OSSIAN -- Massenet

Speranza

As Swift has, with some reason, affirmed that all sublunar happiness consists in being well deceived, it may possibly be the creed of many, that it had been wise, if after  Blair's ingenious and elegant dissertation on "the venerable Ossian," all doubts respecting what we have been taught to call his works had forever ceased: since there appears cause to believe, that numbers who listened with delight to "the voice of Cona," would have been happy, if, seeing their own good, they had been content with these poems accompanied by Blair's judgment, and sought to know no more.

There are men, however, whose ardent love of truth rises, on all occasions, paramount to every other consideration; and though the first step in search of it should dissolve the charm, and turn a
fruitful Eden into a barren wild, they would pursue it.

For those, and for the idly curious in literary problems, added to the wish of
making this new edition of "The Poems of Ossian" as well-informed as
the hour would allow, we have here thought it proper to insert some
account of a renewal of the controversy relating to the genuineness
of this rich treasure of poetical excellence.

 Nearly half a century has elapsed since the Publication of the poems
ascribed by Macpherson to Ossian, which poems he then professed
to have collected in the original Gaelic, during a tour through the
Western Highlands and Isles.

But a doubt of their authenticity
nevertheless obtains, and, from their first appearance to this day, has continued in various degrees to agitate the literary world.

In
the present year, "A Report," springing from an inquiry instituted
for the purpose of leaving, with regard to this matter, "no hinge or
loop to hang a doubt on," has been laid before the public.

As the
committee, in this investigation, followed, in a great measure, that
line of conduct chalked out by D. Hume to Blair, we shall,
previously to stating their precise mode of proceeding, make several
large and interesting extracts from the historian's two letters on
this subject.

 "I live in a place," he writes, "where I have the pleasure of
frequently hearing justice done to your dissertation, but never heard
it mentioned in a company, where some one person or other did not
express his doubts with regard to the authenticity of the poems which
are its subject; and I often hear them totally rejected with disdain
and indignation, as a palpable and most impudent forgery.

This opinion has, indeed, become very prevalent among the men of letters
in London; and I can foresee, that in a few years, the poems, if they
continue to stand on their present footing, will be thrown aside, and
will fall into final oblivion.

The absurd pride and caprice of Macpherson himself, who scorns, as he pretends, to satisfy anybody that doubts his veracity, has tended much to confirm this general skepticism; and I must own, for my part, that though I have had many particular reasons to believe these poems genuine, more than it is possible for any Englishman of letters to have, yet I am not entirely without my scruples on that head.

You think, that the internal proofs in favor of the poems are very
convincing.

So they are; but there are also internal reasons against
them, particularly from the manners, notwithstanding all the art with
which you have endeavored to throw a vernish 1 on that circumstance;
and the preservation of such long and such connected poems, by oral
tradition alone, during a course of fourteen centuries, is so much
out of the ordinary course of human affairs, that it requires the
strongest reasons to make us believe it.

My present purpose,
therefore, is to apply to you in the name of all the men of letters
of this, and, I may say, of all other countries, to establish this
capital point, and to give us proofs that these poems are, I do not
say, so ancient as the age of Severus, but that they, were not forged
within these five years by Macpherson.

These proofs must not be arguments, but testimonies.

People's ears are fortified against the
former; the latter may yet find their way, before the poems are
consigned to total oblivion.

Now the testimonies may, in my opinion, be of two kinds.

Macpherson pretends there is an ancient manuscript of part of "Fingal" in the family, I think, of Clanronald.

Get that
fact ascertained by more than one person of credit; let these persons
be acquainted with the Gaelic; let them compare the original and the
translation; and let them testify the fidelity of the latter.

But the chief point in which it will be necessary for you to exert
yourself, will be, to get positive testimony from many different
hands that such poems are vulgarly recited in the Highlands, and have
there long been the entertainment of the people.

This testimony must be as particular as it is positive.

It will not be sufficient that a Highland gentleman or clergyman say or write to you that he has heard
such poems; nobody questions that there are traditional poems of that
part of the country, where the names of Ossian and Fingal, and Oscar
and Gaul, are mentionmed in every stanza.

The only doubt is, whether these poems have any farther resemblance to the poems published by
Macpherson.

I was told by Bourke, 1 a very ingenious Irish gentleman,
the author of a tract on the sublime and beautiful, that on the first
publication of Macpherson's book, all the Irish cried out, 'We know
all those poems.

We have always heard them from our infancy.

But
when he asked more particular questions, he could never learn that
any one ever heard or could repeat the original of any one paragraph
of the pretended translation.

This generality, then, must be
carefully guarded against, as being of no authority.

Your connections among your brethren of the clergy may be of great
use to you.

You may easily learn the names of all ministers of that
country who understand the language of it. You may write to them,
expressing the doubts that have arisen, and desiring them to send for
such of the bards as remain, and make them rehearse their ancient
poems. Let the clergymen then have the translation in their hands,
and let them write back to you, and inform you, that they heard such
a one, (naming him,) living in such a place, rehearse the original of
such a passage, from such a page to such a page of the English
translation, which appeared exact and faithful. If you give to the
public a sufficient number of such testimonials, you may prevail. But
I venture to foretel to you, that nothing less will serve the
purpose; nothing less will so much as command the attention of the
public.

Becket tells me, that he is to give us a new edition of your
dissertation, accompanied with some-remarks on Temora.

Here is a
favorable opportunity for you to execute this purpose.

You have a
just and laudable zeal for the credit of these poems.

They are, if
genuine, one of the greatest curiosities, in all respects, that ever
was discovered in the commonwealth of letters; and the child is, in a
manner, become yours by adoption, as Macpherson has totally abandoned
all care of it.

These motives call upon you to exert yourself: and I
think it were suitable to your candor, and most satisfactory also to
the reader, to publish all the answers to all the letters you write,
even though some of those letters should make somewhat against your
own opinion in this affair.

