THE VISION OF DR. DONNE.

[Izaak Walton, born at Stafford, 9th August, 1593;

died at Winchester, 15th December, 1683. Some time a hosier in Fleet Street, London; a royalist, and after the battle of Worcester he rendered good service to Charles II. His works are: The Complete Angler, or

Contemplative Man's Recreation; and The Lives of Dr. John Donne, Sir Henry Wotton, Richard Hooker, George

Herbert; and Robert Sanderson. We quote from The Life of Dr. Donne.]

At this time of Mr. Donne's and his wife's living in Sir Robert's house, the Lord Hay was, by King James, sent upon a glorious embassy to the then French king, Henry the Fourth; and Sir Robert put on a sudden resolution to accompany him to the French court, and to be present at his audience there. And Sir Robert put on a sudden resolution to solicit Mr. Donne to be his companion in that journey. And this desire was suddenly made known to his wife, who was then with child, and otherwise under so dangerous a habit of body as to her health, that she professed an unwillingness to allow him any absence from her; saying, "Her divining soul boded her some ill in his absence;" and therefore desired him not to leave her. This made Mr. Donne lay aside all thoughts of the journey, and really to resolve against it. But Sir Robert became restless in his persuasions for it, and Mr. Donne was so generous as to think he had sold his liberty when he received so many charitable kindnesses from him, and told his wife so; who did therefore, with an unwilling willingness, give a faint consent to the journey, which was proposed to be but for two months; for about that time they determined their return. Within a few days after this resolve the ambassador, Sir Robert, and Mr. Donne left London, and were the twelfth day got all safe to Paris. Two days after their arrival there, Mr. Donne was left alone in that room in which Sir Robert, and he, and some other friends, had dined together. To this place Sir Robert returned within half an hour; and as he left, so he found Mr. Donne alone; but in such an ecstacy, and so altered as to his looks, as amazed Sir Robert to behold him; insomuch that he earnestly desired Mr. Donne to declare what had befallen him in the short time of his absence. To which Mr. Donne was not able to make a present answer, but, after a long and perplexed pause, did at last say, "I have seen a dreadful vision since I saw you: I have seen my dear wife pass twice by me through this room, with her

hair hanging about her shoulders, and a dead child in her arms: this I have seen since I saw you." To which Sir Robert replied, "Sure, sir, you have slept since I saw you; and this is the result of some melancholy dream, which I desire you to forget, for you are now awake.” To which Mr. Donne's reply was: "I cannot be surer that I now live than that I have not

slept since I saw you: and am as sure that at her second appearing she stopped and looked me in the face, and vanished." Rest and sleep had not altered Mr. Donne's opinion the next day; for he then affirmed this vision with a more deliberate, and so confirmed a confidence that he inclined Sir Robert to a faint belief that the vision was true. It is truly said that desire and doubt have no rest; and it proved so with Sir Robert; for he immediately sent a servant to Drewry House, with a charge to hasten back and bring him word whether Mrs. Donne were alive; and, if alive, in what condition she was as to her health. The twelfth day the messenger returned with this account:

That he found and left Mrs. Donne very sad and sick in her bed; and that, after a long and dangerous labour, she had been delivered of a dead child. And, upon examination, it proved to be the same day, and about the very hour, that Mr. Donne affirmed he saw her pass by him in his chamber.

This is a relation that will beget some wonder, and it well may; for most of our world are at present possessed with an opinion that visions and miracles are ceased. And, though it is most certain that two lutes, being both strung and tuned to an equal pitch, and then one played upon, the other that is not touched, being laid upon a table at a fit distance, will

like an echo to a trumpet-warble a faint audible harmony in answer to the same tune; yet many will not believe there is any such thing as a sympathy of souls; and I am well pleased that every reader do enjoy his own opinion. But if the unbelieving will not allow the believing reader of this story a liberty to believe that it may be true, then I wish him to consider many wise men have believed that the ghost of Julius Cæsar did appear to Brutus, and that both St. Austin and Monica, his mother, had visions in order to his conversion. And though these and many others-too many to name-have but the authority of human story, yet the incredi ble reader may find in the sacred story (1 Sam. xxviii. 14), that Samuel did appear to Saul even after his death-whether really or not, I undertake not to determine. And Eliphaz, in the book of Job, says these words (iv. 13–16):

