James Macpherson--The Ossianiac Poems (1762-3) Part 1

This is one of those 18th century books that, while still fairly famous, and frequently referenced in literary and cultural histories, is, to judge by the paucity of easily available reading copies, not much read even by the learned, who when they do offer an opinion of its merits tend to be dismissive of them. The University of Edinburgh having recently published a complete edition of this work with notes and other scholarship, I was able to procure a copy of it over the internet . The saga of the Ossian poems is well-known, so I will only recap the major points for any curious readers who happen to be unfamiliar with them. In the early 1760s a young Scotsman printed several volumes of terse and primitive prose-poems that he claimed to be translations from the 3rd-century Gaelic bard Ossian. The critics were sceptical of this claim, though it seems now to be generally agreed that MacPherson's publications were based on ancient sources of some kind and tweaked or embellished by his art. The books were great hits in their day and even long afterwards, appealing both on account of their romantic qualities as well as their supposed illumination of the remote and little known and theretofore uncelebrated Scottish antiquity. Napoleon was captivated by the raw martial spirit, which he apparently considered to be extinct in his own time, bloody though it was, and commissioned a series of tapestries based on the
poems. As late as 1854 the future famous author Oscar Fingal Wilde, though in his own character not particularly evocative of the laconic, cave-dwelling, warlike race of men celebrated in the poems, was named by his fanatical Irish nationalist mother after two of the primary heroes in these nominally Celtic epics. The modern consensus, however, seems to hold that the magic which these works once held for men of intellect and sensibility has died, and is unlikely to ever be rekindled again. As for Macpherson, after these early successes in his 20s he did not pursue much more literary work, and according to the website from which I took the above picture of him, he moved to London and devoted himself to fornication on a scale that was notable enough to attach to his reputation forever. I am going to seek other sources to confirm this last bit of information, which to read about in literary types is always unsettling to me; for this is going into doors of a type that I know for certain I will never be entering myself, and I cannot help feeling that here I am definitely being left out of the fun, or at least the gritty reality, of life that is one of the main aims of studying literature at all.



This book is an example, to me, of the value of having some kind of list to follow and be working on as the main course of one's reading/study, for I would never have gravitated to or sought out or finished it left to my own inclinations. Though repetitive and difficult to follow at times due to the similarity of a lot of the characters, and battles, and names and so on, it has some not inconsiderable beauties and provokes the mind to a train of thought that is serious without being unpleasant or completely demoralizing, which is perhaps the primary advantage that literature dating from a time before men of a type too generally similar and identifiable with one's self existed has over more contemporary work.

Moving on to my general observations and amusements in the course of reading this book:

(This picture by the way is The Vision of Ossian by Ingres. He did a series of them, though whether this is the same work that was commissioned by Napoleon I am not certain at the moment)

I have never cared much for stories, common in ancient literature, where people accidentally slay their friends/lovers, who are usually in some type of disguise and have entered the fray out of some misguided notion of helping or protecting the hero whom they love. This is such an important motif that clearly early writers saw it as expressing something essential about the human condition, but in the Ossian poems it comes across as a tired and unwelcome convention.
The Edinburgh edition is very luxuriant in its use of paper (which I like). There are lots of blank and nearly blank sheets devoted exclusively to titles, brief Arguments, and the like.
I do try to keep in mind, especially after having read so many 18th century books, how to an English-language reader in 1762 this would have been a real departure from the usual fare, as well as exciting in its suggestions of a wild and heroic, as well as mythical past in the British Isles themselves, which learned people did not think of them as having before that time, similar I think to the sense that Americans who care about such things have now about the prehistory of their country, which is not generally looked to for inspiration or as anything with which the modern inhabitants of the nation have much affinity or relation.
The sociological impression made by the work is not one of great vitality but one in which the vast majority of the best men--and the most beautiful women, their broken-hearted lovers--are killed practically in the first bloom of adulthood, before they are able to do anything. Obviously this has happened to generations of peoples in recent times as well, but the impression is made perhaps even more strongly here, for besides there never being peace and cultural renewal of sorts there is never even expressed a desire for peace. War and early death are seen as the constant, natural and even desirable conditions of life.
The appeal of the romantic past in its ability to give us something we want that we are convinced we cannot otherwise get is really a remarkable phenomenom. Although I have never been to one, out of fear of being ruthlessly ridiculed by the semi-cool and cool friends I did have, as well as my shrewd and perceptive wife, I have always had an attraction to the ridiculous Renaissance Fairs that go on all over the western world. These fairs have a reputation for being about unattractive, socially inept, intelligent but usually haphazardly educated people having found a milieu in which they can play at being, witty, sexy, manly, etc without the interference of too many competent interlopers who will expose the mirage (though some of the women at them at least are quite good-looking and any guy who gets to dance with them, let alone rip their bodices off, even if he is wearing chain mail and talking in faux-Middle English, is going to have to have some muscles and an ability to function reasonably well in the greater society). Still, the illusion of sanctity is offered. One can imagine and perhaps even experience a world in which he has standing, and a personality, where he carries weapons and uses them successfully in contest with other men, in which he is invited to dances and is even permitted to dance with a girl showing a considerable amount of cleavage (we are ignoring that she may be a little chunky or pimpled for mainstream tastes for the nonce). People will do anything they can to experience these feelings for themselves, if they are in any way available for them to have.

All this said, the life of endless warfare must have been very taxing for non-alpha males unfortunate enough to live in these ages.
MacPherson, from the Preface to Fingal:
`Poetry, like virtue, receives its reward after death. The fame which men pursued in vain, when living, is often bestowed upon them when they are not sensible of it. This neglect of living authors is not altogether to be attributed to that reluctance which men shew in praising and rewarding genius. It often happens, that the man who writes differs greatly from the same man in common life. His foibles, however, are obliterated by death, and his better part, his writings, remain: his character is formed from them, and he that was no extraordinary man in his own time, becomes the wonder of succeeding ages.--From this source proceeds our veneration for the dead. Their virtues remain, but the vices, which were once blended with their virtues, have died with themselves.`
This is perhaps true only so far as writing of good quality goes, I presume.
I will close this post. I think Ossian might merit a 3 or perhaps 4 part recap. We will see.