We shall always be the more assured, that
no arguments are strained beyond their proper force, and no contrary
arguments suppressed, where such an entire communication is made to
us. Becket joins me heartily in that application; and he owns to me,
that the believers in the authenticity of the poems diminish every
day among the men of sense and reflection. Nothing less than what I
propose can throw the balance on the other side."


I am very glad you have
undertaken the task which I used the freedom to recommend to you.

Nothing less than what you propose will serve the purpose.

You must expect no assistance from Macpherson, who flew into a passion when I
told him of the letter I had wrote to you.

But you must not mind so
strange and heteroclite a mortal, than whom I have scarce ever known
a man more perverse and unamiable.

He will probably depart for
Florida with Governor Johnstone, and I would advise him to travel
among the Chickasaws or Cherokees, in order to tame and civilize him.


Since writing the above, I have been in company with Mrs. Montague, a lady of great distinction in this place, and a zealous partisan of Ossian.

I told her of your intention, and even used the freedom to read your letter to her.

Mrs. Montague was extremely pleased with your project;
and the rather, as the Due de Nivernois, she said, had talked to her
much on that subject last winter; and desired, if possible, to get
collected some proofs of the authenticity of these poems, which he
proposed to lay before the Academie de Belles Lettres at Paris.

You
see, then, that you are upon a great stage in this inquiry, and that
many people have their eyes upon you.

This is a new motive for
rendering your proofs as complete as possible.

 I cannot conceive any
objection which a man, even of the gravest character, could have to
your publication of his letters, which will only attest a plain fact
known to him.

 Such scruples, if they occur, you must endeavor to
remove, for on this trial of yours will the judgment of the public
finally depend."

 Without being acquainted with Hume's advice to Blair, the
committee, composed of chosen persons, and assisted by the best
Celtic scholars, adopted, as it will he seen, a very similar manner
of acting.

 It conceived the purpose of its nomination to be, to employ the
influence of the society, and the extensive communication which it
possesses with every part of the Highlands, in collecting what
materials or information it was still practicable to collect,
regarding the authenticity and nature of the poems ascribed to
Ossian, and particularly of that celebrated collection published by
 Macpherson.

 For the purpose above mentioned, the committee, soon after its
appointment, circulated the following set of queries, through such
parts of the Highlands and Islands, and among such persons resident
there, as seemed most likely to afford the information required.

QUERIES.

QUERY 1.

Have you ever heard repeated, or sung, any of the poems ascribed
to Ossian, translated and published by Macpherson?

By whom have
you heard them so repeated, and at what time or times?

 Did you ever
commit any of them to writing?

or can you remember them so well as
now to set them down? In either of these cases, be so good to send
the Gaelic original to the committee.

 The same answer is requested concerning any other ancient poems of
the same kind, and relating to the same traditionary persons or
stories with those in Mr. Macpherson's collection.

Are any of the persons from whom you heard any such poems now
alive? or are there, in your part of the country, any persons who
remember and can repeat or recite such poems?

If there are, be so
good as to examine them as to the manner of their getting or learning
such compositions; and set down, as accurately as possible, such as
they can now repeat or recite; and transmit such their account, and
such compositions as they repeat, to the committee.

 If there are, in your neighborhood, any persons from whom
Macpherson received any poems, in. quire particularly what the poems
were which he so received, the manner in which he received them, and
how he wrote them down; show those persons, if you have an
opportunity, his translation of such poems, and desire them to say,
if the translation is exact and literal; or, if it differs, in what
it differs from the poems, as they repeated them to Macpherson,
and can now recollect them.

Be so good to procure every information you conveniently can, with
regard to the traditionary belief, in the country in which you live,
concerning, the history of Fingal and his followers, and that of
Ossian and his poems; particularly those stories and poems published
by Macpherson, and the heroes mentioned in them.

Transmit any
such account, and any proverbial or traditionary expression in the
original Gaelic, relating to the subject, to the committee.

In all the above inquiries, or any that may occur to in
elucidation of this subject, he is requested by the committee to make
the inquiry, and to take down the answers, with as much impartiality
and precision as possible, in the same manner as if it were a legal
question, and the proof to be investigated with a legal strictness.--
See the "Report."

It is presumed as undisputed, that a traditionary history of a great hero or chief, called Fion, Fion na Gael, or, as it is modernized, "Fingal", exists, and has immemorially existed, in the Highlands and
Islands of Scotland, and that certain poems or ballads containing the exploits of him and his associate heroes, were the favorite lore of the natives of those districts.

The general belief of the existence of such heroic personages, and the great poet Ossian, the son of
Fingal, by whom their exploits were sung, is as universal in the Highlands, as the belief of any ancient fact whatsoever.

It is recorded in proverbs, which pass through all ranks and conditions of men, Ossian dall, blind Ossian, is a person as well known as strong
Sampson, or wise Solomon.

The very boys in their sports cry out for fair play, Cothram na feine, the equal combat o the Fingalians.

Ossian, an deigh nam fiann, Ossian, the last of his race, is
proverbial, to signify a man who has had the misfortune to survive
his kindred.

And servants returning from a fair or wedding, were in
use to describe the beauty of young women they had seen there, by the
words, Tha i cho boidheach reh Agandecca, nighean ant sneachda,

"she is as beautiful as Agandecca, the daughter of the Snow.

 All this will be readily conceded, and Macpherson's being at one
period an "indifferent proficient in the Gaelic language," may seem
an argument of some weight against his having himself composed these
Ossianic Poems.

Of his inaccuracy in the Gaelic, a ludicrous instance
is related in the declaration of E. Macpherson, at Knock, in
Sleat, Sept. 11, 1800.

