istent throughout, but also in
accordance with all that we know of him from other sources. But were we
even to adopt the absurd theory that Fingal is a creation of
Macpherson's imagination, the intrinsic beauty of the picture well
deserves our study.

An old man retaining all the energy, but not the rashness of youth; age
with vigour instead of decrepitude, delighting in the words of sound
wisdom rather than the usual tattle of second childhood; and, withal, an
old man who is prone to moralise as old men are; a man able and willing
to do his duty in the present though his heart is left in the past; such
is the most prominent figure in these poems. He is pourtrayed as of
tall, athletic frame and kingly port, his majestic front and hoary locks
surmounted by the helm and eagle plume of the Celtic kings.

Though the idea of Fingal pervades most of Ossian's poems he is seldom
introduced _in propria persona_. Even when attention is directed to him
the poet merely and meagerly sketches the herculean outline, and leaves
our imagination to do the rest:--

At intervals a gleam of light afar
Glanced from the broad, blue, studded shield of war,
As moved the king of chiefs in stately pride;
With eager gaze his eye was turned aside
To where the warriors' closing ranks he sees;
Half-grey his ringlets floated in the breeze
Around that face so terrible in fight
And features glowing now with grim delight.--_Tem. B. V._

In order to introduce his hero with the greater _eclat_, the bard first
places his friends in great straits; represents them, though brave, as
overcome by the enemy and without hope, apart from Fingal. Both friends
and foes speak of him in terms of respect, and even the greatest leaders
acknowledge his superiority. When Fingal appears on the scene the poet
rouses himself to the utmost. He piles simile on simile to give an
adequate idea of his first charge--

Through Morven's woods when countless tempests roar,
When from the height a hundred torrents pour,
Like storm-clouds rushing through the vault of heaven,
As when the mighty main on shore is driven,
So wide, so loud, so dark, so fierce the strain
When met the angry chiefs on Lena's plain.
The king rushed forward with resistless might,
Dreadful as Trenmor's awe-inspiring sprite,
When on the fitful blast he comes again
To Morven, his forefather's loved domain.
Loud in the gale the mount