"A spirit passed before my face; the hair of my head stood up; fear and trembling came upon me, and made all my bones to shake." Upon which words I will make no comment, but leave them to be considered by the incredulous reader; to whom I will also commend this following consideration: That there be many pious and learned men that believe our merciful God hath assigned to every man a particular guardian angel to be his constant monitor, and to attend him in all his dangers, both of body and soul. And the opinion that every man hath his particular angel may gain some authority by the relation of St. Peter's miraculous deliverance out of prison (Acts xii. 7-10, 13-15), not by many, but by one angel. And this belief may yet gain more credit by the reader's considering, that when Peter, after his enlargement, knocked at the door of Mary, the mother of John, and Rhode, the maidservant, being surprised with joy that Peter was there, did not let him in, but ran in haste and told the disciples, who were then and there met together, that Peter was at the door; and they, not believing it, said she was mad: yet, when she again affirmed it, though they then believed it not, yet they concluded, and said, "It is his angel."

More observations of this nature, and inferences from them, might be made to gain the relation a firmer belief; but I forbear, lest I, that intended to be but a relator, may be thought to be an engaged person for the proving what was related to me; and yet I think myself bound to declare that, though it was not told me by Mr. Donne himself, it was told me-now long since-by a person of honour, and of such intimacy with him, that he knew more of the secrets of his soul than any person then living: and I think he told me the truth; for it was told with such circumstances, and such asseveration, that to say nothing of my own thoughts-I verily believe he that told it me did himself believe it to be true.

I forbear the reader's further trouble as to the relation and what concerns it, and will conclude mine with commending to his view a copy of verses given by Mr. Donne to his wife at the time he then parted from her. And I beg leave to tell that I have heard some critics, learned both in languages and poetry, say that none of the Greek or Latin poets did ever equal them:

"A VALEDICTION, FORBIDDING TO MOURN. "As virtuous men pass mildly away, And whisper to their souls to go, Whilst some of their sad friends do say, The breath goes now, and some say, No:

"So let us melt, and make no noise,

No tear-floods, nor sigh-tempests move; "Twere profanation of our joys,

To tell the laity our love.

"Moving of th' earth, brings harms and fears:
Men reckon what it did or meant:
But trepidation of the spheres,
Though greater far, is innocent.

"Dull sublunary lovers' love

Whose soul is sense-cannot admit Absence, because that doth remove Those things which elemented it.

"But we, by a love so far refin'd,

That ourselves know not what it is, Inter-assured of the mind,

Care not hands, eyes, or lips to miss.

"Our two souls, therefore, which are one,-
Though I must go,-endure not yet
A breach, but an expansion,
Like gold to airy thinness beat.

"If we be two? we are two so

As stiff twin-compasses are two: Thy soul, the fix'd foot, makes no show To move, but does if th' other do.

"And though thine in the centre sit,

Yet, when my other far does roam, Thine leans and hearkens after it,

And grows erect as mine comes home. "Such wilt thou be to me, who must,

Like th' other foot, obliquely run: Thy firmness makes my circle just, And me to end where I begun."

QUA CURSUM VENTUS.

BY ARTHUR HUGH CLOUGH.

As ships, becalmed at eve, that lay
With canvas drooping, side by side,
Two towers of sail, at dawn of day

Are scarce long leagues apart descried; When fell the night unsprung the breeze, And all the darkling hours they plied; Nor dreamt but each the self-same seas By each was cleaving, side by side:

E'en so-but why the tale reveal

Of those whom, year by year unchanged, Brief absence joined anew, to feel, Astounded, soul from soul estranged?

At dead of night their sails were filled,
And onward each rejoicing steered;
Ah! neither me, for neither willed
Or wist wh

To veer, how vain! On, onward strain,
Brave barks! in light, in darkness too!
Through winds and tides one compass guides-
To that and your own selves be true.

But O blithe breeze! and O great seas!
Though ne'er-that earliest parting past,-
On your wide plain they join again,
Together lead them home at last.

One port, methought, alike they sought-
One purpose hold where'er they fare;
O bounding breeze, O rushing seas,
At last, at last, unite them there!

A LEGEND OF '45.1

"I was in the nursery at the time, as you can understand; but the chief person of the tale was my father's closest friend, and he was my counsellor in some kittle passes of my life in after days. He never mentioned this business himself; but my father, who knew the particulars brawly, used to tell it to me often, and he bequeathed the story to me as one of his most valuable legacies.'

