"The love he bore to science was in fault."

The borrowed day was always spent in transferring to paper some
architectural design, or in working out some mathematical problem, or in
rendering some piece of Gaelic verse into English, or some piece of
English prose into Gaelic; and as he was a steady, careful man, the
appropriated day was never seriously missed. The winter, too, was all
his own, for, in those northern districts, masons are never employed
from a little after Hallowday, till the second, or even third month of
spring, a circumstance which I carefully noted at this time in its
bearing on the amusements of my cousin, and which afterwards weighed not
a little with me when I came to make choice of a profession for myself.
And George's winters were always ingeniously spent. He had a great
command of Gaelic, and a very tolerable command of English; and so a
translation of Bunyan's "Visions of Heaven and Hell," which he published
several years subsequent to this period, was not only well received by
his country folk of Sutherland and Ross, but was said by competent
judges to be really a not inadequate rendering of the meaning and spirit
of the noble old tinker of Elstow. I, of course, could be no authority
respecting the merits of a translation, the language of which I did not
understand; but living much amid the literature of a time when almost
every volume, whether the Virgil of a Dryden, or the Meditations of a
Hervey, was heralded by its sets of complimentary verses, and having a
deep interest in whatever Cousin George undertook and performed, I
addressed to him, in the old style, a few introductory stanzas, which,
to indulge me in the inexpressible luxury of seeing myself in print for
the first time, he benevolently threw into type. They survive to remind
me that my cousin's belief in Ossian did exert some little influence
over my phraseology when I addressed myself to him, and that, with the
rashness natural to immature youth, I had at this time the temerity to
term myself "poet."

Yes, oft I've said, as oft I've seen
The men who dwell its hills among,
That Morven's land has ever been
A land of valour, worth, and song.

But Ignorance, of darkness dire,
Has o'er that land a mantle spread;
And all untuned and rude the lyre
That sounds beneath its gloomy shade.

With muse of calm untiring wing,
Oh, be it thine, my friend, to show
The Celtic sw