That a modern author, wishing to counterfeit an ancient, may mingle his style with those whimsical singularities, which characterize the supposed age, is an artifice not at all extraordinary; and, if an author did not avail himself of such aid, his aim would be lost. But to carry such an idea beyond all reasonable bounds, and that idly too, and without compulsion, is not to be easily believed by those who have any knowledge of the nature of self-love. Had the supposed author, in his tragical narrations, used a style less concise and abrupt, and divested it of those accessories, which might have rendered the narrations more natural and probable; had his adventures been somewhat less romantic and uniform; the old men not all blind; the sudden deaths not so frequent and common: had the number of his comparisons been reduced to one third: had, in fine, the winds, mists, and torrents, not been resorted to so often to embarrass his subject, overwhelming it with useless, and sometimes with unseasonable circumstances: had the author been more moderate in all those points, Ossian, I say, with the essential colouring of his style, would have appeared neither less original nor less ancient. It was extremely easy for a modern poet to guard himself against the excess of these modes, which indeed he ought to have done, to avoid incurring the animadversions of many fastidious readers of the present age, distracting their attention by a perusal of them, opening a field to derisions and parodies, and bringing on the author, that worst of enemies to all books, ridicule. It is certain, that Ossian's virtues are so eminent and sublime, that they more than compensate for all his foibles. It is also true, that to be alive to those virtues, it is necessary to have an energetic mind: but to feel his defects, it is sufficient to have our ears open; and it is easier to find a hundred hearers than one great energetic soul. It may be said, that the author, mindful only to obtain his end, was indifferent about the risk, because, in every way, the censure would be solely directed against his bard. But let the wish of obtaining credit for his imposture be what it may, there can be no doubt that he was eager to enjoy in secret the pleasure of hearing himself praised, under the borrowed name of Ossian. For there is no author of an anonymous book, who would willingly and freely risk the censure and contempt of the public, were he even positively certain of remaining unknown. In this place, I may be permitted to ask a question, which appears to me of some importance. Would a poet, who, under the mask of Ossian, and in a style apparently exotic, conscious of his powers to make himself admired as a genius, have not in the first instance produced, in his natural language, some luminous specimens of his superior talents in poetry? Would not fame then have praised him throughout all civilized Europe, as one of the most melodious swans of the Thames, the rival of Pope and Milton? Were Mr. Macpherson's abilities of the cast alluded to? Could he be compared to either of those great poets? I know not. But supposing, that he or any other person were ambitious of trying the strength of his own genius in this extraordinary manner, and that to ascertain the nature and extent of his own abilities, he should give himself out for Ossian, would it not have been wise to try the opinion of the public with one or two essays, without exhausting the whole store of his poetical talents, by so long a series of Gaelic poems, thus causing a perpetual violence to his genius and self-love by not letting himself be known; as if he had been desirous to renew spontaneously the example of the man in the iron mask?* Let us moreover remark, that, in admitting, for argument's sake, the supposition of a modern imposture, the impostors are two instead of one: namely, Macpherson and Smith. We must then persuade ourselves, that in our time two wonderful men have arisen, similar in ideas, in poetical merit, in skill of disguising themselves so perfectly under a borrowed name, and another age; who, in the heroism of an extravagant modesty, had the obstinacy of sustaining to the last moments of their lives their imposture. Mr. Macpherson died quite impenitent, and without any confession respecting this matter; and Mr. Smith, although a minister, does not seem disposed to confess his sin. Let us consider all this, and then we can decide, whether it be more difficult to conceive the existence of Ossian, or the reality of a moral phænomenon so prodigious and unexampled. With all this reasoning, however, I do not pretend to decide that Ossian was a poet of the third century, but only to prove the improbability of his being an author of our age. • See Note C, at the end of the Dissertation. But all we have hitherto said is nothing but argument; questions of fact ought to be decided by proofs of fact. On this head, therefore, the controversy concerning' the Gaelic poems exclusively belongs to the jurisdiction of the British critics. And, with a view that the Italian readers may be enabled to form a just judgment, it is proper they should be made acquainted with all the most important allegations advanced by the supporters of either party. It would take up too much of the reader's time to enumerate all the writings which have appeared in England concerning this famous controversy, agitated on both sides with warmth and acrimony. It will therefore suffice to give an account of those writers, who more steadily, and with greater precision, have reasoned on this subject. The most respectable among the critics of Great Britain, who declared himself against the authenticity of Ossian's poems, and who for a while had the scale of public opinion balanced in his favour, was JOHNSON, a learned writer of high and deserved celebrity. Residing in London, but of Scotch extraction, he undertook a tour to the Western Islands of Scotland, which in the year 1775 he published. His subject led him naturally to speak of the dispute concerning the authenticity of Ossian, which had already kindled party discussions. The result of his researches induced him to deny positively the originality of those poems. He began to oppose the possibility of the fact, before he opposed the fact itself. First, he frankly declares that he has not the least knowledge of the Erse language, or Caledonian dialect, and that he can only speak of it by what he has heard; which confession is by no means favourable to impress the readers with a predilection on his side, or to induce them to acquiesce implicitly in his judgment. Nevertheless, he takes upon himself to assert, "that this language is but a rude speech of a barbarous people, who had few thoughts to express, and were content, as they conceived grossly, to be grossly understood; that the Erse never was a written language; and that the sounds of the Highlanders were never expressed by letters, till some little books of piety were translated, and a metrical version of the Psalms was made by the synod of Argyle." It is worth while to attend to his reflections. "When a language," says he, "begins to teem with books, it is tending to refinement; as those, who undertake to teach others, must have undergone some labour in improving themselves, they set a proportionate value on their own thoughts, and wish to enforce them by efficacious expressions; speech becomes embodied and permanent; different modes and phrases are compared, and the best obtains an establishment. By degrees, one age improves upon another. Exactness is first obtained, and afterwards elegance. But diction, merely vocal, is always in its childhood. As no man leaves his eloquence behind him, the new generations have all to learn. There may possibly be books without a polished * For the instruction of our readers we may observe, that the idiom or dialect of the Highlanders, by various ancient and modern writers, is promiscuously called Caledonian, Celtic, Earse, Erse, Galic, Gaelic, and Caelic. CESAROTTI. |