The old man's face brightened, and his voice became firmer as he proceeded.

"You see yon picture, hanging on the left of your mother, Balquherrie?-that was your grandfather, Hugh Outram. You see what a black-a-vice chiel he was, and I can tell you there was a fire in his een whiles that made some folk say he had the gift of second sight. At any rate, he had the pith of a giant in his arms, and the courage of a lion in his heart. He could love-like a mother; he could hate like a jealous wife. My story is about him. "He courted Mistress Graham, of Eskbank: he followed her night and day, he was devoted to her body and soul-in fact he was clean crack about her. But she was won by Corbet of Dowiemuir. When that became known, Hugh Outram shut himself up here in Balquherrie, and would have no speech with any

living creature for awhile.

"At last my father got speaking with him, and showed him the duties he was neglecting because of a disappointment that could not be helped, but could be easily enough mended. Hugh stepped out of his shell, and took up the, work that was appointed for him in seeing after the welfare of those dependent on him. When he was told that Mistress Corbet had

1 From For Lack of Gold, by Charles Gibbon, author of Robin Gray, &c Henry S. King & Co., Cornhill.

been brought to bed of a daughter, he said, 'Lord, smile on the bairn,' although he never could he brought to say that he forgave Corbet.

"Prince Charlie raised his standard in Glenfinnan, and Corbet was the first to place himself under it, with all whom he could influence. Hugh took arms for the Government within a few days after; but my father, who served with him, was satisfied that he decided on this course more because of his hate for the man who had won his lady than because of his regard for the house of Hanover. No doubt he had his thought of meeting him in battle, and once, at the mention of the possibility of it, my father was frightened by the fire that flamed in Hugh's een.

"Be that as it may, he did his duty well and bravely. He would have prevented Cope while the rebels were, unchecked, marching on marching like a stray goose into the north the south, but his word was not heeded at the time. The prince made a brilliant run over the country; and at length the Duke of Cumberland chased him back to Culloden, where the Stuart cause was drowned in blood.

"After the battle there were days and weeks of persistent pursuit of the fugitive rebels. The mercenary troops were pitiless; and men of our own country consented to, or took part in cruelties that will shame the victory so long as the memory of them lasts. But Hugh Outram was disappointed if he had been calculating on coming across Corbet. So far they had not

met.

"He had command of a company of Hessians -the most malignant, because the most indifferent, of all the pursuers-and he was in chase of a score of rebels who were making their way to the west. My father had twenty-three lads left of forty whom he had led from Pitnafour, and he was on the same track as his friend. Reports have been received that the scattered fugitives were rendezvousing in Lochaber, with the intention of making a stand yet in defence of the Stuart, in spite of what had happened. not likely to show mercy to those who fell into The duke was mightily wroth at this, and was his hands, still less to those who failed in the discharge of the savage duty intrusted to them.

"As it happened, the companies of Outram and of my father met in Glendhu, within three night, and the two friends slept together in a miles of Dowiemuir. They encamped for the shepherd's shieling. In the cold gray of morning they were aroused by a Hessian, who acquainted them that he had traced a rebel officer to a farm-house, distant only half a mile. They marched instantly on the place, sur

"Nobody appeared to offer them opposition, and the house was as quiet as if there were not a living creature in it. The officers remained outside, and soon the fellow who had raised the halloo stepped out of the house carrying a greeting bairn in his arms. After him walked a lady with hair and dress disarranged, and a face white as a fine Holland sheet, but steady as a rock.

"She pleaded with them piteously to spare the life of her bairn, and the soldiers threatened to stick it on the point of their bayonets unless she confessed where the father lay hidden. "She begged them to spare the child, but would not answer the question.

"The bayonets were fixed, the bairn raised high in the arms of a big rascal as if holding it ready to be impaled.

"Still the woman pleaded, and would not hear the condition on which alone her prayer would be granted.

"They said they would count six, and then proceed to the execution if she did not yield. They began to count, and she did not flinch until she observed Outram, who was grimly watching what passed. Then she trembled to her heels and groaned, sinking on the ground, for she concluded that there was neither pity nor mercy to expect from him for the wife and infant of Corbet of Dowiemuir.

"It was the lady herself Outram was looking at his enemy and all that was precious to him were at his mercy. No man ever had a fairer opportunity of wreaking a terrible vengeance on his foe, without moving a finger; he had only to remain silent, and he was assured of the utmost retaliation for whatever he might have suffered.

