1812: Stephen Jones
1829: Allan Cunningham
1832: Robert Shelton Mackenzie
1876: Robert Carruthers
1824: John Paul Jones
1829: William Blake
1832: Sir Walter Scott
Painting, like poetry, has followers, the body of whose genius is light compared to the length of its wings, and who, rising above the ordinary sympathies of our nature, are, like Napoleon, betrayed by a star which no eye can see save their own. To this rare class belonged William Blake.
He was the second son of James Blake and Catherine his wife, and born on the 28th of November, 1757, at 28, Broad Street, Carnaby Market, London. His father, a respectable hosier, caused him to be educated for his own business, but tho love of art came early upon the boy; he neglected the figures of arithmetic for those of Raphael and Reynolds; and his worthy parents often wondered how a child of theirs should have conceived a love for such unsubstantial vanities. The boy, it seems, was privately encouraged by his mother. The love of designing and sketching grew upon him, and he desired anxiously to be an artist. His father began to be pleased with the notice which his son obtained, and to fancy that a painter's study might, after all, be a fitter place than a hosier's shop for one who drew designs on the backs of all the shop bills, and made sketches on the counter. He consulted an eminent artist, who asked so large a sum for instruction that the prudent shopkeeper hesitated; and young Blake declared he would prefer being an engraver — a profession which would bring bread at least, and through which he would be connected with painting. It was, indeed, time to dispose of him. In addition to his attachment to art he had displayed poetic symptoms — scraps of paper and the blank leaves of books were found covered with groups and stanzas. When his father saw sketches at the top of the sheet and verses at the bottom, he took him away to James Basire the engraver, in Queen Street, Lincoln's Inn Fields, and bound him apprentice for seven years. He was then fourteen years old.
It is told of Blake that at ten years of age he became an artist, and at twelve a poet. Of his boyish pencillings I can find no traces; but of his early intercourse with the Muse the proof lies before me in seventy pages of verse written, he says, between his twelfth and his twentieth year, and published, by the advice of friends, when he was thirty. There are songs, ballads, and a dramatic poem — rude, sometimes, and unmelodious, but full of fine thought and deep and peculiar feeling. To those who love poetry for the music of its bells, these seventy pages will sound harsh and dissonant; but by others they will be more kindly looked upon. John Flaxman, a judge in all things of a poetic nature, was so touched with many passages that he not only counselled their publication, but joined with a gentleman of the name of Matthews in the expense, and presented the printed sheets to the artist to dispose of for his own advantage. One of these productions is an address to the Muses — a common theme, but sung in no common manner:—
Whether on Ida's shady brow,
Or in the chambers of the east,
The chambers of the sun, that now
From ancient melody have ceased;
Whether in heaven ye wander fair,
Or the green corners of the earth,
Or the blue regions of the air,
Where the melodious winds have birth;
Whether on crystal rocks ye rove,
Wandering in many a coral grove,
Fair Nine! forsaking poesie;
How have ye left the ancient love,
That Bards of old enjoy'd in you,—
The languid strings now scarcely move,
The sound is forced — the notes are few.
The little poem called The Tiger has been admired for the force and vigour of its thoughts by poets of high name. Many could weave smoother lines — few could stamp such living images:—
Tiger! Tiger! burning bright
In the forests of the night,
What immortal hand or eye
Framed thy fearful symmetry?
In what distant deeps or skies
Burn'd that fire within thine eyes?
On what wings dared he aspire—
What the hand dared seize the fire?
And what shoulder and what art,
Could twist the sinews of thy heart?
When thy heart began to beat,
What dread hand formed thy dread feat?
What the hammer! what the chain!
Knit thy strength and forged thy brain?
What the anvil? What dread grasp
Dared thy deadly terrors clasp?
When the stars threw down their spears,
And water'd heaven with their tears,
Did he smile, his work to see?
Did he who made the lamb make thee?
In the dramatic poem of King Edward the Third there are many nervous lines, and even whole passages of high merit. The structure of the verse is often defective, and the arrangement inharmonious; but before the ear is thoroughly offended, it is soothed by some touch of deep melody and poetic thought. The princes and earls of England are conferring together on the eve of the battle of Cressy. The Black Prince takes Chandos aside, and says—
Now we're alone, John Chandos, I'll unburthen
And breathe my hopes into the burning air—
Where thousand Deaths are posting up and down,
Commission'd to this fatal field of Cressy:
Methinks I see them arm my gallant soldiers,
And gird the sword upon each thigh, and fit
The shining helm, and string each stubborn bow,
And dance to the neighing of the steeds;—
Methinks I see them perch on English crests,
And roar the wild flame of fierce war upon
The throng'd enemy.
