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.
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