No More Learning

It sang so once to Fionn's host,
And pleased the heroes with its plaint:
More lore, they deemed, the blackbird knew,
Than lurks in penances, O Saint!
So far we have been drawing chiefly upon the rich Irish store
of these things; but the Fianna of Albin were as rich in saga as
the Fianna of Erin, and the Scottish Ossianic or Fiannic ballads and
stories are fully as interesting. They show certain differences, local
and temporal, from the purely Irish corresponding versions of the
same events in the Fian tribal warfare; but there is no doubt that
the early basis of tradition is the same in both countries. The Norse
coloring is more marked, and much sooner felt, in the Scottish than
in the Irish Ossianic material. We soon come, in fact, as we ransack
the Scottish MSS. , upon the signs of the third stage in the history
of the cycle. Of these stages, it may be well to remind the reader
here that the first is, roughly speaking, the passage of Aryan myth


## p. 10871 (#79) ###########################################

OSSIAN
10871
into definite heroic forms of tradition,-in this case forms which
carry the radiant colors of Fian heroes; the second stage is the use of
the tradition to express the early dramatic conflict between Christian
and pagan Celtdom; the third stage is the vigorous adaptation again
of the same tradition to the moving bardic narrative of the strug-
gle with the Norse invaders; the fourth stage is the slow process
through centuries of comparative peace, by which the bards and
chroniclers, falling back upon the past, spent their art, memory, and
imagination upon the accumulated materials,- selecting from them,
modifying them, inventing too on occasion, or coloring anew the
parts that had become worn, but yet through all this preserving a
certain fidelity to the essentials of the cycle. The fifth stage is that
of the deliberate literary use of the materials, by men of genius
like Macpherson, who are of course fully justified in their doings if
only they make it quite clear what their relation to their original
materials is. There is yet another stage which we might add: that
of the modern patient critical investigation of such a cycle, so as to
clear the ground for its future uses both by science and by poetry.
In tracing these stages, one may find it convenient to treat both
the Irish and Scottish Gaelic contributions to the subject as one;
but in the third which we mentioned, where it is a question of the
Norse invader, we certainly get our best popular illustrations from the
Scottish side. Take for example the ballad of The Fian Banners,'
which shows in so striking a light the combination of archaic and
later material. There is a heroic ring about it which must suffice
here to suggest the fine old Gaelic tune to which it was sung tradi-
tionally as the Gaelic tribes marched to war against the invading
Vikings.
THE
THE FIAN BANNERS
HE Norland King stood on the height
And scanned the rolling sea;
He proudly eyed his gallant ships.
That rode triumphantly.
And then he looked where lay his camp,
Along the rocky coast,
And where were seen the heroes brave
Of Lochlin's famous host.
Then to the land he turned, and there
A fierce-like hero came;
Above him was a flag of gold,
That waved and shone like flame.


## p. 10872 (#80) ###########################################

10872
OSSIAN
*Goll.
"Sweet bard," thus spoke the Norland King,
"What banner comes in sight?
The valiant chief that leads the host,
Who is that man of might ? »
"That," said the bard, "is young MacDoon;
His is that banner bright;
When forth the Féinn to battle go,
He's foremost in the fight. "
"Sweet bard, another comes; I see
A blood-red banner tossed
Above a mighty hero's head
Who waves it o'er a host. "
"That banner," quoth the bard, "belongs
To good and valiant Rayne;
Beneath it, feet are bathed in blood
And heads are cleft in twain. "
"Sweet bard, what banner now I see?
A leader fierce and strong
Behind it moves with heroes brave
Who furious round him throng. "
"That is the banner of Great Gaul:*
That silken shred of gold
Is first to march and last to turn,
And flight ne'er stained its fold. "
"Sweet bard, another now I see,-
High o'er a host it glows:
Tell whether it has ever shone
O'er fields of slaughtered foes? "
―――――
"That gory flag is Cailt's,t" quoth he:
"It proudly peers in sight;
It won its fame on many a field
In fierce and bloody fight. "
"Sweet bard, another still I see;
A host it flutters o'er,
Like bird above the roaring surge
That laves the storm-swept shore. "
+ Cailte.


