JAMES MACPHERSON.

1738—1796.

JAMES MACPHERSON was born in Kingussie, a village in Invernessshire, in 1738. He was intended for the church, and received the necessary education at Aberdeen. For a short time he taught the school of Ruthven, but subsequently became tutor in the family of Mr. Graham, of Balgowan. While in this position, he published a little volume of sixty pages, entitled Fragments of Ancient Poetry, translated from the Gaelic or Erse language, which attracted much attention. A subscription was at once organized to enable him to make a tour in the Highlands to collect other pieces. In 1762 he presented the world with Fingal, an ancient epic poem in six books; and in 1763 Temora, another epic poem in eight books. The sale of these works was immense. The possibility that, in the third or fourth century, among the wild rural mountains of Scotland, there existed a people exhibiting all the high and Christian feelings of refined valor, generosity, magnanimity and virtue, was eminently calculated to excite astonishment, while the idea that these poems had been handed down by tradition through so many centuries among rude and barbarous tribes, was no less astounding. Many doubted, others disbelieved, but a still greater number indulged the pleasing supposition that "Fingal fought and Ossian sung." In 1779 the poet purchased an estate in his native town, where he died on the 17th February, 1796, leaving a handsome fortune, which is still enjoyed by his family.

The fierce controversy that raged for some time as to the authenticity of the poems of Ossian, the incredulity of Johnson, and the

obstinate silence of Macpherson, are well known. There seems to be no doubt, that a great body of traditional poetry was floating over the Highlands, which Macpherson collected and wrought up into regular poems. How much of the published work is ancient, and how much fabricated, cannot now be ascertained. There is not a single line among the papers left by Macpherson that throws any light on the controversy.

Since the foregoing was written, the Editor of this volume has had such evidence placed before him as leave him no longer room to doubt that Ossian was a veritable person, and that Macpherson was, what he pretended to be, only a translator of the Gaelic poems of that remarkable poet. The Rev. John Thomson, of New York, has copies of many of these poems in the original Gaelic, which were taken down from the lips of those who had received them from their ancestors. Mr. Thomson has kindly furnished for this volume, at the request of the Editor, a sketch of his father-in-law, Dr. Ross, who made a translation in blank verse of many of the poems of Ossian, and also a specimen of this translation. For further information on this curious subject, the reader is referred to the sketch of Dr. Ross, on page 363.

ARGUMENT.--After an address to Malvina, the daughter of Toscar, Ossian proceeds to relate his own expedition to Fuürfed, an island of Scandinavia. Mal-orchol, king of Fuärfed, being hard pressed in war by Ton-thormod, chief of Sar-dronto (who had demanded in vain the daughter of Mal-orchol in marriage), Fingal sent Ossian to his aid. Ossian, on the day after his arrival, came to battle with Ton-thormod, and took him prisoner. Malorchol offers his daughter Oina-morul to Ossian; but he, discovering her passion for Ton-thormod, generously surrenders her to her lover, and brings about a reconciliation between the two kings.

As flies the inconstant sun over Larmon's grassy hill, so pass the tales of old along my soul by night! When bards are removed to their place, when harps are hung in Selma's hall, then comes a voice to Ossian, and awakes. his soul! It is the voice of years that are gone! they roll before me with all their deeds! I seize the tales as they pass, and pour them forth in song. Nor a troubled

5

stream is the song of the king, it is like the rising of

Lutha of many strings, when the white hands Light of the shadowy daughter of Toscar of

music from Lutha of the strings. not silent are thy streamy rocks, of Malvina move upon the harp! thoughts that fly across my soul, helmets, wilt thou not hear the song? We call back, maid of Lutha, the years that have rolled away! It was in the days of the king, while yet my locks were young, that I marked Con-cathlin* on high, from ocean's nightly wave. My course was towards the isle of Fuärfed, woody dweller of seas! Fingal had sent me to the aid of Malorchol, king of Fuärfed wild: for war was around him, and our fathers had met at the feast.

In Col-coiled I bound my sails. I sent my sword to Mal-orchol of shells. He knew the signal of Albion, and his joy arose. He came from his own high hall, and seized my hand in grief. hand in grief. "Why comes the race of heroes to a falling king? Ton-thormod of many spears is the chief of wavy Sar-dronlo. He saw and loved my daughter, white-bosomed Oina-morul. He sought. I denied the maid, for our fathers had been foes. He came with battle to Fuärfed; my people are rolled away. Why comes the race of heroes to a fallen king?"

"I come not," I said, "to look, like a boy, on the strife. Fingal remembers Mal-orchol, and his hall for strangers. From his waves the warrior descended on thy woody isle:

* Con-cathlin, "mild beam of the wave." What star was so called of old is not easily ascertained. Some now distinguish the pole-star by that name.

thou wert no cloud before him. Thy feast was spread with songs. For this my sword shall rise, and thy foes perhaps may fail. Our friends are not forgot in their dan ger, though distant is our land."

"Descendant of the daring Trenmor, thy words are like the voice of Cruth-Loda, when he speaks from his parting cloud, strong dweller of the sky! Many have rejoiced at my feast; but they all have forgot Mal-orchol. I have looked towards all the winds, but no white sails were seen! but steel resounds in my hall, and not the joyful shells. Come to my dwelling, race of heroes! darkskirted night is near. Hear the voice of songs from the

maid of Fuärfed wild."

We went. On the harp arose the white hands of Oinamorul. She waked her own sad tale from every trembling string. I stood in silence; for bright in her locks was the daughter of many isles! Her eyes were two stars, looking forward through a rushing shower. The mariner marks them on high, and blesses the lovely beams. With morning we rushed to battle, to Tormul's resounding stream: the foe moved to the sound of Tonthormod's bossy shield. From wing to wing the strife was mixed. I met Ton-thormod in fight. Wide flew his broken steel. I seized the king in war.

I gave his hand, fast bound with thongs, to Mal-orchol, the giver of shells. Joy rose at the feast of Fuärfed, for the foe had failed. Ton-thormod turned his face away from Oinamorul of isles.