, who had been an accountant to
the British Linen Company's Bank, died early, leaving a widow and four
children. Robert spent six years at the grammar schools of Edinburgh and
Dundee, went for a short period to Edinburgh College, and then, having
obtained a bursary, to St Andrews, where he continued till his seven-
teenth year. He was at first designed for the ministry of the Scottish
Church. He distinguished himself at college for his mathematical
knowledge, and became a favourite of Dr Wilkie, Professor of Natural
Philosophy, on whose death he wrote an elegy. He early discovered a
passion for poetry, and collected materials for a tragedy on the subject
of Sir William Wallace, which he never finished. He once thought of
studying medicine, but had neither patience nor funds for the needful
preliminary studies. He went away to reside with a rich uncle, named
John Forbes, in the north, near Aberdeen. This person, however, and poor
Fergusson unfortunately quarrelled; and, after residing some months in
his house, he left it in disgust, and with a few shillings in his pocket
proceeded southwards. He travelled on foot, and such was the effect of
his vexation and fatigue, that when he reached his mother's house he fell
into a severe fit of illness.
He became, on his recovery, a copying-clerk in a solicitor's, and
afterwards in a sheriff-clerk's office, and began to contribute to
_Ruddiman's Weekly Magazine_. We remember in boyhood reading some odd
volumes of this production, the general matter in which was inconceivably
poor, relieved only by Fergusson's racy little Scottish poems. His
evenings were spent chiefly in the tavern, amidst the gay and dissipated
youth of the metropolis, to whom he was the 'wit, songster, and mimic.'
That his convivial powers were extraordinary, is proved by the fact of
one of his contemporaries, who survived to be a correspondent of Burns,
doubting if even he equalled the fascination of Fergusson's converse.
Dissipation gradually stole in upon him, in spite of resolutions dictated
by remorse. In 1773, he collected his poems into a volume, which was
warmly received, but brought him, it is believed, little pecuniary
benefit. At last, under the pressure of poverty, toil, and intemperance,
his reason gave way, and he was by a stratagem removed to an asylum.
Here, when he found himself and became aware of his situation, he uttered
a dismal shriek, and cast a wild and startled look around his cell. The
history of his confinement was very similar to that of Nat Lee and
Christopher Smart. For instance, a story is told of him which is an exact
duplicate of one recorded of Lee. He was writing by the light of the
moon, when a thin cloud crossed its disk. 'Jupiter, snuff the moon,'
roared the impatient poet. The cloud thickened, and entirely darkened the
light. 'Thou stupid god,' he exclaimed, 'thou hast snuffed it out.' By
and by he became calmer, and had some affecting interviews with his
mother and sister. A removal to his mother's house was even contemplated,
but his constitution was exhausted, and on the 16th of October 1774, poor
Fergusson breathed his last. It is interesting to know that the New
Testament was his favourite companion in his cell. A little after his
death arrived a letter from an old friend, a Mr Burnet, who had made a
fortune in the East Indies, wishing him to come out to India, and
enclosing a remittance of £100 to defray the expenses of the journey.
Thus in his twenty-fourth year perished Robert Fergusson. He was buried
in the Canongate churchyard, where Burns afterwards erected a monument to
his memory, with an inscription which is familiar to most of our readers.
Burns in one of his poems attributes to Fergusson 'glorious pairts.' He
was certainly a youth of remarkable powers, although 'pairts' rather
than high genius seems to express his calibre, he can hardly be said to
sing, and he never soars. His best poems, such as 'The Farmer's Ingle,'
are just lively daguerreotypes of the life he saw around him--there is
nothing ideal or lofty in any of them. His 'ingle-bleeze' burns low
compared to that which in 'The Cottar's Saturday Night' springs up aloft
to heaven, like the tongue of an altar-fire. He stuffs his poems, too,
with Scotch to a degree which renders them too rich for even, a Scotch-
man's taste, and as repulsive as a haggis to that of an Englishman. On
the whole, Fergusson's best claim to fame arises from the influence he
exerted on the far higher genius of Burns, who seems, strangely enough,
to have preferred him to Allan Ramsay.