posited near St. Giles, and, I believe, are destitute of a monument; but none is requisite for the immortality of his fame. His noblest eulogy was pronounced by the Regent Murray, who, as he gazed upon the corpse of the intrepid Reformer, exclaimed "Here lies one, who never feared the face of man!" The remainder of the street, which we have been pursuing, down to the precincts of Holyrood House, is called the Canongate: it was formerly the most important in the city, containing, in Catholic and monarchical times, the mansions of the priests and nobles. Scarce a vestige of its former greatness remains, except in the magnitude and loftiness of the houses, whose squalid aspect and shattered windows, bespeak the degradation of the modern inmates. A large gloomy building on the right was formerly the residence of the Dukes of Queensferry: it is now converted into a Refuge for the Destitute! These scenes reminded me mournfully and forcibly of the decaying palaces of Venice, and of her glory passed away! On the left of the street, stands the Canongate church, to which I made a special pilgrimage, for the purpose of inspecting the tomb erected to the memory of the unhappy Fergusson, by his brother poet, Burns. There are notices put up in several places in the churchyard, forbidding any person from walking on the turf; and six or seven men, who were at work, attempted to stop me from approaching the tomb; but if they had been six or seven devils, I should have persevered. The stone is very simple-a mere upright slab-on which the well-known epitaph is inscribed: the whole runs thus: Here lies Robert Fergusson, Poet; Died Oct. 16, 1774. No sculptur'd marble here, nor pompous lay, By special grant of the Managers To Robert Burns, who erected this stone, ROBERT FERGUSSON. To the top of the tomb-stone is affixed a board, on which the following verses, altered from Burns's own elegy on Captain Matthew Henderson, are neatly painted: O Robbie Burns, the man, the brither, Like thee when shall we find anither, Go to your sculptur'd tombs, ye great, In a' the tinsel trash o' state! But by thy honest turf I'll wait, Thou man of worth! And weep the sweetest Poet's fate Dignum laude virum Musa vetat mori. My own opinion is, that the sooner this spurious epitaph is removed the better. To say nothing of the absurdity of determining on this spot to "wait by the honest turf" of a man who lies buried at Dumfries; nor of the bad taste of the concluding quotation in Latin, which Burns declared to be to him " a fountain shut up;" the addition thus rashly made is felt to be a disagreeable intrusion, reminding us of the churchwardens or workmen who erected it, when wè would fain ponder only on those two youthful poets, their genius and their misfortunes. A simple memorial erected by one eminent man over the remains of another, is an object of undoubted interest; but when to the top of this is tacked on a memorial to the memorialist, something of clumsiness and complexity is introduced, which is extremely offensive. A fine man on a gallant steed is a noble sight; but let a monkey be placed on the shoulders of the man, and the whole scene becomes ludicrous. With an effort I turned away my thoughts from this profane and incongruous addition, and gazed only on the unsculptured stone—the unpretending lay-meet tribute of a generous heart to kindred and fallen genius! And who could have refused a tear to the memory of one so young and so joyous, so precocious in intellect, so premature in its decay!-Unhappy Fergusson! -He drained the cup of pleasure to the dregs, at his very first entrance into life; yielding himself a prey to the temptations, to which his unprotected condition and vivacity of spirit were constantly exposing him. Penury and remorse soon drove him to despair; and that vigorous understanding, which had beamed with such early promise of future splendour, was now dimmed and darkened for ever. How painful to contemplate the young poet at this mournful period of his brief and troubled career, bereaved of his mother's soothing presence, and conscious at intervals of his misery and madness! That mother, too, who had owed her support to his exertions, and who loved him with all the fervor of a mother's love, what an agonizing lot was her's, when torn from the couch of her maniac boy! Retire we from this hallowed ground. Child of misfortune!-may thy broken spirit, cleansed from its mortal stains, find pardon and peace in heaven! Holyrood House next claims our attention. I will not attempt to add one more to the numerous descriptions, which have already appeared of this celebrated palace; but content myself with transcribing the sentiments, which it elicited from the muse of Robert Burns: With awe-struck thought, and pitying tears, I view that noble stately dome, Where Scotia's kings of other years, Fam'd heroes! had their royal home: Alas! how chang'd the times to come! Their royal name low in the dust! |