E. Macpherson  declares that he, "Colonel Macleod, of
Talisker, and the late Mr. Maclean of Coll, embarked with Mr.
Macpherson for Uist on the same pursuit: that they landed at
Lochmaddy, and proceeded across the Muir to Benbecula, the seat of
the younger Clanronald: that on their way thither they fell in with a
man whom they afterwards ascertained to have been Mac Codrum, the
poet: that Mr. Macpherson asked him the question, A bheil dad agad
air an Fheinn? by which he meant to inquire, whether or not he knew
any of the poems of Ossian relative to the Fingalians: but that the
term in which the question was asked, strictly imported whether or
not the Fingalians owed him any thing; and that Mac Codrum, being a
man of humor, took advantage of the incorrectness or inelegance of
the Gaelic in which the question was put, and answered, that really
if they had owed him any thing, the bonds and obligations were lost,
and he believed any attempt to recover them at that time of day would
be unavailing.


Which sally of MacCodrum's wit seemed to have hurt Mr.
Macpherson, who cut short the conversation, and proceeded on towards
Benbecula.

And the declarant being asked whether or not the late J.
 Macpherson was capable of composing such poems as those of
Ossian, declares most explicitly and positively that he is certain

Mr. Macpherson was as unequal to such compositions as the declarant
himself, who could no more make them than take wings and fly." p. 96.

 We would here observe, that the sufficiency of a man's knowledge of
such a language as the Gaelic, for all the purposes of composition,
is not to be questioned, because he does not speak it accurately or
elegantly, much less is it to be quibbled into suspicion by the
pleasantry of a double entendre. But we hold it prudent, and it shall
be our endeavor in this place, to give no decided opinion on the main
subject of dispute. For us the contention shall still remain sub
judice.

 To the queries circulated through such parts of the Highlands as the
committee imagined most likely to afford information in reply to
them, they received many answers, most of which were conceived in
nearly similar terms; that the persons themselves had never doubted
of the existence of such poems as Mr. Macpherson had translated; that
they had heard many of them repeated in their youth: that listening
to them was the favorite amusement of Highlanders, in the hours of
leisure and idleness; but that since the rebellion in 1745, the
manners of the people had undergone a change so unfavorable to the
recitation of these poems, that it was now an amusement scarcely
known, and that very few persons remained alive who were able to
recite them.

That many of the poems which they had formerly heard
were similar in subject and story, as well as in the names of the
heroes mentioned in them, to those translated by Mr. Macpherson: that
his translation seemed, to such as had read it, a very able one; but
that it did not by any means come up to the force or energy of the
original to such as had read it; for his book was by no means
universally possessed, or read among the Highlanders, even accustomed
to reading, who conceived that his translation could add but little
to their amusement, and not at all to their conviction, in a matter
which they had never doubted.

A few of the committee's correspondents
sent them such ancient poems as they possessed in writing, from
having formerly taken them down from the oral recitation of the old
Highlanders who were in use to recite them, or as they now took them
down from some person, whom a very advanced period of life, or a
particular connection with some reciter of the old school, enabled
still to retain them in his memory; but those, the committee's
correspondents said, were generally less perfect, and more corrupted,
than the poems which they had, formerly heard, or which might have
been obtained at an earlier period.

 Several collections came to them by presents, as well as by purchase, and in these are numerous "shreds and patches," that bear a
strong resemblance to the materials of which "Ossian's Poems" are
composed.

These are of various degrees of consequence. One of them we
are the more tempted to give, for the same reason as the committee
was the more solicitous to procure it, because it was one which some
of the opposers of the authenticity of Ossian had quoted as evidently
spurious, betraying the most convincing marks of its being a close
imitation of the address to the sun in Milton.

 "I got," says Mr. Mac Diarmid, "the copy of these poems" (Ossian's
address to the sun in Carthon, and a similar address in Carrickthura)
"about thirty years, ago, from an old man in Glenlyon.

I took it, and
several other fragments, now, I fear, irrecoverably lost, from the
man's mouth.

He had learnt them in his youth from people in the same
glen, which must have been long before Macpherson was born."

LITERAL TRANSLATION OF OSSIAN'S ADDRESS TO THE SUN IN CARTHON.

 "O! thou who travellest above, round as the full-orbed hard shield
of the mighty! whence is thy brightness without frown, thy light that
is lasting, O sun? Thou comest forth in thy powerful beauty, and the
stars bide their course; the moon, without strength, goes from the
sky, hiding herself under a wave in the west. Thou art in thy journey
alone; who is so bold as to come nigh thee? The oak falleth from the
high mountain; the rock and the precipice fall under old age; the
ocean ebbeth and floweth, the moon is lost above in the sky; but thou
alone forever in victory, in the rejoicing of thy own light. When the
storm darkeneth around the world, with fierce thunder, and piercing
lightnings, thou lookest in thy beauty from the noise, smiling in the
troubled sky! To me is thy light in vain, as I can never see thy
countenance; though thy yellow golden locks are spread on the face of
the clouds in the east; or when thou tremblest in the west, at thy
dusky doors in the ocean. Perhaps thou and myself are at one time
mighty, at another feeble, our years sliding down from the skies,
quickly travelling together to their end. Rejoice then, O sun! while
thou art strong, O king! in thy youth. Dark and unpleasant is old
age, like the vain and feeble light of the moon, while she looks
through a cloud on the field, and her gray mist on the sides of the
rocks; a blast from the north on the plain, a traveller in distress,
and he slow."

 The comparison may be made, by turning to the end of Mr.
Macpherson's version of "Carthon," beginning "O thou that rollest
above."

 But it must not be concealed, that after all the exertions of the
committee, it has not been able to obtain any one poem, the same in
title and tenor with the poems published by him. We therefore feel
that the reader of "Ossian's Poems," until grounds more relative be
produced, will often, in the perusal of  Macpherson's
translations, be induced, with some show of justice. to exclaim with
him, when he looked over the manuscript copies found in Clanronald's
family, "D--n the scoundrel, it is he himself that now speaks, and
not Ossian!'

