Poor Ireland, with her hundred ancient epics, standing at the door
of the temple of fame, or, indeed, quite behind the vestibule out
of the way! To see the Swabian enter in, crowned, to a flourish of
somewhat barbarous music, was indeed bad enough, but Mr. MacPherson!

They manage these things rather better in France, _vide passim_ "La
Revue Celtique."

Of the literary value of the bardic literature I fear to write at
all, lest I should not know how to make an end. Rude indeed it is,
but great. Like the central chamber of that huge tumulus [Note: New
Grange anciently Cnobgha, and now also Knowth.] on the Boyne,
overarched with massive unhewn rocks, its very ruggedness strikes
an awe which the orderly arrangement of smaller and more reasonable
thoughts, cut smooth by instruments inherited from classic times,
fails so often to inspire. The labour of the Attic chisel may be
seen since its invention in every other literary workshop of
Europe, and seen in every other laboratory of thought the
transmitted divine fire of the Hebrew. The bardic literature of
Erin stands alone, as distinctively and genuinely Irish as the race
itself, or the natural aspects of the island. Rude indeed it is,
but like the hills which its authors tenanted with gods, holding
dells [Note: Those sacred hills will generally be found to have
this character.] of the most perfect beauty, springs of the most
touching pathos. On page 33, Vol. I., will be seen a poem [Note:
Publications of Ossianic Society, page 303, Vol. IV.] by Fionn upon
the spring-time, made, as the old unknown historian says, to prove
his poetic powers--a poem whose antique language relegates it to a
period long prior to the tales of the Leabhar na Huidhre, one