WHO was Ferguson and why

couple his name with that of

a Scottish poet, whose fame is worldwide, and whose works are known and admired even where his native dialect is as the tongue of another and unknown world? are questions that will rise to the lips of many Scotchmen, and all other readers in Canada, except the few who delight to wander amid the by-ways of literature that may be national, but is not cosmopolitan. In the noble preface to the first edition of his poems, Burns himself has given to the works of Ferguson the best introduction and recommendation they can, or could, have, when he writes: "To the glorious dawnings of the poor, unfortunate Ferguson, he (Burns), with unaffected sincerity, declares that, even in his highest pulse of vanity, he has not the most distant pretensions.' Burns had him in his eye, when writing, rather with a view to kindle at his flame, than for servile imitation. The ploughman poet confesses that his efforts were largely inspired by Ferguson, as well as by Ramsay; and he is found writing from Irvine in 1781, Rhyme I had given up' (on going to Irvine), but meeting with Ferguson's Scottish poems I strung anew my wildly sounding lyre, with emulating vigour.' Lockhart is of opinion that it was this accidental meeting with Ferguson's works and a personal sympathy with that poet's misfortunes that largely determined the Scottish character of Burns's writings. It is questionable if Lockhart is quite right in this, for Burns had, before he saw Ferguson's works in a collected form, though he may have

seen them in Ruddiman's (or, Walter's Magazine, already written one of the best of his songs, Corn Rigs, beginning. 'It was upon a Lammas night,' which is in the dialect of Ayrshire. Belonging to this period were also, if I mistake not, John Barleycorn, The Death and Elegy of Poor Mailie, as well assome other songs, all in dialect, the elegy showing that Burns had already mastered that peculiar measure in which Ferguson's happiest efforts are written. Sir Walter Scott, in one of his letters, gives the impression which Burns made upon him, but what the future novelist thought of the poet is of little interest to us now, except inasmuch as it applies to his relations with Ferguson. Scott thought that Burns. had twenty times the ability of Ramsay or of Ferguson, and that he talked of these poets as his models with too much humility, a humility for which Scott was at a loss to account, unless it were occasioned by Burns's 'national predilection.' It is much more probable that Burns had not yet, if indeed he ever, received an answer to his aspiration: O wad some power the giftie gi'e us, to see oursel's as others see us." He was conscious of having lit his lamp at their flame; he was conscious that he had not proved a servile imitator, but he was not conscious that the world esteemed his efforts as much superior to those of his predecessors. Had Burns been capable of estimating his powers as of twenty times the magnitude of those of FergusonScott's estimate-it is probable that Burns would not have spoken as he did of Ferguson's work, for the estimate which the Ayrshire plough

man had of his own writings was simply that they were the productions of one possessed of some poetic ability. Burns certainly was intensely Scotch, but he was not so Scotch as to make believe that he esteemed what was worthless. Such national predilection would have been hypocrisy, and if there was one vice more abhorrent than another to Burns, that vice was hypocrisy. It seems rather that Burns was a conscientious admirer of Ferguson; that he was incapable of finding fault with the work of one who had preceded himself in the task of embalming Scottish life in verse; that Burns felt much the same reverence for Ferguson that the student feels for his professor or his teacher; that, indeed, what measure of success attended the pupil's efforts was entirely due to the more fortunate circumstances in which the pupil found himself. Burns would, doubtless, have considered it presumption on his part to think that Ferguson could not have produced better verses than he, had the same subjects presented themselves to each. One cannot fail to be impressed with the absence of conceit in Burns's writings, just as one has impressed upon him at every step the contempt which the plain ploughman was capable of expressing for all and every species of humbug. But this contempt was never hurled from the standpoint of conceit-it was thrown from the level of simple worth. From this level of simple worth Burns also addressed his praise, and that, always with deference; so it is not trespassing upon the borders of the improbable, to affirm, as I have done, that Burns' admiration of Ferguson emanated from singleness of heart. The personal sympathy with Ferguson's misfortunes, alluded to by Lockhart, may have caused Burns to esteem Ferguson's works, but as the dawnings of a great future, still I hardly consider it probable that Burns would have thought less of these works, as works, had Ferguson's career been other than it

think that at most Burns' sympathy with Ferguson's misfortunes was but a minor passion among the many that disturbed his sensitive heart. I am not inclined to think that it was even a great or deep sympathy, for nowhere has Burns's muse burst into song when thinking of its dead mate. Even the tombstone which Burns placed over Ferguson's grave, contains no lines other than the somewhat studied and cold

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.