 To this sentiment the committee has the candor to incline, us it
will appear by their summing up.

After producing or pointing to a
large body of mixed evidence, and taking for granted the existence,
at some period, of an abundance of Ossianic poetry, it comes to the
question,

"How far that collection of such poetry, published by Mr.
James Macpherson, is genuine?"

To answer this query decisively, is,
as they confess, difficult. This, however, is the ingenious manner in
which they treat it.

 "The committee is possessed of no documents, to show how much of his
collection Mr. Macpherson obtained in the form in which he has given
it to the world. The poems and fragments of poems which the committee
has been able to procure, contain, as will appear from the article in
the Appendix (No. 15) already mentioned, often the substance, and
sometimes almost the literal expression (the ipsissima verba) of
passages given by Mr. Macpherson, in the poems of which he has
published the translations.

But the committee has not been able to
obtain any one poem the same in title or tenor with the poems
published by him.

It is inclined to believe, that he was in use to
supply chasms, and to give connection, by inserting passages which he
did not find, and to add what he conceived to be dignity and delicacy
to the original Composition, by striking out passages, by softening
incidents, by refining the language -- in short, by changing what he
considered as too simple or too rude for modern ear, and elevating
what, in his opinion, was below the standard of good poetry. To what
degree, however, he exercised these liberties, it is impossible for
the committee to determine. The advantages he possessed, which the
committee began its inquiries too late to enjoy, of collecting from
the oral recitation of a number of persons, now no more, a very great
number of the same poems on the same subjects, and then collating
those different copies, or editions, if they may be so called,
rejecting what was spurious or corrupted in one copy, and adopting
from another, something more genuine and excellent in its place,
afforded him an opportunity of putting together what might fairly
enough be called an original whole, of much more beauty, and with
much fewer blemishes, than the committee believe it now possible for
any person, or combination of persons, to obtain." P. 152-3.

 Some Scotch critics, who should not be ignorant of the strongholds
and fastnesses of the advocates for the authenticity of these poems,
appear so convinced of their insufficiency, that they pronounce the
question put to rest forever.

But we greatly distrust that any
literary question, possessing a single inch of debateable ground to
stand upon, will be suffered to enjoy much rest in an age like the
present. There are as many minds as men, and of wranglers there is no
end. Behold another and "another yet," and in our imagination, he

"bears a glass,
Which shows us many more."

 The first of these is Laing, who has recently published the
"Poems of Ossian, &c., containing Poetical Works of James Macpherson,
Esq., in Prose and Rhyme: with, notes and illustrations. In 2 vols. 8
vo. Edinburgh, 1805." In these "notes and illustrations," we foresee,
that Ossian is likely to share the fate of Shakspeare, that is,
ultimately to be loaded and oppressed by heavy commentators, until
his immortal spirit groan beneath vast heaps of perishable matter.


The object of Laing's commentary, after having elsewhere
endeavored to show that the poems are spurious, and of no historical
authority, "is," says he, it not merely to exhibit parallel passages,
much less instances of a fortuitous resemblance of ideas, but to
produce the precise originals from which the similes and images arc
indisputably derived."

And these he pretends to find in Holy Writ,
and in the classical poets, both of ancient and modern times. Mr.
Laing, however, is one of those detectors of plagiarisms, and
discoverers of coincidences, whose exquisite penetration and
acuteness can find any thing anywhere.

Dr. Johnson, who was shut
against conviction with respect to Ossian, even when he affected to
seek the truth in the heart of the Hebrides, may yet be made useful
to the Ossianites in canvassing the merits of this redoubted stickler
on the side of opposition.

"Among the innumerable practices," says
the Rambler, "by which interest or envy have taught those who live
upon literary fame to disturb each other at their airy banquets, one
of the most common is the charge of plagiarism.

When the excellence
of a now composition can no longer be contested, and malice is
compelled to give way to the unanimity of applause, there is yet this
one expedient to be tried, by which the author may be degraded,
though his work be reverenced; and the excellence which we cannot
obscure, may be set at such a distance as not to overpower our
fainter lustre. This accusation is dangerous, because, even when it
is false, it may be sometimes urged with probability."

 How far this just sentence applies to Laing, it does not become
us, nor is it our business, now to declare: but we must say, that
nothing can be more disingenuous or groundless than his frequent
charges of plagiarism of the following description; because, in the
War of Caros, we meet with these words, "It is like the field, when
darkness covers the hills around, and the shadow grows slowly on the
plain of the sun," we are to believe, according to Mr. Laing, that
the idea was stolen from Virgil's

Majoresque cadunt altis de montibus umbra.
For see, yon sunny hills the shade extend.--Dryden.

As well might we credit that no one ever beheld a natural phenomenon
except the Mantuan bard.

The book of nature is open to all, and in
her pages there are no new readings. "Many subjects," it is were said
by Johnson, "fall under the consideration of an author, which, being
limited by nature, can admit only of slight and accidental
diversities. And definitions of the same thing must be nearly the
same; and descriptions, which are definitions of a more lax and
fanciful kind, must always have, in some degree, that resemblance to
each other, which they all have to their object."

It is true,
however, if we were fully able to admit that Macpherson could not
have obtained these-ideas where he professes to have found them, Mr.
Laing has produced many instances of such remarkable coincidence as
would make it probable that Macpherson frequently translates, not the
Gaelic, but the poetical lore of antiquity.

