savage, acquainted with the rude manners of his country, but utterly unacquainted with every other system of manners. The manners of different countries are now so well known as to make it an easy task to invent manners by blending the manners of one country with those of another; but to invent manners of which the author has no example, and yet neither whimsical nor absurd, but congruous to human nature in its most polished state, I pronounce to be far above the powers of man. Is it so much as supposable, that such a work could be the production of a Tartar, or of a Hottentot? From what source then did Ossian draw the refined manners so deliciously painted by him? Supposing him to have been a traveller, of which we have not the slightest hint, the manners of France at that period, of Italy, and of other neighbouring nations, were little less barbarous than those of his own country. I can discover no source<430> but inspiration. In a word, whoever seriously believes the manners of Ossian to be fictitious, may well say, with the religious enthusiast, “Credo quia impossible est: I believe it because it is impossible.”
But further: The uncommon talents of the author of this work will cheerfully be acknowledged by every reader of taste: he certainly was a great master in his way. Now, whether the work be late, or composed four centuries ago, a man of such talents inventing a historical fable, and laying the scene of action among savages in the hunter-state, would naturally frame a system of manners the best suited in his opinion to that state. What then could tempt him to adopt a system of manners, so opposite to any notion he could form of savage manners? The absurdity is so gross, that we are forced, however reluctantly, to believe, that these manners are not fictitious, but in reality the manners of his country, coloured perhaps, or a little heightened, according to the privilege of an epic poet. And once admitting that fact, there can be no hesitation in ascribing the work to Ossian, son of Fingal, <431> whose name it bears: we have no better evidence for the authors of several Greek and Roman books. Upon the same evidence, we must believe, that Ossian lived in the reign of the Emperor Caracalla, of whom frequent mention is made under the designation of Caracul the Great King; at which period, the shepherd-state was scarce known in Caledonia, and husbandry not at all. Had he lived so late as the twelfth century, when there were flocks and herds in that country, and some sort of agriculture, a poet of genius, such as Ossian undoubtedly was, would have drawn from these his finest images.
The foregoing considerations, I am persuaded, would not fail to convert the most incredulous; were it not for a consequence extremely improbable, that a people, little better at present than savages, were in their primitive hunter-state highly refined; for such Ossian describes them. And yet it is no less improbable, that such manners should be invented by an illiterate highland bard. Let a man chuse either side, the difficulty cannot be solved but by a sort of miracle. What shall we conclude upon the whole? for the mind cannot for<432> ever remain in suspense. As dry reasoning has left us in a dilemma, taste perhaps and feeling may extricate us. May not the case be here as in real painting? A portrait drawn from fancy, may resemble the human visage; but such peculiarity of countenance and expression as serves to distinguish a certain person from every other, is always wanting. Present a portrait to a man of taste, and he will be at no loss to say, whether it be copied from life, or be the product of fancy. If Ossian paint from fancy, the cloven foot will appear: but if his portraits be complete, so as to express every peculiarity of character, why should we doubt of their being copied from life? In that view, the reader, I am hopeful, will not think his time thrown away in examining some of Ossian’s striking pictures. I perceive not another resource.
Love of fame is painted by Ossian as the ruling passion of his countrymen the Caledonians. Warriors are every where described, as esteeming it their chief happiness to be recorded in the songs of the bards: that feature is never wanting in<433> any of Ossian’s heroes. Take the following instances.
“King of the roaring Strumon,” said the rising joy of Fingal, “do I behold thee in arms after thy strength has failed? Often hath Morni shone in battles, like the beam of the rising sun, when he disperses the storms of the hill, and brings peace to the glittering fields. But why didst thou not rest in thine age? Thy renown is in the song: the people behold thee, and bless the departure of mighty Morni”(a). “Son of Fingal,” he said, “why burns the soul of Gaul? My heart beats high: my steps are disordered; and my hand trembles on my sword. When I look toward the foe, my soul lightens before me, and I see their sleeping host. Tremble thus the souls of the valiant, in battles of the spear? How would the soul of Morni rise, if we should rush on the foe! Our renown would grow in the song, and our steps be stately in the eye of the brave”(b).*<434>
That a warrior has acquired his fame is a consolation in every distress:
“Carril,” said the King in secret, “the strength of Cuchullin fails. My days are with the years that are past; and no morning of mine shall arise. They shall seek me at Temora, but I shall not be found. Cormac will weep in his hall, and say, Where is Tura’s chief? But my name is renowned, my fame in the song of bards. The youth will say, O let me die as Cuchillin died: renown clothed him like a robe; and the light of his fame is great. Draw the arrow from my side; and lay Cuchullin below that oak. Place the shield of Caithbat near, that they may behold me amid the arms of my fathers”(a).
Fingal speaks:
Ullin, my aged bard, take the ship of the King. Carry Oscar to Selma, and let the daughters of Morven weep. We shall fight in Erin for the race of fallen Cormac. The days of my years begin to fail: I feel the weakness of my arm. My fathers bend from their clouds to receive their gray-hair’d son. But, Trenmore! before I go hence, one beam of my fame shall rise: in fame shall my days end, as my years begun: my life shall be one stream of light to other times(b).
Ossian speaks:
Did thy beauty last, O Ryno! stood the strength<435> of car-borne Oscar!* Fingal himself passed away, and the halls of his fathers forgot his steps. And shalt thou remain, aged bard, when the mighty have failed? But my fame shall remain; and grow like the oak of Morven, which lifts its broad head to the storm, and rejoiceth in the course of the wind(c).
The chief cause of affliction when a young man is cut off in battle, is his not having received his fame:
“And fell the swiftest in the race,” said the King, “the first to bend the bow? Thou scarce hast been known to me; why did young Ryno fall? But sleep thou softly on Lena, Fingal shall soon behold thee. Soon shall my voice be heard no more, and my footsteps cease to be seen. The bards will tell of Fingal’s name; the stones will talk of me. But, Ryno! thou art low indeed, thou hast not received thy fame. Ullin, strike the harp for Ryno; tell what the chief would have been. Farewell thou first in every field. No more shall I direct thy dart. Thou that hast been so fair; I behold thee not.—Farewell”(a). “Cal-<436>thon rushed into the stream: I bounded forward on my spear: Teutha’s race fell before us: night came rolling down. Dunthalmo rested on a rock, amidst an aged wood: the rage of his bosom burned against the car-borne Calthon. But Calthon stood in his grief; he mourned the fallen Colmar; Colmar slain in youth, before his fame arose”(b).
Lamentation for loss of fame. Cuchullin speaks:
But, O ye ghosts of the lonely Cromla! ye souls of chiefs that are no more! be ye the companions of Cuchullin, and talk to him in the cave of his sorrow. For never more shall I be renowned among the mighty in the land. I am like a beam that has shone; like a mist that fled away when the blast of the morning came, and brightened the shaggy side of the hill. Connal, talk of arms no more; departed is my fame. My sighs shall be on Cromla’s wind, till my footsteps cease to be seen. And thou white bosom’d Bragéla, mourn over the fall of my fame; for, vanquished, never will I return to thee, thou sun-beam of Dunscaich(c).
Love of fame begets heroic actions, which go hand in hand with elevated sentiments: of the former there are examples in every page; of the latter
