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 process might be found in the singular popularity of Ossian. The Ossianic enthusiasm is one of the most remarkable of literary phenomena. Goethe admired Ossian; Chateaubriand translated him; Napoleon revelled in Ossian; Madame de Staël, equally enthusiastic, considers Ossian as a typical example of the influence of the Northern spirit. I will not say that Ossian—or so much of him as appeared in Macpherson—was a mere humbug. But I may say, without incurring much risk of critical wrath, that I cannot read him. Nobody can read him. Wordsworth, as we know, was disgusted with his unreal mountains; and his scenery strikes one, so far as it strikes one at all, like so much 'carpenter's Gothic.' It is a mere sham, and, in fact, it never produced any very assignable effect upon English literature. Yet the impression which it made upon people of the highest intelligence is a fact, and ought to be explained. It seems to show, as some other cases show, that popularity abroad may be unaffected by, if not exactly due to, faults which are fatal at home. The reader of a translation is not shocked by defects of style apparent to the native, and gets general impressions in the lump. Wordsworth was offended because Ossian's mountains were not