## p. 10873 (#81) ###########################################

OSSIAN
10873
"The Broom of Peril," quoth the bard,
"Young Oscar's banner, see:
Amidst the conflict of dread chiefs
The proudest name has he. "
The banner of great Finn we raised;
The Sunbeam gleaming far,
With golden spangles of renown
From many a field of war.
The flag was fastened to its staff
With nine strong chains of gold,
With nine times nine chiefs for each chain;
Before it foes oft rolled.
"Redeem your pledge to me," said Finn:
"Uplift your deeds of might,
To Lochlin as you did before
In many a blood-stained fight! "
Like torrents from the mountain heights,
That roll resistless on,
So down upon the foe we rushed,
And victory won.
"The Lochlins," or "the people of Lochlin," was the usual name
given to the Norse invaders by the old Gaels. In fact, the name still
survives in many current proverbs, as well as in Fian fragments of
rhyme and balladry.
The whole history of the Ossianic saga-cycle affords, through all
the five stages we have roughly assigned to it, a curious study of
primitive tradition enriching itself by constant accretions, and adapt-
ing itself to new conditions. The cycle does not even confine itself, in
this process, to purely Celtic colors and heroic devices. It carries us
on occasion back into the far East, where its mythic first beginnings
were, as the late J. F. Campbell pointed out in his 'Popular Tales
of the West Highlands. ' There are suggestions, and very strong
ones, not only of Aryan folk-lore but of Arabian romance. It is true,
one does not find to the same degree as in the Welsh 'Mabino-
gion' the infusion of the medieval chivalric sentiment, turned to
such delightful account by the Latin races. But there are instances
in plenty to be cited of chivalric devices, from the Ossianic sagas,
which seem to connect themselves with more southern chivalries.
Some of the customs of the ancient Celtic chivalry bear a curi-
ous resemblance to the more finished code of medieval Europe. If a
lady put geasa (obligation) on a knight or chief, he must obey her,
matter what she asked of him. Thus when the great Finn
no


## p. 10874 (#82) ###########################################

10874
OSSIAN
was still in his barbaric youth, and clad in the skins of wild animals,
he met one day with a highly romantic adventure. Approaching a
stream that ran between steep banks, he descried on one side a party
of damsels, and on the other a party of knights. One who was
clearly the princess among these maidens was, on Finn's approach,
loudly declaring that he who should desire her hand must first leap
the deep, swift stream betwixt them. On the other bank stood the
unfortunate lover, clapping his arms, without courage for the deed.
Thereat Finn came boldly forward, and asked the lady if her hand
should be his on his accomplishing the feat? She answered that
he looked a handsome youth, though so marvelously ill clad; and
that he might have her if he showed himself man enough for the
deed. So Finn took the leap; but then she laid geasa on him that he
should do the like every year. Another princess laid geasa upon him
that he should leap over a dallan as high as his chin, with another
stone of the same size borne upward on the palm of his hand.
Another and tragic instance of the geasa is to be found in the
fate of the beautiful but unfortunate Diarmud MacDoon: one of the
most unforgetable figures in all Ossianic literature. Diarmud pos-
sessed one fatal gift, the ball-seirce,- the power of kindling love in
all the women he met. He was said to have the magic "spot of
beauty" on his forehead, which drew the hearts of all who looked
on him. He was a nephew of Finn, who rejoiced in his bold feats.
The beginning of his misfortune was the wedding feast of Finn with
Grainne, the daughter of King Cormac. At the feast the bride laid
geasa on Diarmud that he should carry her off from her people; and
though this was against his own feeling and his oath of chivalry,
he was obliged to obey. The well-known beautiful ballad 'The Lay
of Diarmud' tells the story of this tragic episode, and Diarmud's
death. The story has been told again and again by Gaelic and
Anglo-Celtic poets; and in its many different versions affords a key
of many wards to the Ossianic entrance-gate. We have references
to it in eleventh-century MSS. , as well as in nineteenth-century re-
prints; and in its most recent reincarnation in modern Irish poetry,
we have a suggestive instance to compare with the literary method
of a very different school of poetr in the last century,- Macpher-
son's, to wit.
Before we turn now, and finally, to the consideration of Mac-
pherson's Ossiana, as resuming in another form and under other
colors the old heroic spirit of the cycle, let us remind the reader
that its whole extent, from the old primitive Fionn and Diarmud
and Ossian to their mediæval or modern counterpart, is simply
immense. We can only pretend here to show the way into this
enchanted realm, and to give a clue to the best and most picturesque
parts of it. But it must be remembered that there is a great deal of


