as he had never before reached. In particular, he chaunted "the Birks of Invermay," with such exquisite melody, that those who heard his notes could never forget the sound. While in this state, probably anticipating that miserable catastrophe which soon after happened, he burned all his manuscripts, remarking, when the task was done, "I am satisfied—I feel some consolation in never having written any thing against religion." Like Collins, he now used but one book, but he probably felt, with that unfortunate bard, "that it was the best." It is needless to mention, that this sole companion of his moody hours was the bible.
The circumstances of his widowed mother were not unfortunately of such a kind, as to enable her to keep her son, and procure for him the attendance necessary for his malady, in her own house. She was, therefore, compelled to make arrangements for consigning him to a very wretched public asylum, which, before the erection of an elegant building at Morningside, was the only place in connexion with the Scottish capital, where such accommodations could be obtained. This house was situated within a gloomy nook of the old city wall, with another large building closing it up in front, as if it had been thought necessary to select for the insane, a scene as sombre and wretched as their own mental condition. To this horrid mansion it was found necessary to convey Fergusson by a kind of stratagem, for he was too well aware of what was contemplated, and too much alive to the horrors of the place, to have either gone willingly himself, or to have been conveyed thither without some indecent exposure. Two friends, therefore, were instructed to pay him a visit about night-fell, as if for the purpose of inquiring after his welfare. He met them with easy confidence, and after some conversation, in which he took part like a sane man, they proposed that he should accompany them on a visit to a friend at another part of the town. To this he cheerfully consented, and was accordingly placed in a sedan which they had in readiness at the bottom of the stair. The unhappy youth then permitted himself to be conveyed peaceably along the streets, till he arrived at the place which he had all along feared would be his final abode. The chair was conveyed into the hall, and, it was only when Fergusson stepped out, that he perceived the deception which had been practised upon him. One wild halloo—the heart- burst of despair—broke from him, and was immediately echoed from the tenants of the surrounding cells. Thrilled with horror, his friends departed, and left the wretched Fergusson to his fate.
"During the first night of his confinement," says Mr Sommers, "he slept none; and when the keeper visited him in the morning, he found him walking along the stone floor of his cell, with his arms folded, and in sullen sadness, uttering not a word, After some minutes' silence, he clapped his right hand on his forehead, and complained much of pain. He asked the keeper, who brought him there? He answered, 'friends.'—'Yes, friends, indeed,' replied Robert, 'they think I am too wicked to live, but you will soon see me a burning and a shining light.'—'You have been so already,' observed the keeper, alluding to his poems. 'You mistake me,' said the poet: 'I mean, you shall see and hear of me as a bright minister of the gospel.' "
Fergusson continued about two months to occupy a cell in this gloomy mansion. Occasionally, when the comparative tranquillity of his mind permitted it, his friends were allowed to visit him. A few days before his dissolution, his mother and sister found him lying on his straw bed, calm and collected. The evening was chill and damp: he requested his mother to gather the bed-clothes about him, and sit on his feet, for he said, they were so very cold, as to be almost insensible to the touch. She did so, and his sister took her seat by the bedsside. He then looked wistfully in the face of his affectionate parent, and said, "Oh, mother, this is kind, indeed." Then addressing his sister, he said, "might you
