The respectable families of this place [Glasgow] have to boast, moreover, of having produced not a few individuals, who, abandoning the profession of their fathers, have devoted themselves to other pursuits, and achieved things that cannot fail to reflect honour both upon them and the city of their habitation. Such was that gentle and delightful poet, James Grahame, the author of the Sabbath, who died only a few years ago in the midst of his family here, and over whose remains a modest and affecting inscription is placed in the choir of the Cathedral. I have been gratified more than once during my sojourn in Glasgow, with hearing the terms of deep and tender affection in which the memory of this good man is spoken of by those, whose admiration of his mild and solemn genius has been warmed and enriched into a yet nobler kind of enthusiasm, by their experience of his personal virtues — their own intimate knowledge of that fine heart, from which so many of his inspirations appear to have been derived, and with the pervading charm of which, each and all of his most beautiful inspirations appear to have been sanctified. It is, indeed, a precious pleasure which one receives in contemplating the sober endearing influences which survive the death of such a man, in the place where he was best known. This is the true embalming — such are the men who scarcely need the splendours of genius to preserve their memories — who may
The lingering gleam of their departed lives,
To oral records and the silent heart.