## p. 10875 (#83) ###########################################

OSSIAN
10875
rough ground to get over, and many a thorny thicket to be struggled
through, and many a tiring monotonous road to be traversed. These
are the risks of the adventure; but such risks did not frighten away
Ossian and his fellowship of old, and ought not to frighten the Ossi-
anic student to-day who reads, as they fought, with some spirit and
mother-wit.
Fianna, or Faerie Host,* as sure as old Celtic history can
make them, or as tenuous as the myths of the elements personified
by primitive man ere the Gael reached Britain, they leave one at
last haunted by a music that is only to be found in Celtic poetry.
For a last echo of its melody we must fall back on an unrhymed
version, as affording a fairer point of departure into the long dithy-
rambic rhymeless Ossiana of Macpherson.
IN WELL-DEVISED battle array,
Ahead of their fair chieftain
They march amidst blue spears,
White, curly-headed bands.
They scatter the forces of their foes,
They ravage every hostile land,
Splendidly they march, they march,-
Impetuous, avenging host!
No wonder if their strength be great:
Sons of kings and queens, each one!
On all their heads are
Beautiful golden-yellow manes;
With smooth, comely bodies,
With bright blue-starred eyes,
With pure crystal teeth,
With thin red lips:
Splendidly they march, they march:
Good they are at man-slaying.
In these lines of the 'Fairy Host' we have a color, a life, that is
indicative of old Celtic poetry, and that we miss in the Ossianic
poetry of Macpherson. Broadly, the gloom which characterizes so
much modern Celtic and Anglo-Celtic poetry is not to be found in
the ancient ballads and narratives. True, a genuinely indicative sense
of fatality, of the inevitableness of tragic doom, is often to be found
there. To this day, 'The Lay of Diarmud and Grainne,' or the story
*This is a common interpretation: but the real Fairy Host of tradition is
the mythical Dedannan folk, the Tuatha dé Danann,-"the proudly secure,
beautiful, song-loving, peaceful, hunting people» who inhabited Ireland before
it was invaded by the Milesians; i. e. , the Iberian-Celtic immigration from
Spain under Mil (Mil, Miledh, or Miles).


## p. 10876 (#84) ###########################################

10876
OSSIAN
of 'The Children of Lir,' whether accepted as they have come to
us, or (as in the latter instance) disengaged from early monkish or
mediæval embroidering, remain typical Celtic productions; as, on
another side, may be said of the relatively little known but remark-
able 'Lay of the Amadan Mor,' or 'The Great Fool,' a Gaelic type
after the manner of a Sir Galahad crossed with Don Quixote. *
In Macpherson's 'Ossian-much of which is mere rhetoric, much
of which is arbitrary, and of the eighteenth rather than of the third
century- the abiding charm is that of the lament of a perishing
people; the abiding spell, that of the passing of an ancient and irrev-
ocable order of things. We read it now, not as an authentic chron-
icle of the doings of Finn and his cycle, not even as an authentic
patchwork of old ballads and narratives, but as an imaginary record
based upon fragmentary and fugitive survivals, told not according to
the letter but according to the spirit,― told too in the manner of the
sombre imagination of the Highland Gael, an individual distinct in
many respects from his Irish congener. But we touch the bed-rock
of Celtic emotion here too, again and again.
But first let us see how the rhythmic prose of some of the ancient
poets runs; for it is often ignorance that makes English critics speak
of Macpherson's prose as wholly arbitrary and unnatural to the Celtic
genius. Here is a very ancient Ossianic production known as
CREDHE'S LAMENT
THE
HE haven roars, and O the haven roars, over the rushing race
of Rinn-dá-bharc! The drowning of the warrior of loch dá
chonn - that is what the wave impinging on the strand
laments. Melodious is the crane, and O melodious is the crane,
in the marshlands of Druim-dá-thrén! 'Tis she that may not save
her brood alive: the wild dog of two colors is intent upon her
nestlings. A woeful note, and O a woeful note, is that which the
thrush in Drumqueen emits! but not more cheerful is the wail
that the blackbird makes in Letterlee. A woeful sound, and O a
woeful sound, is that the deer utters in Drumdaleish! Dead lies
the doe of Druim Silenn: the mighty stag bells after her. Sore
suffering to me, and O suffering sore, is the hero's death-his
death, that used to lie with me!
Sore suffering to me is
Cael, and O Cael is a suffering sore, that by my side he is in
dead man's form! That the wave should have swept over his
white body, that is what hath distracted me, so great was his
* It is interesting to note that he has an equivalent in the Peronik of
Breton-Celtic legend, as well as in Cymric and Arthurian romance.