Still this is a battery
that can only be brought to play on particular points; and then with
great uncertainty. The mode of attack used by Mr. Knight, could it
have been carried on to any extent, 'would have proved much more
effectual. We shall give the instance alluded to. In his "Analytical
Enquiry into the Principles of Taste, 1805," he makes these remarks:

 "The untutored, but uncorrupted feelings of all unpolished nations,
have regulated their fictions upon the same principles, even when
most rudely exhibited. In relating the actions of their gods and
deceased heroes, they are licentiously extravagant: for their
falsehood could amuse, because it could not be detected; but in
describing the common appearances of nature, and all those objects
and effects which are exposed to habitual observation, their bards
are scrupulously exact; so that an extravagant hyperbole, in a matter
of this kind, is sufficient to mark, as counterfeit any composition
attributed to them.

In the early stages of society, men are as acute
and accurate in practical observation as they are limited and
deficient in speculative science; and in proportion as, they, are
ready to give up their imaginations to delusion, they are jealously
tenacious of the evidence of their senses. James Macpherson, in the
person of his blind bard, could say, with applause in the eighteenth
century, 'Thus have I seen in Cona; but Cona I behold no more; thus
have I seen two dark hills removed from their place by the strength
of the mountain stream. They turn from side to side, and their tall
oaks meet one another on high. Then they fall together with all their
rocks and trees.'

 "But had a blind bard, or any other bard, presumed to utter such a
rhapsody of bombast in the hall of shells, amid the savage warriors
to whom Ossian is supposed to have sung, he would have needed all the
influence of royal birth, attributed to that fabulous personage, to
restrain the audience from throwing their shells at his head, and
hooting him out of their company as an impudent liar.

They must have
been sufficiently acquainted with the rivulets of Cona or Glen-Coe to
know that he had seen nothing of the kind; and have known enough of
mountain torrents in general to know that no such effects are ever
produced by them, and would, therefore, have indignantly rejected
such a barefaced attempt to impose on their credulity."

The best defence that can be set up in this case will, perhaps, be to
repeat, "It is he himself that now speaks, and not Ossian."

Laing had scarcely thrown down the gauntlet, when Archibald
M'Donald appeared

"Ready, aye, ready, for the field.

 The opinion of the color of his opposition, whether it be that of
truth or error, will depend on the eye that contemplates it. Those
who delight to feast with Mr. Laing on the limbs of a mangled poet,
will think the latter unanswered; while those who continue to indulge
the animating thought, "that Fingal lived, and that Ossian sung,"
will entertain a different sentiment. After successfully combating
several old positions, Mr. M'Donald terminates his discussion of the
point at issue with these words:

Laing declares, 'if a single poem of Ossian in MS. of an
older date than the present century (1700,) be procured and lodged in
a public library, I shall return among the first to our
national creed.'

 "This is reducing the point at issue to a narrow compass.

Had the
proposal been made at the outset, it would have saved both him and me
a good deal of trouble: not that in regard to ancient Gaelic
manuscripts I could give any more satisfactory account than has been
done in the course of this discourse.

There the reader will see, that
though some of the poems are confessedly procured from oral
tradition, yet several gentlemen of veracity attest to have seen,
among Macpherson's papers, several MSS. of a much older date than Mr.
Laing requires to be convinced.

Though not more credulous than my
neighbors, I cannot resist facts so well attested; there are no
stronger for believing the best-established human transactions.

 "I understand the originals are in the press, and expected daily to
make their appearance. When they do, the public will not be carried
away by conjectures, but be able to judge on solid grounds. Till
then, let the discussion be at rest." P. 193-4. It is curious to
remark, and, in this place, not unworthy of our notice, that whilst
the controversy is imminent in the decision, whether these poems are
to be ascribed to a Highland bard long since gone "to the halls of
his fathers," or to a Lowland muse of the last century, it is in the
serious meditation of some controversialist to step in and place the
disputed wreath on the brows of Hibernia.

There is no doubt that
Ireland was, in ancient times, so much connected with the adjacent
coast of Scotland, that they might almost be considered as one
country, having a community of manners and of language, as well as
the closest political connection. Their poetical language is nearly,
or rather altogether the same. These coinciding circumstances,
therefore, independent of all other ground, afford to ingenuity, in
the present state of the question, a sufficient basis for the
erection of an hypothetical superstructure of a very imposing nature.

 In a small volume published at Dusseldorf in 1787, by Edmond, Baron
de Harold, an Irishman, of endless titles, we are presented with what
are called, "Poems of Ossian lately discovered."

 "I am interested," says the baron in his preface, in no polemical
dispute or party, and give these poems such as they are found in the
mouths of the people; and do not pretend to ascertain what was the
native country of Ossian.

 I honor and revere equally a bard of his
exalted talents, were he born in Ireland or in Scotland.

It is certain that the Scotch and Irish were united at some early period.

That they proceed from the same origin is indisputable; nay, I
believe that it is proved beyond any possibility of negating it, that
the Scotch derive their origin from the Irish.

This truth has been
brought in question but of late days; and all ancient tradition, and
the general con. sent of the Scotch nation, and of their oldest
historians, agree to confirm the certitude of this assertion. If any
man still doubts of it, he will find, in Macgeogehan's History of
Ireland, an entire conviction, established by elaborate discussion,
and most incontrovertible proofs:" pp. v. vi.

 We shall not stay to quarrel about "Sir Archy's great grandmother,"
or to contend that Fingal, the Irish giant, did not one day go "over
from Carrickfergus, and people all Scotland with his own hands," and
make these sons of the north "illegitimate;" but we may observe, that
from the inclination of the baron's opinion, added to the internal
evidence of his poems, there appears at least as much reason to
believe their author to have been a native of Ireland as of Scotland.

The success with which Macpherson's endeavors had been rewarded,
induced the baron to inquire whether any more of this kind of poetry
could be obtained.

His search, he confessed, would have proved
fruitless, had he expected to find complete pieces; "for, certainly,"
says he, "none such exist. But," he adds, "in seeking with assiduity
and care, I found, by the help of my friends, several fragments of
old traditionary songs, which were very sublime, and particularly
remarkable for their simplicity and elegance." P. iv.