"Sir,' she said, 'you were once my friend; it was Heaven's will that I should lose your friendship; but you are a man, and I a woman nigh mad with pain. My husband he lies in there, sick and wounded sore, so that he cannot move, and, without help, must die in the flame. You are his foe, at home and in the field; but sir, he is my husband and the father of my bairn, and I love him.'

“Hugh Outram stood glowering at the blaze that was working out his worst spite. The devil bade him stand still; but he looked at the woman's face; he listened to the greeting bairn, and he made answer:

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Madam, your husband was my worst foe, but that shall not make me the less your friend. He has taken from me my best hope, but he shall not take from me your respect or my own.'

"She first stared at him not knowing what he meant to do, and aye the house was burning, and the flames grew bigger.

"He cried to my father

"Turn your face another way, Pitna, that you may not see me. Call off the lads, haste down the glen with them, and I will deliver the traitor to you without fail.'

"My father guessed what he was meaning, and in pity for the lady did not say a word to the contrary. He called the soldiers together, and making them believe that the rebel had escaped down the glen, led them away in full chase.

"Outram asked the lady where her man was hidden; she feared to answer, for she had heard him promise to deliver the traitor. He pointed to the burning house, saying: "Trust me.'

She told him what he required to know,

"You must command here,' he said, with big sobs in his throat, and turning his back on the scene: but save the bairn and spare the woman.'

'The child was placed on the ground beside its mother, who looked with wide parched eyes at her preserver, recognizing his kindness and yet doubting him. She seemed to have lost the power of moving or speaking; but when she saw the soldiers set fire to the house at the four corners, she started, clutching the bairn to her bosom, trembling and moaning, her blood-shot eyes leaping from her head in fright.

"When she saw the flames spring up to the thatch, and heard the burning joists crackle,

hissing at him and scorching his clothes, the beams crackling above him and tumbling about him, the smoke fluffing in his face choking and blinding him. But in spite of flame and smoke, he made his way to the hiding-place of the rebel, and found him lying as though he were already dead. Outram lifted his enemy in his arms, and carried him out from the fiery grave to the place where Mistress Corbet was on her knees, praying God to help and shield her true friend.

"He laid him down on the ground beside her. First she looked at her guidman, and saw that life was in him yet, and next she looked up at her friend, but she could not speak a word. She saw that the hair was nearly burnt off his head, and his left hand was scarred;

"Outram got a horse and conveyed them five miles up the glen to a shepherd's bigging near Loch Fey-he was obliged to hold Corbet in the saddle the whole road; and there was no speech passed between them.

"But when he had seen them bestowed in the cot and was going away, the lady lifted up her bairn-a lassie, I ought to have told youand bade her kiss him. The wee thing put her arms round his neck and cuddled him, and he trembled like a willow wand in a storm. Mistress Corbet stooped down with big tears in her een now and kissed his hand.

"He laid the sword down, and my father took it up, after staring at him a minute, fancying he was mad.

"I understand you,' Pitna answered, 'I know what you have done, and—although it was rash and perilous-damn it, sir, I think you acted nobly. Take back your sword; I can keep a secret.'

"""No,' said Outram, shaking his head, 'that would involve you in the penalty for my treason.'

"He went straight to Cumberland himself, and the duke received him graciously enough; for his repute was high.

"He went and looked at Corbet where he lay, helpless and insensible, but beginning to breathe in a natural way.

"He will live,' said Outram, stepping to the door, 'and I hope you will be happy. Think on me whiles; I am paying a high price for a kind place in your memory-and I am content.'

"She did not understand then how high the price was that he was prepared to pay; but afterwards she heard it all from my father.

"To him Outram went as fast as he could, and found him at the place where they had camped during the night.

"I promised to deliver the traitor to you, Pitna,' he said, as quietly as though there was

to escape?' he asked.

"Death,' cried the duke, loud and fierce. "Then I yield to my fate,' he said, and told what he had done.

"His grace was furious, and Outram was ar rested. But his past services pleaded for him, and the President Forbes, with other gentlemen of weight, and whose adherence to the Government was beyond doubt, joined in an appeal for clemency. The duke had not the grace to appreciate Outram's conduct, but he had discretion enough not to proceed to extremity in such a case as this. So the only punishment inflicted on Outram was the cancelling of his commission, and that he did not regard as any loss. He was liberated, and spent his days usefully at home."