Soon after this he commenced his career as an author by writing in the Kelso Mail, under the commonplace and trashy signature of "Matilda," those graphic sketches of nature which he afterwards expanded and republished, under the title of the "Rural Calendar." About the commencement of the century he wrote a tragedy on Mary Stuart, which, without much dramatic, had considerable poetic merit. It was never, we believe, acted. In 1802 he married Miss Grahame, eldest daughter of Richard Grahame, Esq. of Annan, a lady of superior understanding and amiable character. She loved and admired her husband, but discouraged his poetical pursuits, under the idea that they interfered with his professional pursuits. One day, shortly after marriage, he stepped in with a little humble anonymous volume of poetry in his hand, entitled "The Sabbath," and laid it on his wife's table. She took it up--began to read, Grahame meanwhile pacing the apartment in impatient anxiety-became fascinated, and at last cried out, "Ah! James, if you could but write something like this!" A delightful eclaircissement took place. The love of their espousals was renewed with interest. It was one of those golden moments in life, so pure and exquisite that Envy herself views them with complacency. His wife no longer frowned on his Muse. We are reminded of the somewhat similar incident in the history of Dr Johnson's wife, who, when she read the first numbers of the "Rambler," exclaimed to him, "I always thought well of you, but never dreamed you could do anything so good as this." Grahame had managed to conceal the fact of his connexion with the poem from every one except Pillans (brother of the respected Professor Pillans), his publisher, who, that the anonymous might be strictly preserved, met him in coffeehouses to make the necessary arrangements. The " Sabbath," thus modestly ushered into the world, instantly went to the heart of Scotland, and drew around the author all who loved the Lord's Day and the memory of the brave Covenanters. The applause was universal, with the exception of the Edinburgh Review, which uttered a small pitiful snarl, dictated as much by hatred of religion as by contempt for the poetry of Grahame. That Grahame felt this attack keenly is certain, but he did not openly reclaim against it, and he continued on friendly terms with Jeffrey, who made the amende honorable, some years after, in a review of a far inferior poem-" British Georgics." It is said that Mrs Grahame, like Lady Scott, in reference to the review of " Marmion," never forgave the critic, who probably, in his secret heart, never forgave himself. The kind reception of the "Sabbath" confirmed Grahame's attachment to poetry; and at Kirkhill, a beautiful retreat on the banks of the Esk, where he occupied a cottage for two successive summers, he composed the "Birds of Scotland." His desire to enter the church revived at this time with double force. Walking, one fine summer evening, near the parish kirk of Borthwick with a friend, Grahame cast a delighted look at the scene, as shown in the gilding of the sun's last rays, and said, “I wish such a place as that had fallen to my lot." "Would it not become wearisome?" rejoined the other. "Oh no!" he replied; "it would be delightful to live a life of usefulness among a simple people, unmolested with petty cares and ceremonies." This feeling, proving not a mere sigh of sunset enthusiasm, led him, next spring, to quit the bar and Edinburgh, and to go southwards in quest of ordination in the English Church. He had sympathies with all the Churches of the Reformation, and had sung, with intense interest, the Covenanting struggle against "A tyrant's and a bigot's bloody laws;" but he seems to have preferred the outward forms and liturgic worship of the English Establishment. Perhaps, also, he might imagine that a poetical style of evangelical preaching would be better appreciated in the south than in the north. He repaired, therefore, first to Chester and then to London, where he was ordained by the Bishop of Norwich. His fame had doubtless travelled before, as we notice a favourable review, in 1806, of his poems in the Christian Observer, then a powerful periodical, and the organ of the Moderate Evan gelicals in the Church of England. He was soon appointed curate of Shipton, in Gloucestershire, where he resided with his family for a year, and then came to Annan to visit his wife's relations. While there, he heard of a vacancy in St George's Chapel, Edinburgh, and stood accordingly as a candidate. He preached several times in the metropolis, and was much admired. His sermons and his manner are described as "simple, elegant, and affecting. His appearance, in the robes of his sacred office, was solemn and devout, while the deep tones of a voice rich in natural pathos were rendered still more impressive by the pale hue which sickness had spread over his fine features, and he seemed like a messenger sent from heaven to lead the way to that happier state." His friends were exceedingly anxious to see him elected, partly to enjoy the pleasures of his society again, and partly for the sake of religion; but another candidate was chosen, and the roll of Edinburgh preachers thus missed the honour of a very distinguished name. He bore the