king of Morven, in ancient Caledonia. He flourished in the third century: and according to the Irish histories died in the year 283, although there is some reason from Ossian's poems for placing his death a few years later. Fingal was descended in all probability from those Celtic tribes who were the first inhabitants of Britain. Tradition, and the poems of Ossian, give him a long line of royal ancestors, such as Combal, Trenmor, Trathal, &c. who had all reigned over the same territory. Whether this territory was bounded by the Caledonian forest, or extended somewhat farther to the south, towards the Roman province, is uncertain; but there is no doubt of its having extended over all the north and west Highlands, comprehending the Hebrides, whose petty chiefs were all subject to the king of Morven. His principal place of residence was Selma, which was probably in the neighbourhood of Glencoe, supposed to be the Cona of Ossian; though some imagine it to have been in Strath-Conan in Moray. The truth seems to be, that as Fingal and his people lived by hunting, they often shifted their habitations. Hence, in all parts of the Highlands we find, in the names of places, buildings, &c. such monuments as justify their several claims for the honour of Fingal's residence. Fingal acquired great fame by his prowess in arms. He made many successful incursions into the Roman province, from whence he carried away those spoils which his son so often mentions under the names of the wine of the stranger, and the wax of the stranger. By sea we find him frequently making voyages to Scandinavia, the Orkneys, and Ireland; called by Ossian Lochlin, Innistore and Ullin. Several of these expeditions were celebrated by his son in epic poems, of which two only remain, Fingal and Temora. In the last of these poems, we find Fingal fighting together with his grandson Oscar. How long he lived afterwards is uncertain. He is said to have died a natural death; and therefore none of his son's poems relate to this event, though it is occasionally mentioned in many of them.

"Did thy beauty last, O Ryno? Stood the strength of car-borne Oscar? Fingal himself passed away; and the halls of his fathers have forgot his steps. The blast of the north opens thy gates, O king, and I behold thee sitting on mist, dimly gleaming in all thine arms. Thy form now is not the terror of the valiant; but like a watery cloud, when we see the stars behind it, with their weeping eyes. Thy shield is like the aged moon; thy sword, vapour half kindled with fire. Dim and feeble is the chief who travelled in brightness before. But thy steps are on the winds of the desert, and the storms darken in thy hand. Thou takest the sun in thy wrath, and hidest him in thy clouds. The sons of little men are afraid, and a thousand showers descend."—Berrathon.

"The character of Fingal (Dr Blair observes) is perhaps the most perfect that ever was drawn by a poet, for we may boldly defy all the writers of antiquity to show us any hero equal to Fingal. Throughout the whole of Ossian's works, he is presented to us in all that variety of lights which give the full display of a character. In him concur almost all the qualities that can ennoble human nature; that can either make us admire the hero, or love the man. He is not only unconquerable in war, but he makes his people happy by his wisdom in the days of peace. He is truly the father of his people. He is known by the epithet of 'Fingal'..." Fingal of the mildest look,' and distinguished on every occasion by humanity and generosity. He is merciful to his foes, full of affection to his children, full of concern about his friends, and never mentions Agandecca, his first love, without the utmost tenderness. He is the universal protector of the distressed; none ever went sad from Fingal.—'O Oscar! bend the strong in arms, but spare the feeble hand. Be thou a stream of many tides against the foes of thy people; but like the gale that moves the grass to those who ask thine aid: so Trenmor lived; such Trathal was; and such has Fingal been. My arm was the support of the injured; the weak rested behind the lightning of my steel.' These were the maxims of true heroism to which he formed his grandson. His fame is represented as everywhere spread; the greatest heroes acknowledge his superiority; his enemies tremble at his name; and the highest encomiums that can be bestowed on one whom the poet would most exalt, is to say, That his soul was like the soul of Fingal. Wherever he appears, we behold the hero. The objects he pursues are always great; to bend the proud, to protect the injured, to defend his friends, to overcome his enemies by generosity more than by force. Some strokes of human imperfection and frailty are what usually give us the most clear view and the most sensible impression of a character, because they present to us a man such as we have seen; they recall known features of human nature. When poets go beyond this range, and attempt to describe a faultless hero, they, for the most part, set before us a sort of vague undistinguishable character, such as the imagination cannot lay hold of, or realize to itself as the object of affection. But Fingal, though exhibited without any of the common human failings, is nevertheless a real man; a character which touches and interests every reader."

We may observe, that Fingal appears to have been no less a poet than a warrior; at least, in all those passages ascribed to him in the poems of his son, there is a grandeur and loftiness that elevates them above the common style even of Ossian. The following passage from the poem of Carthon may be taken as a specimen of Fingal's poetry.—'Raise, ye bards,' said the mighty Fingal, 'the praise of the unhappy Moina. Call her ghost, with your songs, to our hills; that she may rest with the fair of Morven, the sunbeams of other days, and the delight of the heroes of old.—I have seen the walls of Balclutha, but they were desolate. The fire had resounded in the halls; and the voice of the people is heard no more. The stream of Clutha was removed from its place by the fall of the walls. The thistle shook, there, its lonely head: the moss whistled to the wind. The fox looked out from the windows; the rank grass of the wall waved round his head. Desolate is the dwelling of Moina: silence is in the house of her fathers. Raise the song of mourning, O bards, over the land of strangers. They have but fallen before us; for, one day we must fall.—Why dost thou build the hall, son of the winged days? Thou lookest from thy towers to-day; yet a few years, and the blast of the desert comes; it howls in thy empty court, and whistles round thy half-worn shield.—And let the blast of the desert come! We shall be renowned in our day. The mark of my arm shall be in the battle, and my name in the song of bards. Raise the song; send round the shell: and let joy be heard in my hall. When thou, sun of heaven, shalt fail! if thou shalt fail, thou mighty light! if thy brightness is for a season, like Fingal; our fame shall survive thy beams.'—Such was the joy of Fingal in the day of his joy. His thousand bards leaned forward from their seats, to hear the voice of the king. It was like the music of the harp on the gale of the spring. Lovely were thy thoughts, O Fingal! Why had not Ossian the strength of thy soul? But thou dost stand alone, my father; and who can equal the king of Morven?' See Ossian.