against the foes of thy people, but like the gale that moves the grass to those who ask thy aid. Never search for the battle, nor shun it when it comes. So Trenmor lived; such Trathal was; and such has Fingal been. My arm was the support of the injured; and the weak rested behind the lightning of my steel”(c).
Humanity to the vanquished is displayed in the following passages. After defeating in battle Swaran King of Lochlin, Fingal says,
“Raise, Ullin, raise the song of peace, and soothe my soul after battle, that my ear may forget the noise of arms. And let a hundred harps be near to gladden the King of Lochlin: he must depart from us with joy: none ever went sad from Fingal. Oscar, the lightening of my sword is against the strong; but peaceful it hangs by my side when warriors yield in battle”(a). “Uthal fell beneath my sword, and the sons of Berrathon fled. It was then I saw him in his beauty, and the tear hung in my eye. Thou art fallen, young tree, I said, with all thy budding beauties round thee. The winds come from the desert, and there is no sound in thy leaves. Lovely art thou in death, son of car-borne Lathmor”(b).<444>
After perusing these quotations, it will not be thought that Ossian deviates from the manners represented by him, in describing the hospitality of his chieftains:
“We heard the voice of joy on the coast, and we thought that the mighty Cathmor came; Cathmor, the friend of strangers, the brother of red-hair’d Cairbar. But their souls were not the same; for the light of heaven was in the bosom of Cathmor. His towers rose on the banks of Atha: seven paths led to his hall: seven chiefs stood on these paths, and called the stranger to the feast. But Cathmor dwelt in the wood, to avoid the voice of praise(c).” “Rathmor was a chief of Clutha. The feeble dwelt in his hall. The gates of Rathmor were never closed: his feast was always spread. The sons of the stranger came, and blessed the generous chief of Clutha. Bards raised the song, and touched the harp: joy brightened on the face of the mournful. Dunthalmo came in his pride, and rushed into combat with Rathmor. The chief of Clutha overcame. The rage of Dunthalmo rose: he came by night with his warriors; and the mighty Rathmor fell: he fell in his hall, where his feast had been often spread for strangers”(d).
It seems not to exceed the magnanimity of his chieftains, intent upon glory only, <445> to feast even an enemy before a battle. Cuchullin, after the first day’s engagement with Swaran, King of Lochlin or Scandinavia, says to Carril, one of his bards,
Is this feast spread for me alone, and the King of Lochlin on Ullin’s shore; far from the deer of his hills, and sounding halls of his feasts? Rise, Carril of other times, and carry my words to Swaran; tell him from the roaring of waters, that Cuchullin gives his feast. Here let him listen to the sound of my groves amid the clouds of night: for cold and bleak the blustering winds rush over the foam of his seas. Here let him praise the trembling harp, and hear the songs of heroes(a).
The Scandinavian King, less polished, refused the invitation. Cairbar speaks:
“Spread the feast on Lena, and let my hundred bards attend. And thou, red-hair’d Olla, take the harp of the King. Go to Oscar, King of swords, and bid him to our feast. To-day we feast and hear the song; to-morrow break the spears”(b). “Olla came with his songs. Oscar went to Cairbar’s feast. Three hundred heroes attend the chief, and the clang of their arms is terrible. The gray dogs bound on the heath, and their howling is frequent. Fingal saw the<446> departure of the hero: the soul of the King was sad. He dreads the gloomy Cairbar: but who of the race of Trenmor fears the foe?”(c)
Cruelty is every where condemned as an infamous vice. Speaking of the bards,
“Cairbar feared to stretch his sword to the bards, tho’ his soul was dark; but he closed us in the midst of darkness. Three days we pined alone: on the fourth the noble Cathmor came. He heard our voice from the cave, and turned the eye of his wrath on Cairbar. Chief of Atha, he said, how long wilt thou pain my soul? Thy heart is like the rock of the desert, and thy thoughts are dark. But thou art the brother of Cathmor, and he will fight thy battles. Cathmor’s soul is not like thine, thou feeble hand of war. The light of my bosom is stained with thy deeds. The bards will not sing of my renown: they may say, Cathmor was brave, but he fought for gloomy Cairbar: they will pass over my tomb in silence, and my fame shall not be heard. Cairbar, loose the bards; they are the sons of other times: their voice shall be heard in other ages when the Kings of Temora have failed”(a). “Ullin raised his white sails: the wind of the south came forth. He bounded on the waves toward Selma’s walls. The feast is spread on Lena: an hundred heroes reared the tomb of Cairbar; but no song is raised over the chief, for his soul had been dark and bloody. We remembered the<447> fall of Cormac; and what could we say in Cairbar’s praise?”(b)
Genuine manners never were represented more to the life by a Tacitus nor a Shakespeare. Such painting is above the reach of pure invention: it must be the work of knowledge and feeling.