## p. 10877 (#85) ###########################################

OSSIAN
10877
delightfulness. A dismal roar, and O a dismal roar, is that the
shore-surf makes upon the strand! seeing that the same hath
drowned the comely noble man; to me it is an affliction that Cael
ever sought to encounter it. A woeful booming, and O a boom
of woe, is that which the wave makes upon the northward beach!
beating as it does against the polished rock, lamenting for Cael,
now that he is gone. A woeful fight, and O a fight of woe, is
that the wave wages against the southern shore! As for me, my
span is determined!
A woeful melody, and O a melody
of woe, is that which the heavy surge of Tullachleish emits! As
for me, the calamity that is fallen upon me having shattered me,
for me prosperity exists no more. Since now Crimthann's son is
drowned, one that I may love after him there is not in being.
Many a chief is fallen by his hand, and in the battle his shield
never uttered outcry!
There are some who prefer these old Celtic productions literally
translated, while others can take no pleasure in them unless they
are rendered anew in prose narrative or in rhymed verse. 'Credhe's
Lament' exemplifies one kind; the following Ossianic ballad the
other. It is an extended and less simple but otherwise faithful
version of the lament of Deirdrê (Macpherson's Darthula-for the
Irish Deirdre is in the Highlands Dearduil, which is pronounced Dar-
thool), the Helen of Gaeldom.
DEIRDRE'S LAMENT FOR THE SONS OF USNACH
HE lions of the hill are gone,
And I am left alone- alone:
THE
Dig the grave both wide and deep,
For I am sick, and fain would sleep!
The falcons of the wood are flown,
And I am left alone - alone:
Dig the grave both deep and wide,
And let us slumber side by side.
The dragons of the rock are sleeping,
Sleep that wakes not for our weeping:
Dig the grave, and make it ready,
Lay me on my true-love's body.
Lay their spears and bucklers bright
By the warriors' sides aright:
Many a day the three before me
On their linkèd bucklers bore me.


## p. 10878 (#86) ###########################################

10878
OSSIAN
Lay upon the low grave floor,
'Neath each head, the blue claymore:
Many a time the noble three
Reddened their blue blades for me.
Lay the collars, as is meet,
Of the greyhounds at their feet:
Many a time for me have they
Brought the tall red deer to bay.
In the falcon's jesses throw,
Hook and arrow, line and bow:
Never again, by stream or plain,
Shall the gentle woodsmen go.
Sweet companions were ye ever,—
Harsh to me, your sister, never;
Woods and wilds, and misty valleys,
Were with you as good's a palace.
Oh to hear my true-love singing!
Sweet as sounds of trumpets ringing;
Like the sway of ocean swelling
Rolled his deep voice round our dwelling.
Oh! to hear the echoes pealing
Round our green and fairy shealing,
When the three, with soaring chorus,
Passed the silent skylark o'er us.
Echo, now sleep, morn and even:
Lark, alone enchant the heaven!
Ardan's lips are scant of breath,
Neesa's tongue is cold in death.
Stag, exult on glen and mountain —
Salmon, leap from loch to fountain
Heron, in the free air warm ye-
Usnach's sons no more will harm ye!
Erin's stay no more you are,
Rulers of the ridge of war;
Never more 'twill be your fate
To keep the beam of battle straight!
Woe is me! by fraud and wrong,
Traitors false and tyrants strong,
Fell Clan Usnach, bought and sold,
For Barach's feast and Conor's gold!