 "From these fragments," continues Baron de Harold, "I have composed
the following poems.

They are all founded on tradition; but the dress
they now appear in is mine. It will appear singular to some, that
Ossian, at times, especially in the songs of Comfort, seems rather to
be an Hibernian than a Scotchman, and that some of these poems
formally contradict passages of great importance in those handed to
the public by Mr. Macpherson, especially that very remarkable one of
Evir-allen, where the description of her marriage with Ossian, is
essentially different in all its parts front that given in former
poems." P. v.

We refer the reader to the opening of the fourth book of Fingal,
which treats of Ossian's courtship of Evir-allen. The Evir-allen of
Baron de Harold is in these words:



Thou fairest of the maids of Morven, young beam of streamy Lutha,
come to the help of the aged, come to the help of the distressed. Thy
soul is open to pity. Friendship glows in thy tender breast. Ah come
and sooth away my wo. Thy words are music to my soul.
Bring me my once-loved harp. It hangs long neglected in my hall. The
stream of years has borne me away in its course, and rolled away all
my bliss. Dim and faded are my eyes; thin-strewed with hairs my head.
Weak is that nervous arm, once the terror of foes. Scarce can I grasp
my staff, the prop of my trembling limbs.
 Lead me to yonder craggy steep. The murmur of the falling streams;
the whistling winds rushing through the woods of my hills; the
welcome rays of the bounteous sun, will soon awake the voice of song
in my breast. The thoughts of former years glide over my soul like
swift-shooting meteors o'er Ardven's gloomy vales.
 Come, ye friends of my youth, ye soft-sounding voices of Cona, bend
from your gold-tinged clouds, and join me in my song. A mighty blaze
is kindled in my soul. I hear a powerful voice. It says, "Seize thy
beam of glory, O bard! for thou shalt soon depart. Soon shall the
light of song be faded. Soon thy tuneful voice forgotten."--"Yes, I
obey, O Powerful voice, for thou art pleasing to mine ear."
 O Evir-allen! thou boast of Erin's maids, thy thoughts come
streaming on my soul. Hear, O Malvina! a tale of my youth, the
actions of my former days.
 Peace reigned over Morven's hills. The shell of joy resounded in our
halls. Round the blaze of the oak sported in festive dance the maids
of Morven. They shone like the radiant bow of heaven, when the fiery
rays, of the setting sun brightens its varied sides. They wooed me to
their love, but my heart was silent, cold. Indifference, like a
brazen shield, covered my frozen heart.
 Fingal saw, he smiled, and mildly spoke: My son, the down of youth
grows on thy check. Thy arm has wielded the spear of war. Foes have
felt thy force. Morven's maids are fair, but fairer are the daughters
of Erin. Go to that happy isle; to Branno's grass-covered fields. The
daughter of my friend deserves thy love. Majestic beauty flows around
her as a robe, and innocence, as a precious veil, heightens her
youthful charms. Go, take thy arms, and win the lovely fair.
 Straight I obeyed. A chosen band followed my steps. O We mounted the
dark-bosomed ship of the king, spread its white sails to the winds,
and ploughed through the foam of ocean. Pleasant shone the fine-eyed
Ull-Erin. 1 With joyal songs we cut the liquid way. The moon, regent
of the silent night, gleamed majestic in the blue vault of heaven,
and seemed pleased to bathe her side in the trembling wave. My soul
was full of my father's words. A thousand thoughts divided my
wavering mind,
 Soon as the early beam of morn appeared we saw the green-skirted
sides of Erin advancing in the bosom of the sea. White broke the
tumbling surges on the Coast.
 Deep in Larmor's woody bay we drove our keel to the shore, and
gained the lofty beach. I inquired after the generous Branno. A son
of Erin led us to his halls, to the banks of the Sounding Lego. He
said, "Many warlike youths are assembled to gain the dark-haired
maid, the beauteous Evir-allen. Branno will give her to the brave.
The conqueror shall bear away the fair. Erin's chiefs dispute the
maid, for she is destined for the strong in arms."
 These words inflamed my breast, and roused courage in my heart. I
clad my limbs in steel. I grasped a shining spear in my hand. Branno
saw our approach. He sent the gray-haired Snivan to invite us to his
feast, and know the intent of our course. He came with the solemn
steps of age, and gravely spoke the words of the Chief.
 "Whence are these arms of steel? If friends ye come, Branno invites
you to his halls; for this day the lovely Evir-allen shall bless the
warrior's arms whose lance shall shine victorious in the combat of
valor."
 "O venerable bard!" I said, "peace guides my steps to Branno. My arm
is young, and few are my deeds in war, but valor inflames my soul; I
am of the race of the brave."
 The bard departed. We followed the steps of age, and soon arrived to
Branno's halls.
 The hero came to meet us.

Manly serenity adorned his brow. His open
front showed the kindness of his heart. "Welcome," he said, "ye sons
of strangers; welcome to Branno's friendly halls; partake his shell
of joy. Share, in the combat of spears. Not unworthy is the prize of
valor, the lovely dark-haired maid of Erin; but strong must be that
warrior's hand that conquers Erin's chiefs; matchless his strength in
fight."
 "Chief," I replied, "the light of my father's deeds blazes in my
soul. Though young, I seek my beam of glory foremost in the ranks of
foes. Warrior, I can fair, but I shall fill with renown."

 "Happy is thy father, O generous youth! more happy the maid of thy
love. Thy glory shall surround her with praise; thy valor raise her
charms. O were my Evir-allen thy spouse, my years would pass away in
. joy. Pleased I would descend into the grave: contented see the end
of my days."

