NOVEMBER. 285 



prime ; and it comes to us from the dimness 

 of antiquity, and from a land of hills and woods, 

 of mists and meteors, — from the heath of mossy 

 and grey stones, the roaring of mountain- 

 streams, the blasted tree, the withered leaves, 

 and the thistle's beard, that flies on the wind 

 of autumn. Am I told that it is merely a plea- 

 sant, modern fiction ? What then ? If so, it is 

 one of the pleasantest fictions that ever were 

 wrought ; and the man who made it one of the 

 happiest geniuses. For years did he toil to 

 acquire the art and the name of a poet ; but in 

 vain. His conceptions were meagre ; his style 

 monotonous and common-place ; and through 

 the multitude of verses which he has left, we 

 look in vain for aught which might justify the 

 manufacture of them ; but, in a happy hour, he 

 burst at once into a most original style of poetry 

 — -into a language which shows not symptoms of 

 feeling, but melts and glows with it into poetic 

 imagery ; which is not scattered sparingly and 

 painfully, but with a full, a free, and an un- 

 wearied hand. If this be true, it is wonderful ; 

 but I shall choose not to believe it true. I 

 shall choose to think of Ossian as the ancient 

 and veritable bard, and Macpherson as the for- 

 tunate fellow, who found his scattered lays, and 

 who perhaps added links and amendments (to 

 use the word in a parliamentary sense) of his 