## p. 10879 (#87) ###########################################

OSSIAN
10879
Woe to Eman, roof and wall!
Woe to Red Branch, hearth and hall!
Tenfold woe and black dishonor
To the foul and false Clan Conor!
Dig the grave both wide and deep:
Sick I am, and fain would sleep!
Dig the grave and make it ready;
Lay me on my true-love's body.
Here now are two of the Ossianic ballads as Macpherson has ren-
dered them, trying in his rhythmic prose to capture the spirit and
charm and glamour of the original. The theme of the first, of a
woman disguising herself as a man so as to be near or perhaps to
reach her lover, is common to many lands.
COLNA-DONA
From the Poems of Ossian,' by James Macpherson
ARGUMENT. - Fingal dispatched Ossian, and Toscar the son of Conloch and
father of Malvina, to raise a stone on the banks of the stream of
Crona, to perpetuate the memory of a victory which he had obtained
in that place. When they were employed in that work, Car-ul, a
neighboring chief, invited them to a feast. They went: and Toscar
fell desperately in love with Colna-dona, the daughter of Car-ul.
Colna-dona became no less enamored of Toscar. An incident at a
hunting party brings their loves to a happy issue.
COL
OL-AMON of troubled streams, dark wanderer of distant vales,
I behold thy course, between trees, near Car-ul's echoing
halls! There dwelt bright Colna-dona, the daughter of the
king. Her eyes were rolling stars; her arms were white as the
foam of streams. Her breast rose slowly to sight, like ocean's
heaving wave. Her soul was a stream of light.
Who among
the maids was like the Love of Heroes?
Beneath the voice of the king we moved to Crona of the
streams,― Toscar of grassy Lutha, and Ossian, young in fields.
Three bards attended with songs. Three bossy shields were
borne before us; for we were to rear the stone, in memory of
the past. By Crona's mossy course, Fingal had scattered his
foes; he had rolled away the strangers like a troubled sea. We
came to the place of renown; from the mountains descended
night. I tore an oak from its hill, and raised a flame on high.
I bade my fathers to look down, from the clouds of their hall;
for at the fame of their race they brighten in the wind.


## p. 10880 (#88) ###########################################

10880
OSSIAN
I took a stone from the stream, amidst the song of bards.
The blood of Fingal's foes hung curdled in its ooze. Beneath, I
placed at intervals three bosses from the shields of foes, as rose
or fell the sound of Ullin's nightly song. Toscar laid a dagger
in earth, a mail of sounding steel. We raised the mold around
the stone, and bade it speak to other years.
Oozy daughter of streams, that now art reared on high, speak
to the feeble, O stone! after Selma's race have failed! Prone,
from the stormy night, the traveler shall lay him by thy side:
thy whistling moss shall sound in his dreams; the years that
were past shall return. Battles rise before him, blue-shielded
kings descend to war; the darkened moon looks from heaven
on the troubled field. He shall burst, with morning, from dreams,
and see the tombs of warriors round. He shall ask about the
stone, and the aged shall reply, "This gray stone was raised by
Ossian, a chief of other years. "
From Col-amon came a bard, from Car-ul, the friend of
strangers. He bade us to the feast of kings, to the dwelling
of bright Colna-dona. We went to the hall of harps. There
Car-ul brightened between his aged locks, when he beheld the
sons of his friends, like two young branches, before him.
"Sons of the mighty," he said, "ye bring back the days of
old, when first I descended from waves, on Selma's streamy
vale! I pursued Duthmocarglos, dweller of ocean's wind. Our
fathers had been foes, we met by Clutha's winding waters. He
fled along the sea, and my sails were spread behind him. Night
deceived me, on the deep. I came to the dwelling of kings, to
Selma of high-bosomed maids. Fingal came forth with his bards,
and Conloch, arm of death. I feasted three days in the hall, and
saw the blue eyes of Erin, Ros-crána, daughter of heroes, light
of Cormac's race. Nor forgot did my steps depart: the kings
gave their shields to Car-ul; they hang, on high, in Col-amon, in
memory of the past. Sons of the daring kings, ye bring back
the days of old! "
Car-ul kindled the oak of feasts. He took two bosses from
our shields. He laid them in earth, beneath a stone, to speak to
the hero's race. "When battle," said the king, "shall roar, and
our sons are to meet in wrath, my race shall look, perhaps, on
this stone, when they prepare the spear. Have not our fathers
met in peace? they will say, and lay aside the shield. "
Night came down. In her long locks moved the daughter of
Car-ul. Mixed with the harp arose the voice of white-armed