In the same high poetic spirit Sir Walter Manny converses with a genuine old English warrior, Sir Thomas Dagworth—
O, Dagworth! — France is sick! — the very sky
Though sunshine light it, seems to me as pale
As is the fainting man on his death-bed,
Whose face is shown by light of sickly taper—
Thousands must fall today.
Sir Thomas answers:—
Thousands of souls must leave this prison-house
To be exalted to those heavenly fields
Where songs of triumph, palms of victory,
Where peace, and joy, and love, and calm content,
Sig singing on the azure clouds, and strew
The flowers of heaven upon the banquet table.
Bind ardent hope upon your feet, like shoes,
Put on the robe of preparation.
The table, it is spread in shining heaven,
The flowers of immortality are blown;
Let those who fight, fight in good steadfastness;
And those who fall shall rise in victory.
I might transcribe from these modest and unnoticed pages many such passages. It would be unfair not to mention that the same volume contains some wild and incoherent prose, in which we may trace more than the dawning of those strange, mystical, and mysterious fancies on which Blake subsequently misemployed his pencil. There is much that is weak, and something that is strong, and a great deal that is wild and mad, and all so strangely mingled that little or no meaning can be assigned to it — it seems like a lamentation over the disasters which came on England during the reign of King John.
Though Blake lost himself sometimes in the enchanted region of song, he seems not to have neglected to make himself master of the graver, or to have forgotten his love of designs and sketches. He was a dutiful servant to Basire, and he studied occasionally under Flaxman and Fuseli, but it was his chief delight to retire to the solitude of his room, and there make drawings, and illustrate those with verses, to be hung up together in his mother's chamber. He was always at work — he called amusement idleness, sight-seeing vanity, and money-making the ruin of all high aspirations. "Were I to love money," he said, "I should lose all power of thought, desire of gain deadens the genius of man. I might roll in wealth and ride in a golden chariot, were I to listen to the voice of parsimony. My business is not to gather gold, but to make glorious shapes, expressing god-like sentiments." The day was given to the graver, by which he earned enough to maintain himself respectably; and he bestowed his evenings upon painting and poetry, and intertwined these so closely in his compositions that they cannot well be separated.
When he was six-and-twenty years old he married Katharine Boutcher, a young woman of humble connections the dark-eyed Kate of several of his lyric poems. She lived near his father's house, and was noticed by Blake for the whiteness of her hand, the brightness of her eyes, and a slim and handsome shape, corresponding with his own notions of sylphs and naiads. As he was an original in all things, it would have been out of character to fall in love like an ordinary mortal. He was describing one evening in company the pains he had suffered from some capricious lady or another, when Katharine Boutcher said, "I pity you from my heart." "Do you pity me?" said Blake, "then I love you for that." "And I love you," said the frank-hearted lass, and so the courtship began. He tried how well she looked in a drawing, then how her charms became verse; and finding moreover that she had good domestic qualities, he married her. They lived together long and happily.
She seemed to have been created on purpose for Blake: she believed him to be the finest genius on earth; she believed in his verse; she believed in his designs, and to the wildest flights of his imagination she bowed the knee. and was a worshiper. She set his house in good order, prepared his frugal meal, learned to think as he thought, and, indulging him in his harmless absurdities, became, as it were, bone of his bone, and flesh of his flesh. She learned — what a young and handsome woman is seldom apt to learn — to despise gaudy dresses, costly meals, pleasant company, and agreeable invitations; she found out the way of being happy at home, living on the simplest of food, and contented in the homeliest of clothing It was no ordinary mind which could do all this; and she whom Blake emphatically called his "beloved," was no ordinary woman. She wrought off in the press the impressions of his plates; she coloured them with a light and neat hand: made drawings much in the spirit of her husband's compositions, and almost rivalled him in all things save in the power which he possessed of seeing visions of any individual, living or dead, whenever he chose to see them.
His marriage, I have heard, was not agreeable to his father; and he then left his roof and resided with his wife in Green Street, Leicester Fields. He returned to Broad Street on the death of his father, a devout man, and an honest shopkeeper, of fifty years' standing, took a first floor and a shop, and in company with one Parker, who had been his fellow-apprentice, commenced printseller. His wife attended to the business, and Blake continued to engrave, and took Robert, his favourite brother, for a pupil. This speculation did not succeed — his brother, too, sickened and died; he had a dispute with Parker — the shop was relinquished, and he removed to 28, Poland Street. Here he commenced that series of works which give him a right to be numbered among the men of genius of his country. In sketching designs, engraving plates, writing songs, and composing music he employed his time, with his wife sitting at his side, encouraging him in all his undertakings. As he drew the figure he meditated the song which was to accompany it, and the music to which the verse was to be sung was the offspring, too, of the same moment. Of his music there are no specimens — he wanted the art of noting it down; if it equalled many of his drawings, and some of his songs, we have lost melodies of real value.