If this were all the sympathy which was evoked from Burns by Ferguson's fate, it is not likely that the life and writings of the unfortunate poet could have exercised much influence upon his somewhat less unlucky successor, beyond the influence to which every sympathetic man is subjected by hearing of the trials and troubles of a fellow-man. There were no bands of personal friendship to draw the two together, for Ferguson was already dead one year before Burns, then a lad of scarce sixteen, with trepidation seized his pen to write, O once I loved a bonny lass,' responsive to the feelings aroused in his breast by the charms of his female partner in the labours of the harvest. Thus the strongest influence that could be brought to bear on Burns in moulding the character of his verse was wanting; besides, as I have just shown, the character of Burns's verse

was already marked when he first made acquaintance with the works of Ferguson. Summing up, then, the relation in which Burns stood to Ferguson, we see that it was simply one of sincere admiration.

This may have been Burns' estimate of his own merit alongside of that of Ferguson-but is it that of the world? No! The world knows little of Ferguson because the genius of Burns has quenched all lesser lights. He presents liberally all that can be asked for in Scottish poetry except the heroic, upon which Scott afterwards threw the light of his genius, though not to raise it to a higher standard than that of blind Harry. Those who have aimed to supply the same want which Burns satisfies have been forgotten, however able were their efforts, and however appreciated they were, until the spirit personified of Scottish poetry appeared in Robert Burns. Still there is a species of satisfaction felt in recalling forgotten words, just as there is a pleasure experienced in thinking of the story-books that filled our young minds with wonderment; though while we dilate upon the boldness (baldness were better) of the primitive illustrations of the tales in our day, we may be gazing upon the rich art treasures spread before the young folks now to convey to them the dramatic scope of the hoary text. proceeding, then, upon the assumption that a comparison of the effusions of Ferguson, the primitive, with Burns, the perfect, will not be altogether devoid of satisfaction to the reader, I think that it would hardly be just were I to ask for an endorsation of any judgment I may pass upon the works of Ferguson, without first making known to the reader, or reminding him, who and what the earlier poet was. It is offering no insult to the intelligence of the reader to give a short sketch of the poet, for, perhaps, his brief wanderings on the world are better known to foreigners than to his fellow-countrymen.

In

The history of Burns is so well known that he is to all intents and purposes a living man to-day. Ferguson is of the past; let me see if I can animate the dust that is mouldering in the city of the dead in the modern Athens.

William Ferguson, the father of the poet, was of the conventional type, poor but honest. In serving an apprenticeship to a merchant in Aberdeen he discovered and cultivated with mild enthusiasm a propensity for stringing verses together. His business and poetic gifts do not seem to have procured for him much recognition in his native town. So he emigrated to Edinburgh, a journey of considerable magnitude in 1746, when the coasting vessel was the swiftest means of communication as well as the surest, (for just about this time quite a number of Highland gentlemen-being disappointed in obtaining English coronets for themselves, through the failure of the Pretender's invasion-were not averse to the humble crowns to be found in the pockets of their more cool-headed countrymen.) William Ferguson did not have much satisfaction with his several masters, or perhaps his various masters did not have much satisfaction with him. At all events, the father of the subject of our sketch did not fall on his feet until he procured a situation in the office of the British Linen Company, where, perhaps, the many masters were too busy looking after each other to have much time to look after their servants, a state of affairs which prevailed then, as now, in such concerns. William Ferguson's wife was an estimable woman whose life was bound up in the narrow, but exalted, sphere of promoting the happiness of home.

Robert Ferguson, the poet, was born on September 5th, 1750, and about all that is of interest in his family relations, is, that he was not an only son; that he had sisters, and that (perhaps owing to many of his poems being suggested by current

topics), he never, by any chance, betrays the fact that he was not a Scottish Topsy, but had kith and kin like any ordinary poet. The folly of sending children to school to have their poor little noodles crammed with what to them is idle jingle, when they should be engaged in the exhilarating pursuit of compounding mud pies, prevailed in those days, as now, and so it was matter of much concern to his father and mother that little Robert was of a constitution so delicate that he had reached six years, and his brain had not yet been tortured into retaining and repeating the ponderous rumbling noises-all that the Shorter Catechism is to a child. Doubtless, the worthy Mrs. Ferguson bemoaned with a heavy heart that 'puir wee Bob,' as she would call him, had not learned 'What is Justification, Adoption, and Sanctification?' And, without doubt, her neighbours would bring in their wee 'Jocks' and 'Sandies' to repeat the 'quashtions' or carritchesall, of course, for the benefit of 'the bit bairn.' In his sixth year Robert was put under private tuition, and so rapid was his progress that in six months he was prepared for entrance into the High School, then, as now, a school of high character. The future poet's bodily infirmities prevented regular application to his studies, but such was his natural ability, and so highly was he fired with ambition, that he managed to excel most of his competitors. When confined to the house, through illness, he developed a taste for reading, and found his chief delight in the Proverbs of Solomon-reading that will be delightful to everyone for all time, but of which a want of appreciation is decidedly manifest in these days of so-called advanced taste. The lad, having continued four years at Edinburgh, was removed to Dundee High School, which is now of small importance as an educational institution, though it was, at that time, one of the best. Here, under the same depressing cir

