something stimulating in a subject of this kind, and a sort of temptation to attempt it.
To write anything about Donne’s life, after Walton, is an attempt which should make even hardened écrivailleurs and écrivassiers nervous. That the good Izaak knew his subject and its atmosphere thoroughly; that he wrote but a very few years after Donne’s own death; and that he was a writer of distinct charm, are discouraging things, but not the most discouraging. It is perhaps only those who after being familiar for years with Donne’s poems, of which Walton says very little, make subsequent acquaintance with Walton’s presentment of the man, who can appreciate the full awkwardness of the situation. It is the worst possible case of pereant qui ante nos. The human Donne whom Walton depicts is so exactly the poetical Donne whom we knew, that the effect is uncanny. Generally, or at least very frequently, we find the poet other than his form of verse: here we find him quite astoundingly akin to it.
The attempt however has to be made, and it shall be made with as little expenditure of art on matter[1] as possible. John Donne, the son of a London merchant and a lady, who was the