The first fruits were the Songs of Innocence and Experience, a work original and natural, and of high merit, both in poetry and in painting. It consists of some sixty-five or seventy scenes, presenting images of youth and manhood; of domestic sadness and fireside joy; of the gaiety, and innocence, and happiness of childhood. Every scene has its poetical accompaniment, curiously interwoven with the group or the landscape, and forming, from the beauty of the colour and the prettiness of the pencilling, a very fair picture of itself. Those designs are in general highly poetical — more allied, however, to heaven than to earth — a kind of spiritual abstractions, and indicating a better world and fuller happiness than mortals enjoy. The picture of Innocence is introduced with the following sweet verses:—
Piping down the valleys wild,
Piping songs of pleasant glee,
On a cloud I saw a child,
And he laughing said to me—
Pipe a song about a lamb;
So I piped with merry cheer.
Piper, pipe that song again—
So I piped — he wept to hear.
Drop thy pipe, thy happy pipe,
Sing thy songs of happy cheer—
So I sang the same again,
While he wept with joy to hear.
Piper, sit thee down and write
In a book that all may read—
So he vanish'd from my sight:
And I pluck'd a hollow reed,
And I made a rural pen,
And I stain'd the water clear,
And I wrote my happy songs,
Every child may joy to hear.
Another song, called The Chimney Sweeper, is rude enough truly, but yet not without pathos:—
When my mother died I was very young,
And my father sold me while yet my tongue
Could scarcely cry — Weep! weep! weep!
So your chimneys I clean and in soot I sleep.
There's little Tom Dacre, who cried when his head,
That curl'd like a lamb's back, was shaved; so I said,
Hush, Tom, never mind it, for when your head's bare,
You know that the soot cannot spoil your white hair.
And so he was quiet — and that very night
As Tommy was a-sleeping, he had such a sight;
That thousands of sweepers, Dick, Joe, Ned, and Jack,
Were all of them lock'd up in coffins of black;
And by came an Angel, who had a bright key,
He open'd the coffins and set them all free;
Then down a green plain, leaping, laughing they run,
And wash in a river, and shine in the sun.
Then, naked and white, all their bags left behind,
They rise upon clouds and sport in the wind;
And the Angel told Tom, if he'd be a good boy,
He'd have God for his father and never want joy.
And so Tommy awoke and we rose in the dark,
And got with our bags and our brushes to work;
Though the morning was cold, Tom was happy and warm,
So, if all do their duty, they need not fear harm.
In a higher and better spirit he wrought with his pencil. But then he imagined himself under spiritual influences; he saw the forms, and listened to the voices of the worthies of other days; the past and the future were before him, and he heard, in imagination, even that awful voice which called on Adam amongst the trees of the garden. In this kind of dreaming abstraction he lived much of his life; all his works are stamped with it, and though they owe much of their mysticism and obscurity to the circumstance, there can be no doubt that they also owe to it much of their singular loveliness and beauty. It was wonderful that he could thus, month after month, and year after year, lay down his graver after it had won him his daily wages, and retire from the battle for bread, to disport his fancy amid scenes of more than earthly splendour, and creatures pure as unfallen dew.
In this lay the weakness and the strength of Blake, and those who desire to feel the character of his compositions must be familiar with his history and the peculiarities of his mind. He was by nature a poet, a dreamer, and an enthusiast. The eminence which it had been the first ambition of his youth to climb, was visible before him, and he saw on its ascent or on its summit those who had started earlier in the race of fame. He felt conscious of his own merit, but was not aware of the thousand obstacles which were ready to interpose. He thought that he had but to sing songs and draw designs, and become great and famous. The crosses which genius is heir to had been wholly unforeseen, and they befell him early. He wanted, too, the skill of hand, and fine tact of fancy and taste, to impress upon the offspring of his thoughts that popular shape which gives such productions immediate circulation. His works were, therefore, looked coldly on by the world, and were only esteemed by men of poetic minds, or those who were fond of things out of the common way. He earned a little fame, but no money by these speculations, and had to depend for bread on the labours of the graver.
In a higher and better spirit he wrought with his pencil. But then he imagined himself under spiritual influences; he saw the forms, and listened to the voices of the worthies of other days; the past and the future were before him, and he heard, in imagination, even that awful voice which called on Adam amongst the trees of the garden. In this kind of dreaming abstraction he lived much of his life; all his works are stamped with it, and though they owe much of their mysticism and obscurity to the circumstance, there can be no doubt that they also owe to it much of their singular loveliness and beauty. It was wonderful that he could thus, month after month, and year after year, lay down his graver after it had won him his daily wages, and retire from the battle for bread, to disport his fancy amid scenes of more than earthly splendour, and creatures pure Its unfallen dew.