cumstances as surrounded his career at Edinburgh, Ferguson, for two years, earned marked distinction. Like most Scotch families of the middle class, that of William Ferguson had in solemn council decided that one of its members should' wag his pow i' a poopit,' and Robert, being the most unlikely to give as good as he got in the turmoil of commercial life, was the one upon whom the choice fell. So, his friends being appealed to, their efforts secured for Robert a bursary at St. Andrews, where he began his university career at the age of thirteen. His natural abilities speedily commanded attention, though their scope. was, perhaps, somewhat obscured by the youth's propensity for fun and frolic. At that time Dr. Wilkie was professor of Natural Philosophy, and he was attracted by the sickly lad taking such a fancy to him, it is alleged, though without much appearance of credibility, that Robert was deputed to read the professor's prelections, when the latter was unable to occupy his chair. When he was entered as a Civis of the Divinity class, Robert seems to have begun to cultivate his muse, and with charming perversity, despising the theologians' idea of the time that the drama was a device of Satan to ruin men's souls, the first use which he is found making of his talent is to write two acts of a tragedy, entitled William Wallace. Perchance he excused himself from dallying with the devil's hand-maiden, on the score of patriotism, as did a friend of my own whose father caught him at similar work, and, wishing to advance some arguments against play-writing, stopped to punctuate his remarks with a broomstick; perhaps it would be more correct were I to say that he made his remarks with the broomstick, and let his want of breath supply punctuation. It is the aspiration of every Scottish youth to write a tragedy on Wallace. They do not know that incident is, after all, only the framework of a dramatic picture, and that Wal

lace's life does not present anything out of which to construct more than a

dramatic panorama. The aspirations of some few Scotch youths have led them on into two acts of a tragedy on this subject before their ambition became flat and unprofitable. A very few have reached five acts, but these youths died young. Robert Ferguson having stopped short at two acts, lived, but it seems that after four years, when his bursary expired, he had advanced backwards so far in his ideas about being a minister, that he decided to turn to another refuge-the law. Two years before the end of his university career, his father died, but this had no great influence upon Robert, for the last two years of his life at St. Andrews were of a piece with those during which he earned the character of being a light-headed young man. His mother was too poor to maintain him at home, and Robert was so unsettled in his habits that he could make no provision for himself. Following his restless impulse, he went to Aberdeen to see a rich uncle, who received and entertained him hospitably for six months, then turned him out of doors. The poor youth had no money and his personal appearance had become decidedly shabby. His heart burning with anger at his uncle, who had made no exercise of his influence to procure work for him, Ferguson set his face to the south, and started to walk to Edinburgh. ing when a short distance on his way, and seizing pen and paper he sent a bitter letter to Mr. Forbes, that had the effect of drawing from the latter the offer of a few shillings, which was accepted by the poet, who excused himself in accepting the tardy aid by pleading the absolute want in which he had to undertake his long journey. Edinburgh was reached on foot, but the poor young fellow was exhausted, and was confined to bed for several days, during which bis feelings found vent in writing his Decay of Friendship, and Against Kepining at

Halt

Fortune. Before long, Ferguson obtained a situation in the Commissary Clerk's office, but the tyranny of the deputy drove him forth into the streets once more. A considerable time elapsed before he obtained his next and last situation, one in the office of the Sheriff Clerk, where he practised until his death all he ever knew of law-transcribing law documents at so much per folio. Ferguson really did make an attempt to study law, but he abandoned it like others illustrious in literature, among whom may be named, in passing, Tasso, Ariosto, Petrarch, Corneille, Rowe, Scott, and Dickens. Ferguson only transcribed enough to enable him to procure simple comforts, chief among which, unfortunately, was whiskey. But while applying himself with assiduity to increasing His Majesty's revenue in this way, the poet did not neglect his muse, and almost every number of Ruddiman's Weekly Magazine was enriched by contributions from his pen. He was speedily recognized as a man of great talent, and in the absence of men of genius, such as Scott and Burns, who came after him, was the lion of the day among that class, which then, as now, thinks that association with men of letters conceals its own illiterate conceit. From among these wealthy worshippers of what they themselves had not, Ferguson did not succeed in procuring a patron; in those days more essential for the elevation of merit to financial success than genius itself. Many there were who patronized the poor man in the worst possible way, by enticing him from the earning of his daily bread to consummating his daily death, for with pity be it said, poor Ferguson was too often snatched from sensibility by the seductive embrace of his country's Delilah-drink. As other of his finer qualities were being effaced by residence, it might be termed, in taverns, phoenix-like out of the ruins rose the strong religious principles which had been instilled into him in