disappointment with patience, and mildly said, in answer to the warm expressions of regret and indignation used by a friend, "It matters not where we pass our time for a few short years." He went from Edinburgh to Glasgow to pay what proved a last visit to his aged mother, who died soon afterwards, and returning thence to England, found a new disappointment waiting him. He had become a candidate for a minor canonry in Durham, but found it given to another. He officiated for three months as an interim curate, and, proving popular, was appointed to the curacy of Sedgefield, in the See of Durham, in 1810. This was the highest promotion ever attained by the poet. He preached here with great success, and having officiated on one occasion before the Bishop, to his great delight, would probably have received higher preferment, but fell into bad health, and had to return to Edinburgh for change of air. His complaints outwardly were excruciating headache and oppressive asthma; inwardly, we fear, a wounded spirit and broken heart. His poetry, except the "Sabbath," was far from being rated according to what he thought its merits. In his ministerial work he did not find that satisfaction which he had expected. He had been, as he said himself, "transplanted too late" to the southland soil and the English Church; and seems often to have sighed for Scottish scenery and Scottish manners. There can be no doubt that a little melancholy mingles with the feeling of the well-known lines in the "British Georgics": "How pleasant came thy rushing, silver Tweed, Upon my ear, when, after roaming long In southern plains, I've reach'd thy lovely banks! How bright, renowned Sark, thy little stream, Like ray of column'd light chasing a shower, Would cross my homeward path! How sweet the sound Would ask thy well-known name." He arrived at the house of his only surviving sister, Mrs Archibald Grahame, who resided in Edinburgh There he became so alarmingly ill that his wife was sent for. He expressed a strong desire to see Glasgow once more, and went there accordingly with Mrs Grahame-to die. It was the retreat of the wounded hare to his form. Yet, although feeling himself doomed, he scarcely expected death so soon. He even intended to preach in Glasgow, and carried with him two sermons for this purpose-the text of one of which was, "O Death, where is thy sting?" He became worse on the road, and having reached Whitehill, near Glasgow, the residence of his eldest brother, he expired on the 14th of September 1811, in the forty-seventh year of his age. He left two sons and a daughter. His wife did not long survive her husband. No man was ever more beloved by his friends than Grahame. His appearance was grave, swarthy, and majestic, but tempered by mildness, amiability, and unaffected modesty. He was pious as a habit and as a necessity; he swam in devotional feeling as in his native element, but he was far from He loved quiet humour and innocent gaiety, and "Sometimes when the secret cup morose. Of still and serious thought went round, It seem'd as if he drank it up, He felt with spirit so profound." His greatest luxury was music, and next to sacred music, he loved those "Scottish tunes, so sad and slow." Campbell the poet, without much sympathy with Grahame's religious sentiments, admired and loved him, and in his letters speaks of him with profound respect. As Macintosh with Hall, Campbell was probably "awe-struck" by the purity and holiness of Grahame's character. Wilson has written a very touching monody over his loss. Grahame's genius was limited in its range, but within that range was exquisitely true and beautiful. He had no dramatic power, has written no lyrics of merit, and his vein of thought is far from profound. He has been called the Cowper of Scotland, and resembles him in tenderness of feeling, truth of natural description, and ardent piety, but is vastly inferior in strength of mind, force and continuity of style, and, whatever he might do in private, has in his poetry given no evidence of possessing a particle of Cowper's refined and inimitable humour. He is essentially a descriptive writer, and many of his individual pictures, or rather strokes, are exceedingly felicitous. He has few large or highly-finished paintings, and often when he has commenced a fine flight he suddenly sinks flat upon the ground, like a wounded bird. Sometimes again, after labouring long and unsuccessfully at a piece of description, he, as if in despair, dashes or drops his pencil on the canvas, and produces the desired effect. His poetry lies in small compass, and yet contains a most disproportionate quantity of prosaic matter. One good line to twenty poor and flat ones is about the average, but often the line is so good that it flashes a light on the darkness which is all around it, and reminds you, in his own words, of a "Ray of column'd light chasing a shower." Thus in his poem on Jephtha's daughter, that most poetical theme, there occurs only one good line, and it is the last "The timbrel at her rooted feet resounds!" How does that one line tell the whole story of the anguish of the maiden who had come forth" with timbrels and dances" to meet her father; but when she hears of his rash. vow, her feet fasten, and her timbrel falls-it is shattered to |