## p. 10881 (#89) ###########################################

OSSIAN
10881
Colna-dona. Toscar darkened in his place, before the love of
heroes.
She came on his troubled soul like a beam to the dark-
heaving ocean, when it bursts from a cloud and brightens the
foamy side of a wave.
[Here an episode is entirely lost; or at least is handed down so imper-
fectly that it does not deserve a place in the poem. ]
With morning we awaked the woods, and hung forward on
the path of the roes. They fell by their wonted streams.
We
returned through Crona's vale. From the wood a youth came
forward, with a shield and pointless spear. "Whence," said Tos-
car of Lutha, "is the flying beam? Dwells there peace at Col-
amon, round bright Colna-dona of harps? "
"By Col-amon of streams," said the youth, "bright Colna-dona
dwelt. She dwelt; but her course is now in deserts, with the son
of the king; he that seized with love her soul as it wandered
through the hall. " "Stranger of tales," said Toscar, "hast thou
marked the warrior's course? He must fall: give thou that bossy
shield! " In wrath he took the shield. Fair behind it rose the
breasts of a maid, white as the bosom of a swan, rising graceful
on swift-rolling waves. It was Colna-dona of harps, the daughter
of the king! Her blue eyes had rolled on Toscar, and her love
arose!
THE SONGS OF SELMA
From the Poems of Ossian,' by James Macpherson
STA
TAR of descending night! fair is thy light in the west! Thou
liftest thy unshorn head from thy cloud; thy steps are
stately on thy hill. What dost thou behold in the plain?
The stormy winds are laid. The murmur of the torrent comes
from afar. Roaring waves climb the distant rock. The flies of
evening are on their feeble wings; the hum of their course is on
the field. What dost thou behold, fair light? But thou dost
smile and depart. The waves come with joy around thee: they
bathe thy lovely hair. Farewell, thou silent beam! Let the
light of Ossian's soul arise!
And it does arise in its strength! I behold my departed
friends. Their gathering is on Lora, as in the days of other
years. Fingal comes like a watery column of mist; his heroes
are around. And see the bards of song, gray-haired Ullin!
stately Ryno! Alpin with the tuneful voice! the soft complaint
XIX-681


## p. 10882 (#90) ###########################################

10882
OSSIAN
of Minona! How are ye changed, my friends, since the days of
Selma's feast! when we contended like gales of spring, as they
fly along the hill and bend by turns the feebly whistling grass.
Minona came forth in her beauty; with downcast look and
tearful eye.
Her hair flew slowly on the blast, that rushed un-
frequent from the hill. The souls of the heroes were sad when
she raised the tuneful voice. Often had they seen the grave of
Salgar, the dark dwelling of white-bosomed Colma. Colma left
alone on the hill, with all her voice of song! Salgar promised
to come; but the night descended around. Hear the voice of
Colma, when she sat alone on the hill!
COLMA
It is night; I am alone, forlorn on the hill of storms. The
wind is heard in the mountain. The torrent pours down the
rock. No hut receives me from the rain; forlorn on the hill of
winds!
Rise, moon! from behind thy clouds. Stars of the night,
arise! Lead me, some light, to the place where my love rests
from the chase alone! his bow near him, unstrung; his dogs
panting around him. But here I must sit alone, by the rock of
the mossy stream. The stream and the wind roar aloud. I hear
not the voice of my love! Why delays my Salgar, why the chief
of the hill, his promise? Here is the rock, and here the tree!
here is the roaring stream! Thou didst promise with night to
be here. Ah! whither is my Salgar gone? With thee I would
fly, from my father; with thee, from my brother of pride. Our
race have long been foes: we are not foes, O Salgar!
stream, be thou silent awhile!
Cease a little while, O wind!
let my voice be heard around. Let my wanderer hear me!
Salgar! it is Colma who calls. Here is the tree, and the rock.
Salgar, my love! I am here. Why delayest thou thy coming?
Lo! the calm moon comes forth. The flood is bright in the
vale. The rocks are gray on the steep. I see him not on the
brow. His dogs come not before him, with tidings of his near
approach. Here I must sit alone.
Who lie on the heath beside me? Are they my love and my
brother? Speak to me, O my friends! To Colma they give no
reply. Speak to me: I am alone! My soul is tormented with
fears! Ah! they are dead! Their swords are red from the fight.
O my brother! my brother! why hast thou slain my Salgar?
why, O Salgar! hast thou slain my brother? Dear were ye both