One may discover the manners of a nation from the figure their women make. Among savages, women are treated like slaves; and they acquire not the dignity that belongs to the sex, till manners be considerably refined(c). According to the manners above described, women ought to have made a considerable figure among the ancient Caledonians. Let us examine Ossian upon that subject, in order to judge whether he carries on the same tone of manners through every particular. That women were highly regarded, appears from the following passages.
“Daughter of the hand of snow! I was not so mournful and blind, I was not so dark and forlorn, when Everallin loved me, Everallin with the dark-brown hair, the white-bosomed love of<448> Cormac. A thousand heroes sought the maid, she denied her love to a thousand: the sons of the sword were despised; for graceful in her eyes was Ossian. I went in suit of the maid to Lego’s sable surge; twelve of my people were there, sons of the streamy Morven. We came to Branno friend of strangers, Branno of the sounding mail.—From whence, he said, are the arms of steel? Not easy to win is the maid that had denied the blue-eyed sons of Erin. But blest be thou, O son of Fingal, happy is the maid that waits thee. Though twelve daughters of beauty were mine, thine were the choice, thou son of fame! Then he opened the hall of the maid, the dark-haired Everallin. Joy kindled in our breasts of steel, and blest the maid of Branno”(a). “Now Connal, on Cromla’s windy side, spoke to the chief of the noble car. Why that gloom, son of Semo? Our friends are the mighty in battle. And renowned art thou, O warrior! many were the deaths of thy steel. Often has Bragela met thee with blue-rolling eyes of joy; often has she met her hero returning in the midst of the valiant, when his sword was red with slaughter, and his foes silent in the field of the tomb. Pleasant to her ears were thy bards, when thine actions rose in the song”(b). “But, King of Morven, if I shall fall, as one time the warrior must fall, raise my tomb in the midst, and let it be the greatest on Lena. And send over the dark-blue wave the sword of Orla, to the spouse of his love; that she may show it to her son, with tears, to kindle<449> his soul to war”(c). “I lifted my eyes to Cromla, and I saw the son of generous Semo.—Sad and slow he retired from his hill toward the lonely cave of Tura. He saw Fingal victorious, and mixed his joy with grief. The sun is bright on his armour, and Connal slowly followed. They sunk behind the hill, like two pillars of the fire of night, when winds pursue them over the mountain, and the flaming heath resounds. Beside a stream of roaring foam, his cave is in a rock. One tree bends above it; and the rushing winds echo against its sides. There rests the chief of Dunscaich, the son of generous Semo. His thoughts are on the battles he lost; and the tear is on his cheek. He mourned the departure of his fame, that fled like the mist of Cona. O Bragela, thou art too far remote to cheer the soul of the hero. But let him see thy bright form in his soul; that his thoughts may return to the lonely sun-beam of Dunscaich”(d). “Ossian King of swords,” replied the bard, “thou best raisest the song. Long hast thou been known to Carril, thou ruler of battles. Often have I touched the harp to lovely Everallin. Thou, too, hast often accompanied
