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Updated: May 28, 2025
His mother 'n' father got turrible sick of it; so much sunshine in the house made a continual drouth, so old Mis' Popham used to say. For her part, she said, she liked to think that, once in a while, there was a cloud that was a first-class cloud; a thick, black cloud, clean through to the back! She was tired to death lookin' for Ossian's silver linin's!
Popham, he says any place'll be heaven to him so long as I ain't there, callin' 'Hurry up Ossian! so we have it, back an' forth!" "It's a wonderful faculty, seeing the good in everything," sighed Mrs. Carey. "Wonderful tiresome," returned Mrs. Popham, "though I will own up it's Ossian's only fault, and he can't see his own misfortunes any clearer than he can see those of other folks.
The Celts do not form an utterly distinct part of our mixed population. But for early, frequent, and various contact with the race that in its half-barbarous days invented Ossian's dialogues with St. Patrick, and that quickened afterwards the Northmen's blood in France, Germanic England would not have produced a Shakspeare. But there Mr. Morley leaves the matter.
After running till about midnight, we "hove-to" near the mouth of the Mersey; and next morning, before day-break, took the first of the flood; and with a fair wind, stood into the river; which, at its mouth, is quite an arm of the sea. Presently, in the misty twilight, we passed immense buoys, and caught sight of distant objects on shore, vague and shadowy shapes, like Ossian's ghosts.
Then suddenly, "I won't come back and be old when they're all dead?" a vivid remembrance of Ossian's fate flashing upon him. A most beautiful laughter, which again to Con seemed half soundless, came in reply. His fears vanished; the golden-bearded man stretched a hand over him for a moment, and he found himself out in the night, now clear and starlit.
On Monday, April 29, he and I made an excursion to Bristol, where I was entertained with seeing him enquire upon the spot, into the authenticity of 'Rowley's Poetry, as I had seen him enquire upon the spot into the authenticity of 'Ossian's Poetry. George Catcot, the pewterer, who was as zealous for Rowley, as Dr. Johnson a convert. Dr.
"He strides away indignantly, like one of Ossian's ghosts?" "A great philosopher, whose name I have forgotten. Truly a strange owl!" "He looks like a lion with a hat on." "He is a mystic, who reads Schubert's History of the Soul, and lives, for the most part, in the clouds of the Middle Ages. To him the spirit-world is still open.
So here are two facts, one literary and the other physiological, for which any candid critic was bound to thank the author, even as in Romany Rye there is a fact connected with Iro Norman Myth, for the disclosing of which, any person who pretends to have a regard for literature is bound to thank him, namely, that the mysterious Finn or Fingal of "Ossian's Poems" is one and the same person as the Sigurd Fofnisbane of the Edda and the Wilkina, and the Siegfried Horn of the Lay of the Niebelungs.
They were aware of the popular notion concerning them, and not unfrequently took advantage of it to levy a sort of black mail upon their credulous neighbors. An attendant at the funeral of one of these sisters, who when living was about as unsubstantial as Ossian's ghost, through which the stars were visible, told me that her coffin was so heavy that four stout men could barely lift it.
An English-woman seemed like a spirit of melancholy some coy, pale, shadowy form among Ossian's mists, or a type of remorse flying from crime.
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