## p. 10883 (#91) ###########################################

OSSIAN
10883
to me! what shall I say in your praise ? Thou wert fair on the
hill among thousands! he was terrible in fight. Speak to me;
hear my voice; hear me, sons of my love! They are silent;
silent forever! Cold, cold are their breasts of clay! Oh! from
the rock on the hill; from the top of the windy steep, speak, ye
ghosts of the dead! speak, I will not be afraid! Whither are ye
gone to rest? In what cave of the hill shall I find the departed?
No feeble voice is on the gale: no answer half drowned in the
storm!
I sit in my grief! I wait for morning in my tears! Rear the
tomb, ye friends of the dead. Close it now till Colma come.
My life flies away like a dream: why should I stay behind?
Here shall I rest with my friends, by the stream of the sound-
ing rock. When night comes on the hill; when the loud winds
arise; my ghost shall stand in the blast, and mourn the death of
my friends. The hunter shall hear from his booth. He shall
fear but love my voice! For sweet shall my voice be for my
friends: pleasant were her friends to Colma!
Once more, readers may care to see a fragment of an authentic
old Ossianic ballad, that of the Colloquy of Oisin and St. Patrick,'
with literal translation by its side. Oisin and St. Patrick are at
feud throughout; Oisin in effect ever telling the Christian saint that
he cannot believe his unworthy tales, and above all his disparage-
ments about Fionn and his heroes; and St. Patrick in turn assuring
him that Fionn and all his chivalry now have hell for their portion. "
<<
13
'Nuair a shuig headh Fiunn air chnochd
Sheinnemid port don Ord fhiann
Chuire nan codal na slòigh
'S Ochòin ba bhinne na do chliar.
14
Smeorach bheag dhuth O Ghleann
smail
Faghar nom bàre rie an tuinn
Sheinnemid fein le' puist
'Sbha sinn feinn sair Cruitt ro bhinn.
15
Bha bri gaothair dheug aig Fiunn
Zugradhmed cad air Ghleann smàil
'Sbabhenne Glaoghairm air còn
Na do chlaig a Cleirich chaidh.
13
When Fionn sat upon a hill, and sang
a song to our heroes which would en-
chant the multitude to sleep, oh how
much sweeter was it than thy hymns!
14
Sweet are the thrush's notes, and long
the sound of the rushing waves; but
sweeter far the voice of the harps,
when we struck them to the sound of
our songs.
15
Loud of old we heard the voices of
our heroes among the hills and glens;
and more sweet in mine ears that
noise, and the noise of your hounds,
than thy bells, O cleric!


## p. 10884 (#92) ###########################################

10884
OSSIAN
Students of old Gaelic literature in the original should consult in
particular the 'Transactions of the Ossianic Society' (Dublin), and the
late J. F. Campbell's superb and invaluable 'Leabhar na Feinne. '
-
But now the subject may fittingly be taken leave of in the 'Death-
Song of Ossian,' - a song familiar throughout Gaeldom in a score of
forms. Here the rendering of Macpherson is given, as not only
beautiful in itself, and apt to the chief singer of ancient Gaels, but
also as conveying something of the dominant spirit which permeates
the Ossianic ballads and poems and prose romances, from the days
when the earliest Fian bards struck their clarsachs (rude harps) to
the latest of the Ossianic chroniclers of to-day, the poet of 'The
Wanderings of Usheen' (W. B. Yeats):-
THE DEATH-SONG OF OSSIAN
SUCH
UCH were the words of the bards in the days of song; when.
the king heard the music of harps, the tales of other times!
The chiefs gathered from all their hills, and heard the
lovely sound. They praised the Voice of Cona! the first among
a thousand bards! But age is now on my tongue; my soul has
failed! I hear at times the ghosts of the bards, and learn their
pleasant song. But memory fails on my mind. I hear the call
of years! They say, as they pass along, Why does Ossian sing?
Soon shall he lie in the narrow house, and no bard shall raise
his fame! Roll on, ye dark-brown years; ye bring no joy on
your course! Let the tomb open to Ossian, for his strength has
failed. The sons of song are gone to rest. My voice remains,
like a blast that roars lonely on a sea-surrounded rock, after
the winds are laid. The dark moss whistles there; the distant
mariner sees the waving trees!
Woman Sharp
Ernest Rhys
Rhys


## p. 10885 (#93) ###########################################

10885
OUIDA
(LOUISE DE LA RAMÉE)
(1840-)
HE novels of Ouida belong to no distinct school of fiction.
They are rather a law unto themselves in their mingling of
extravagant romance with realism; of plots that might have
come out of the 'Decameron,' with imaginative fancies as pure and
tender as those of an innocent and dreamy child; of democratic ideals
worthy of Rousseau and Byron, with a childlike love of rank and its
insignia.