 The feast was spread; stately and slow camp Evir-allen. A snow-white
veil. covered her blushing face. Her large blue eyes were bent on
earth. Dignity flowed round her graceful steps. A shining tear fell
glittering on her cheek. She appeared lovely as the mountain flower
when the ruddy beams of the rising sun gleam on its dew-covered
aides. Decent she sate. High beat my fluttering heart. Swift through
my veins flew my thrilling blood. An unusual weight oppressed my
breast. I stood, darkened in my place. The image of the maid wandered
over my troubled soul.

 The sprightly harp's melodious voice arose from the string of the
bards. My soul melted away in the sounds, for my heart, like a
stream, flowed gently away in song. Murmurs soon broke upon our joy.
Half-unsheathed daggers gleamed. Many a voice was heard abrupt.
"Shall the son of the strangers be preferred? Soon shall he be rolled
away, like mist by rushing breath of the tempest." Sedate I rose, for
I despised the boaster's threats. The fair one's eye followed my
departure. I heard a smothered sigh from her breast.

 The horn's harsh sound summoned us to the doubtful strife of spears.
Lothmar, fierce hunter of the woody Galmal, first opposed his might.
He vainly insulted my youth, but my sword cleft his brazen shield,
and cut his ashen lance in twain. Straight I withheld my descending
blade. Lothmar retired confused.

 Then rose the red-haired strength of Sulin. Fierce rolled his deep-
sunk eye. His shaggy brows stood erect. His face was contracted with
scorn. Thrice his spear pierced my buckler. Thrice his sword struck
on my helm. Swift flashes gleamed from our circling blades. The pride
of my rage arose. Furious I rushed on the chief, and stretched his
bulk on the plain. Groaning he fell to earth. Lego's shores re-echoed
from his fall.

 Then advanced Cormac, graceful in glittering arms. No fairer youth
was seen on Erin's grassy hills. His age was equal to mine; his port
majestic; his stature tall and slender, like the young shooting
poplar in Lutha's streamy vales; but sorrow sate upon his brow;
languor reigned on his cheek. My heart inclined to the youth. My
sword oft avoided to wound; often sought to save his days: but he
rushed eager on death. He fell. Blood gushed from his panting breast.
Tears flowed streaming from mine eyes. I stretched forth my hand to
the chief. I proffered gentle words of peace. Faintly he seized my
hand. "Stranger," he said, "I willingly die, for my days were
oppressed with wo. Evir-allen rejected my love. She slighted my
tender suit. Thou alone deservest the maid, for pity reigns in thy
soul, and thou art generous and brave. Tell her, I forgive her scorn.
Tell her, I descend with joy into the grave; but raise the stone of
my praise. Let the maid throw a flower on my tomb, and mingle one
tear with my dust; this is my sole request. This she can grant to my
shade."

 I would have spoken, but broken sighs issuing from my breast,
interrupted my faltering words. I threw my spear aside. I clasped the
youth in my arms: but, alas! his soul was already departed to the
cloudy mansions of his; fathers.

 Then thrice I raised my voice, and called the chiefs to combat.
Thrice I brandished my spear, and wielded my glittering sword. No
warrior appeared. They dreaded the force of my arm, and yielded the
blue-eyed maid.

 Three days I remained in Branno's halls. On the fourth he led me to
the chambers of the fair. She came forth attended by her maids,
graceful in lovely majesty, like the moon, when all the stars confess
her sway, and retire respectful and abashed. I laid my sword at her
feet. Words of love flowed faltering from my tongue. Gently she gave
her hand. Joy seized my enraptured soul. Branno was touched at the
sight. He closed me in his aged arms.

 "O wert thou," said he, "the son of my friend, the son of the mighty
Fingal, then were my happiness complete!"

 "I am, I am the son of thy friend," I replied, "Ossian, the son of
Fingal;" then sunk upon his aged breast. Our flowing tears mingled
together. We remained long clasped in each other's arms.

 Such was my youth, O Malvina! but alas! I am now forlorn. Darkness
covers my soul. Yet the light of song beams at times on my mind. It
solaces awhile my we. Bards, prepare my tomb. Lay me by the fair
Evir-allen. When the revolving years bring back the mild season of
spring to our hills, sing the praise of Cona's bard, of Ossian, the
friend of the distressed.

 The difference, in many material circumstances, between these two
descriptions of, as it would seem, the same thing, must be very
apparent. "I will submit," says the baron, "the solution of this
problem to the public." We shall follow his example.

 The Honorable Henry Grattan, to whom the baron dedicates his work,
has said, that the poems: which it contains are calculated to inspire
"valor, wisdom, and virtue."

It is true, that they are adorned with
numerous beauties both of poetry and morality.

 They are still farther
distinguished and illumined by noble allusions to the Omnipotent,
which cannot fail to strike the reader as a particular in which they
remarkably vary from those of Mr. Macpherson.

"In his," says our
author," there is no mention of the Divinity.

In these, the chief
characteristic is the many solemn descriptions of the Almighty Being,
which give a degree of elevation to them unattainable by any other
method.

It is worthy of observation how the bard gains in sublimity
by his magnificent, display of the power, bounty, eternity, and
justice of God: and every reader must rejoice to find the venerable
old warrior occupied in descriptions so worthy his great and
comprehensive genius, and to see him freed from the imputation of
atheism, with which he had been branded by many sagacious and
impartial men.

 We could willingly transcribe more of these. poems, but we have
already quoted enough to show the style of them, and can spare space
for no additions.

"Lamor, a poem," is, the baron thinks, of a more
ancient date than that of Ossian, and "the model, perhaps, of his
compositions." Another, called "Sitric," king of Dublin, which throws
some light on the history of those times, he places in the ninth
century. What faith, however, is to be put in the genuineness of the
"Fragments,"  which Baron de Harold assures us furnished him with the
ground-work of these poems, we leave it to others to ascertain. Our
investigation is confined within far narrower limits.

