It was fated, however, that the two modes of life should, in my consciousness, melt into each other imperceptibly. When I reached home I found that my friend the Rev. Mr Macpherson of Inverary had sent me a packet of Ossianic translations. These translations, breathing the very soul of the wilderness I had lately left, I next day perused in my Edinburgh surroundings, and through their agency the two experiences coalesced. Something of Edinburgh melted into my remembrance of Skye--something of Skye was projected into actual Edinburgh. Thus is life enriched by ideal contrast and interchange. With certain of these translations I conclude my task. To me they were productive of much pleasure. And should the shadows in my book have impressed the reader to any extent, as the realities impressed me--if I have in any way kindled the feeling of Skye in his imagination as it lives in mine--these fragments of austere music will not be ungrateful. EXTRACT FROM CARRICK-THURA. Night fell on wave-beat Rotha, The hill-shelter'd bay received the ships; A rock rose by the skirt of the ocean, A wood waved over the boom of the waves; Above was the circle of Lodin, And the huge stones of many a power; Below was a narrow plain And tree and grass beside the sea. A tree torn by the wind when high From the skirt of the cairns to the plain. Beyond was the blue travel of streams; A gentle breeze came from the stilly sea, A flame rose from a hoary oak; The feast of the chiefs was spread on the heath; Grieved was the soul of the king of shields, For the chief of dark Carrick of the braves. The moon arose slow and faint; Deep slumber fell round the heads of the braves, Their helmets gleam'd around; The fire was dying on the hill. Sleep fell not on the eyelids of the king; He arose in the sound of his arms To view the wave-beat Carrick. The fire lower'd in the far distance, The moon was in the east red and slow. A blast came down from the cairn; On its wings was the semblance of a man, Orm Lodin, ghastly on the sea. He came to his own dwelling-place, His black spear useless in his hand, His red eye as the fire of the skies, His voice as the torrent of the mountains.