“Undoubtedly,” said the national Prince, “I should; but pray, Mr. Mortimer, observe this shield. It is of great antiquity. You perceive it is made of wicker, as were the Irish shields in general; although I have also heard they were formed of silver, and one was found near Slimore, in the county of Cork, plated with gold, which sold for seventy guineas.” “But here,” said I, “is a sword of curious workmanship, the hilt of which seems of gold.” Sir Cauline’s antagonist, the Eldridge knight, is described as being “a foul paymin” which places the events, the romantic tale delineates, in the earliest era of Christianity in Ireland. “It is in fact so,” said the priest--“Golden hilted swords have been in great abundance through Ireland; and it is a circumstance singularly curious, that a sword found in the bog of Cullen, should be of the exact construction and form of those found upon the plains of Canæ. You may suppose that the advocates of our Milesian origin gladly seize on this circumstance, as affording new arms against the sceptics to the antiquity of our nation.” “Here too is a very curious haubergeon, once perhaps impregnable! And this curious battle-axe,” said I-- “Was originally called,” returned the Prince, “_Tuath Catha_, or axe of war, and was put into the hands of our Galloglasses, or second rank of military.” “But how much more elegant,” I continued, “the form of this beautiful spear; it is of course of a more modern date.” “On the contrary,” said the Prince, “this is the exact form of the cranuil or lance, with which Oscar is described to have struck Art to the earth.” “Oscar!” I repeated, almost starting--but added--“O, true, Mr. Macpherson tells us the Irish have some wild improbable tales of Fingal’s heroes among them, on which they found some claim to their being natives of this country.” “Some claim!” repeated the Prince, and by one of those motions which speak more than volumes, he let go my arm, and took his usual station by the fireside, repeating, _some claim!_ While I was thinking how I should repair my involuntary fault, the good natured priest said, with a smile, “You know, my dear Sir, that by one half of his English readers, Ossian is supposed to be a Scottish bard of ancient days; by the other he is esteemed the legitimate offspring of Macpherson’s own muse. But here,” he added, turning to me, “we are certain of his Irish origin, from the testimony of tradition, from proofs of historic fact, and above all, from the internal evidences of the poems themselves, even as they are given us by Mr. Macpherson.