 It has, without doubt, been observed that in noticing what has
transpired on this subject since our last edition, we have carefully
avoided any dogmatism on the question collectedly; and having simply
displayed a torch to show the paths which lead to the labyrinth,
those who wish to venture more deeply into its intricacies, may, when
they please, pursue them.

 We must acknowledge, before we depart, that we cannot see without
indignation, or rather pity, the belief of some persons that these
poems are the offspring of Macpherson's genius, so operating on their
minds as to turn their admiration of the ancient poet into contempt
of the modern.

We ourselves love antiquity, not merely however, on
account of its antiquity, but because it deserves to be loved.

No: we
honestly own with Quintilian, in quibusdam antiquorum, vix risum, in
quibusdam autem vix somnum tenere. The songs of other times, when
they are, as they frequently are, supremely beautiful, merit every
praise, but we must not therefore despise all novelty. In the days of
the Theban bard, it would seem to have been otherwise, for he appears
to give the preference to old wine, but new songs--

Pind. Ol. Od. ix

(ainei de palaion
men oinon, anthea d'ymnon
neoteron)

 With respect to age in wine we are tolerably agreed, but we differ
widely in regard to novelty in verse. Though warranted in some
measure, yet all inordinate prepossessions should be moderated, and
it would be well if we were occasionally to reflect on this question,
if the ancients had been so inimicable to novelty as we are, what
would now be old?

 We shall not presume to affirm that these poems were originally
produced by Macpherson, but admitting it, for the sake of argument,
it would then, perhaps, be just to ascribe all the mystery that has
hung about them to the often ungenerous dislike of novelty, or, it
may be more truly, the efforts of contemporaries, which influences
the present day. This might have stimulated him to seek in the garb
of "th' olden time," that respect which is sometimes despitefully
denied to drapery of a later date. Such a motive doubtlessly swayed
the designs both of Chatterton and Ireland, whose names we cannot
mention together without Dryden's comment on Spenser and Flecknoe,
"that is, from the top to the bottom of all poetry."

In ushering into
the world the hapless, but beautiful muse of Chatterton, as well as
the contemptible compositions of Ireland, it was alike thought
necessary, to secure public attention, to have recourse to "quaint
Inglis," or an antique dress. And to the eternal disgrace, of
prejudice, the latter, merely in consequence of their disguise, found
men blind enough to advocate their claims to that admiration which,
on their eyes being opened, they could no longer see, and from the
support of which they shrunk abashed.

 But we desist. It is useless to draw conclusions, as it is vain to
reason with certain people who act unreasonably, since, if they were,
in these particular cases, capable of reason, they would need no
reasoning with. By some, the poems here published will be esteemed in
proportion as the argument for their antiquity prevails, but with
regard to the general reader, and the unaffected lovers of "heaven-
descended poesy," let the question take either way, still

The harp in Selma was not idly
And long shall last the themes our poet

Berrathon.



 WITHOUT increasing his genius, the author may have improved his
language, in the eleven years that the following poems have been in
the hands of the public.

Errors in diction might have been committed
at twenty-four, which the experience of a riper age may remove; and
some exuberances in imagery may be restrained with advantage, by a
degree of judgment acquired in the progress of time.

Impressed with
this opinion, he ran over the whole with attention and accuracy; and
he hopes he has brought the work to a state of correctness which will
preclude all future improvements.

 The eagerness with which these poems have been received abroad, is a
recompense for the coldness with which a few have affected to treat
them at home.

All the polite nations of Europe have transferred them
into their respective languages; and they speak of him who brought
them to light, in terms that might flatter the vanity of one fond of
flame.

In a convenient indifference for a literary reputation, the
author hears praise without being elevated, and ribaldry without
being depressed.

He has frequently seen the first bestowed too
precipitately; and the latter is so faithless to its purpose, that it
is often the only index to merit in the present age.

 Though the taste which defines genius by the points of the compass,
is a subject fit for mirth in itself, it is often a serious matter in
the sale of the work. When rivers define the limits of abilities, as
well as the boundaries of countries, a writer may measure his success
by the latitude under which he was born. It was to avoid a part of
this inconvenience, that the author is said by some, who speak
without any authority, to nave ascribed his own productions to
another name. If this was the case, he was but young in the art of
deception. When he placed the poet in antiquity, the translator
should have been born on this side of the Tweed.

 These observations regard only the frivolous in matters of
literature; these, however, form a majority of every age and nation.
In this countrymen of genuine taste abound; but their still voice is
drowned in the clamors of a multitude, who judge by fashion of
poetry, as of dress. The truth is, to judge aright, requires almost
as much genius as to write well; and good critics are as rare as
great poets. Though two hundred thousand Romans stood up when Virgil
came into the theatre, Varius only could correct the Æneid. He that
obtains fame must receive it through mere fashion; and gratify his
vanity with the applause of men, of whose judgment he cannot approve.

 The following poems, it must be confessed, are more calculated to
please persons of exquisite feelings of heart, than those who receive
all their impressions by the car.

The novelty of cadence, in what is
called a prose version, thou h not destitute of harmony, will not, to
common readers, supply the absence of the frequent returns of rhyme.

This was the opinion of the writer himself, though he yielded to the
judgment of others, in a mode, which presented freedom and dignity of
expression, instead of fetters, which cramp the thought, whilst the
harmony of language is preserved.

His attention was to publish inverse.

The making of poetry, like any other handicraft, may be
learned by industry; and he had served his apprenticeship, though in
secret, to the Muses.

 It is, however, doubtful, whether the harmony which these poems
might derive from rhyme, even in much better hands than those of the
translator, could atone for the simplicity and energy which they
would lose. The determination of this point shall be left to the
readers of this preface. The following is the beginning of a poem,
translated from the Norse to the Gaelic language; and, from the
latter, transferred into English.

The verse took little more time to
the writer than the prose; and he himself is doubtful (if he has
succeeded in either) which of them is the most literal version.