Ossian was the rage--quotations from the blind bard of Morven were in every one's mouth. True, Dr. Samuel Johnson had denounced the whole thing as an imposition 'as gross as ever the world was troubled with.' Dr. Blair wrote in defence, 'Could any man, of modern age, have written such poems?' 'Why yes, sir,' was the answer--'Many men, many women, and many children.' Macpherson wrote offensively and violently to Dr. Samuel, who replied heartily enough--'I received your foolish and impudent letter ...I hope I shall never be deterred from detecting what I think a cheat, by the menaces of a ruffian ...I thought your book an imposture. I think so still. Your rage I defy,' etc. etc. What was all this to Runciman? He had no learning--he cared nothing for antiquarianism. He took for granted that Ossian was authentic. Many north of the Tweed looked upon it merely as a national question. Macpherson was a Scotchman, therefore it was the duty of Scotchmen to side with him. His condemners were English, and were jealous, of course, and wrong no doubt. Runciman was hard at work at Penicuik, painting as for his life, while all this discussion was going on, and Macpherson and his friends were striving might and main to produce an ancient manuscript anything like the published poem, and so confute and silence Johnson, Goldsmith, Burke, Garrick, and lastly Boswell, who did not even _pair_ with the doctor on the occasion, though the question _did affect_ Scotland. Runciman had sketched out and commenced his twelve great pictures. 1. Ossian singing to Malvina. 2. The valour of Oscar. 3. The Death of Oscar, etc. etc. Who reads Ossian now? Who cares about Agandecca, 'with red eyes of tears'--'with loose and raven locks?' 'Starno pierced her side with steel. She fell like a wreath of snow which slides from the rocks of Ronan.' Who knows anything now about Catholda, and Corban Cargloss, and Golchossa and Cairbar of the gloomy brow? For some time the poems held their own, retained their popularity; their partisans fought with their opponents for every inch of ground, even though discovery was mining them. And some fragments found their way in a fashion to the stage. But a little while ago there was living a ballet-master, who owed his baptismal name to parental success in the grand ballet of 'Oscar and Malvina, or the Cave of Fingal!' But this must have been produced years after Runciman. The poems had merit, and that floated them for a long time; but the leak of falsehood made its way--they sunk at last. And Macpherson? Well, if a poet will be an impostor, he must prepare to be remembered by posterity rather for his fraud than his poetry.