if they had aimed at any thing ſhort of Epic honours. At that moment all their charm vaniſhed. Inſtead of the turbulent temper, coarſe appetites, low cunning, unreſtrained ferociouſneſs, and unrelenting vengeance, relieved by thoſe magnanimous atchievements, ſage reflections, and ſpirit-ſtirring ſentiments, which, like tranſient gleams ſucceeded by ſudden ſqualls, compoſe the unſettled weather of a ſavage mind, an endleſs proceſſion of undiſtinguiſhable automatons is marched in the ſame ſlow ſolemn pace, acroſs the unchanging ſcene. The kingly Fingal and his grenadiers decline from their ſtate as little as the archangel Raphael: their geſtures, actions, and thoughts, are as ſtiff and monſtrous as the ſtyle in which they are deſcribed; their paſſions are too dignified for ſympathy; national vanity itſelf has not been able to endure the tædium produced by ſuch uniform ſolemnity; and however our indignation may be rouſed by the alarm of an impoſture, to have diſgraced a ſubject capable of affecting the fancy ſo agreeably may juſtly be conſidered as a much more heinous literary crime, by readers at once ſenſible of its power, and of the unpleaſing effect of the necromancer Macpherſon’s diſenchanting wand.—
PUBLISHER.
Faith, there ſeems to be ſomething new in this idea. I’ll e’en aſk the beſt noveliſt in my pay, whether he cannot contrive to new-model Oſſian, and adapt him to the moſt vulgar capacity. But I do not remember any ſuch over-charged imagery and fatiguing pomp in my Tales. In the Legends of Number-Nip, the author’s muſe ſports like a child: ſhe takes her pleaſure in