Ouida is less dramatic than lyric in the
style and form of her novels. Her strong
poetic feeling is the source at once of her
weakness and of her strength as a writer
of fiction. She has the poet's sympathy
with nature, and the poet's sensitiveness
to beauty in every form; but she lacks the
dramatist's insight into the complexities of
human nature. She has only a faint per-
ception of the many delicate gradations of
character between exalted goodness and its
opposite extreme. She is at her best when
she is writing of primitive natures, and of
lives close to the earth. The peasant boy
in 'A Dog of Flanders,' yearning to look once upon the Christ of
Rubens; Signa, a gifted child of the people, striving to express the
passionate soul of music within him; the heroine of 'In Maremma,'
hiding her girlhood in the dim richness of an Etruscan tomb; Cigar-
ette in 'Under Two Flags,' dying for love as only a child of nature
can: these simple, sensuous, passionate children are the creation of
Ouida's genius. She has sympathy with the single-hearted emotions
of the sons of the soil. Her temperament fits her to understand their
hates and loves, so free from artificial restraints; their hopes and fears
compressed into intensity by the narrowness of their mental outlook.
She can portray child-life with exquisite truthfulness, because children
when left to themselves are primitive in thought and feeling; natural
in their emotions and direct in their expression of them. They are
OUIDA


## p. 10886 (#94) ###########################################

10886
OUIDA
the true democrats of society. Because Ouida is a poet, she has the
spirit of democracy; which belongs to poets and children, and to all
childlike souls who have love in their hearts, and know nothing of
the importance of amassing money and making proper marriages.
This idealizing, dreamy, and from an economical standpoint worthless.
democracy of feeling, draws her to the oppressed, the down-trodden,
and the poor; to suffering children, and to geniuses whose souls seek
the stars while their bodies are racked with hunger.
Ouida's creed receives a personal embodiment in Tricotrin, the
hero of the novel by that name. He is one of the most fascinating
of her creations; yet he is only half real, being the product of her
poetical rather than her dramatic instinct. He is entitled to wealth
and rank, yet he despises both; he has the knowledge of the man of
the world combined with the saintliness of Francis of Assisi, yet he
is less of a saint than of a philosopher, and less of a philosopher than
of a poet.
He roams over the world, living out the poetry within
him in Christ-like deeds of mercy; he sacrifices his life at last for the
good of the Paris mob.
In Ouida's novels the innocent and the high-minded are continu-
ally suffering for others. To her, the world stands ready to stone
genius and goodness. The motto of her books might be the one
which she places at the head of 'Signa': "I cast a palm upon the
flood; the deeps devour it. Others throw lead, and lo! it buoyant
sails. " Her women who are near to God and nature are crucified by
their love; her men of the same type by their nobility. Ouida finds
no place for great souls in society as it exists. She divides humanity
into two classes, - the good and the bad, the artificial and the nat-
ural. In one class she places children, peasants, and poets; and about
these three orders she has woven her most beautiful and tender and
unreal romances. In the other class she places the Vere de Veres,
the worshipers of Mammon, the schemers and the sharks of society.
Ouida's intense temperament induces her always to deal in extremes,
whether of wealth or rank or goodness. In her, however, exaggeration
becomes refreshment, because she is enough of an artist to clothe
her most daring excursions into the improbable with a realistic atmo-
sphere. Her society novels are as far removed from the realism of
modern fiction as The Mysteries of Udolpho'; yet their epigram-
matic comments upon society and human nature lend to them a ficti-
tious lifelikeness. In The Princess Napraxine,' 'Othmar,' 'A House
Party, Friendship,' and the redoubtable Moths,' Ouida portrays a
world with which she is somewhat familiar. She has been upon the
edges of it,—a precarious position for a woman of her temperament.
She is half in and half out of the society towards which she is, on
the whole, antagonistic.


## p. 10887 (#95) ###########################################

OUIDA
10887
Her real name is Louise de la Ramée; an Englishwoman of
French extraction, she was born at Bury St. Edmunds in 1840. She
was reared in London, and there began to write for periodicals; tak-
ing as a pen-name a younger sister's contraction of her Christian
name, "Louise. " Her first novel, 'Granville de Vigne,' was published
as a serial in Colburn's New Monthly Magazine, and appeared in
book form in 1863. It is typical of the majority of her later stories
of high life. Ouida is a lover of rank only when rank is synonymous
with distinction. She appreciates to the full the poetic elements in
the character of the true aristocrat, the Vandyke or Velasquez noble;
but she has the greatest contempt for the modern fashionable mob
of London or Paris, which values wealth above blood, and notoriety
above breeding.