Very likely the reading of Ossian had something to do with my morbid¹ anxieties. I had read Byron’s imitation of him before that, and admired it prodigiously², and when my father got me the book — as usual I did not know where or how he got it — not all the tall forms that moved before the eyes of haunted bards³ in the dusky vale of autumn could have kept me from it. There were certain outline illustrations in it, which were very good in the cold Flaxman manner, and helped largely to heighten the fascination⁵ of the poems for me. They did not supplant⁶ the pastorals of Pope in my affections, and they were never the grand passion with me that Pope’s poems had been.
I began at once to make my imitations of Ossian, and I dare say they were not windier and mistier⁷ than the original. At the same time I read the literature of the subject, and gave the pretensions⁸ of Macpherson an unquestioning faith. I should have made very short work of any one who had impugned⁹ the authenticity¹⁰ of the poems, but happily there was no one who held the contrary opinion in that village, so far as I knew, or who cared for Ossian, or had even heard of him. This saved me a great deal of heated controversy¹¹ with my contemporaries, but I had it out in many angry reveries with Dr. Johnson and others, who had dared to say in their time that the poems of Ossian were not genuine lays of the Gaelic bard⁴, handed down from father to son, and taken from the lips of old women in

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