of her lovely voice, falling on a lover's ears, had represented the beauty and happiness of the country only as words can do to those who have not seen what they describe. It was more pleasant to Ossian to enjoy than it was afterwards bitter to remember. So many were its pleasures that when he recalled his life there a hundred things were forgotten, and yet it seemed impossible. For Tirnanoge had made young his soul and body. The battles of old which he had fought in Ireland, the wounds, the weariness, the anxiety, the mourning, no longer helped to stiffen his limbs and weigh down his heart. He rose up in the morning glad and he lay down at night content. He was never tired of doing pleasant things many times over. Each present hour was as happy to him as the long-past hour seems to men who have never been in Tirnanoge. Seldom did the old days in Ireland return to his mind. When they did he saw the heroes and their fights, all as beautiful and quiet as the pictures upon the walls. Thus he saw the mild, wise, generous Finn his father in many acts of his life, but above all on the day when he struck his dog Bran. The noble dog looked at him in wonder, and as Finn stooped to make up for the blow by a caress, he wished that the arm had been torn from his shoulder before it had offended. He saw the sweet-tongued bard, his uncle Fergus; his own mighty son Oscar, who won back a lost battle with a tree trunk for weapon; the one-eyed Gaul; the beautiful, chivalrous Dermat. He saw them in chase and battle, always triumphing by their truth-telling and the might of their hands. He recalled the trial-days for men seeking to join the ranks of the Fena. The candidate was bound never to refuse hospitality, never to insult a woman, to take no dowry with his wife. Having promised these things, he was tested for strength and