In this lay the weakness and the strength of Blake, and those who desire to feel the character of his compositions, must be familiar with his history and the peculiarities of his mind. He was by nature a poet, a dreamer, and an enthusiast. The eminence which it had been the first ambition of his youth to climb, was visible before him, and he saw on its ascent or on its summit those who had started earlier in the race of fame. He felt conscious of his own merit, but was not aware of the thousand obstacles which were ready to interpose. He thought that he had but to sing songs and draw designs, and become great and famous. The crosses which genius is heir to had been wholly unforeseen, and they befell him early. He wanted, too, the skill of hand, and fine tact of fancy and taste, to impress upon the offspring of his thoughts that popular shape which gives such productions immediate circulation. His works were, therefore, looked coldly on by the world, and were only esteemed by men of poetic minds, or those who were fond of things out of the common way. He earned a little fame, but no money by these speculations, and had to depend for bread on the labours of the graver.
All this neither crushed his spirit nor induced him to work more in the way of the world; but it had a visible influence upon his mind. He became more seriously thoughtful, avoided the company of men, and lived in the manner of a hermit, in that vast wilderness, London. Necessity made him frugal, and honesty and independence prescribed plain clothes, homely fare, and a cheap habitation. He was thus compelled more than ever to retire to worlds of his own creating, and seek solace in visions of paradise for the joys which the earth denied him. By frequent indulgence in these imaginings he gradually began to believe in the reality of what dreaming fancy painted the pictured forms which swarmed before his eyes assumed, in his apprehension, the stability of positive revelations, and he mistook the vivid figures which his professional imagination shaped, for the poets, and heroes, and princes of old. Amongst his friends he at length ventured to intimate that the designs on which he was engaged, were not from his own mind, but copied from grand works revealed to him in visions; and those who believed that would readily lend an car to the assurance that he was commanded to execute his performances by a celestial tongue!
Of these imaginary visitations he made good use, when he invented his truly original and beautiful mode of engraving and tinting his plates. He had made the designs of his Days of Innocence, and was meditating, he said, on the best means of multiplying their resemblance in form and in line; he felt sorely perplexed. At last he was made aware that the spirit of his favourite brother Robert was in the room, and to this celestial visitor he applied for counsel. The spirit advised him at once: "Write," he said, "the poetry, and draw the designs upon the copper with a certain liquid (which he named, and which Blake ever kept a secret): then cut the plain parts of the plate down with aquafortis, and this will give the whole, both poetry and figures, in the manner of a stereotype." The plan recommended by this gracious spirit was adopted; the plates were engraved, and the work printed off. The artist then added a peculiar beauty of his own. He tinted both the figures and the verse with a variety of colours, amongst which, while yellow prevails, the whole has a rich and lustrous beauty, to which I know little that can be compared. The size of these prints is four inches and a half high by three inches wide. The original genius of Blake was always confined, through poverty, to small dimensions. Sixty-five plates of copper were an object to him who had little money. The Gates of Paradise, a work of sixteen designs, and those exceedingly small, was his next undertaking. The meaning of the artist is not a little obscure; it seems to have been his object to represent the innocence, the happiness, and the upward aspirations of man. They bespeak one intimately acquainted with the looks and the feelings of children. Over them there is shed a kind of mysterious halo which raises feelings of devotion. The Songs of Innocence and the Gates of Paradise became popular among the collectors of prints. To the sketch-book and the cabinet the works of Blake are unfortunately confined.
If there be mystery in the meaning of the Gates of Paradise, his succeeding performance, by name URIZEN has the merit or the fault of surpassing all human comprehension. The spirit which dictated this strange work was undoubtedly a dark one; nor does the strange kind of prose which is intermingled with the figures serve to enlighten us. There are in all twenty-seven designs, representing beings human, demoniac, and divine, in situations of pain and sorrow and suffering. One character — evidently an evil spirit — appears in most of the plates; the horrors of hell, and the terrors of darkness and divine, wrath, seen, his sole portion. He swims in gulfs of fire, descends in cataracts of flame, holds combats with scaly serpents, or writhes in anguish without any visible cause. One of his exploits is to chase a female soul through a narrow gate, and hurl her headlong down into a darksome pit. The wild verses, which are scattered here and there, talk of the sons and the daughters of Urizen. He seems to have extracted these twenty-seven scenes out of many visions; what he meant by them even his wife declared she could not tell, though she was sure they had a meaning, and a fine one. Something like the fall of Lucifer and the creation of Man is dimly visible in this extravagant work. It is not a little fearful to look upon — a powerful, dark, terrible, though undefined and indescribable, impression is left on the mind; and it is in no haste to be gone. The size of the designs is four inches by six; they bear date, "Lambeth, 1794." He had left Poland Street, and was residing in Hercules Buildings.
The name of Blake began now to be known a little, and Edwards, the bookseller, employed him to illustrate Young's Night Thoughts. The reward in money was small, but the temptation in fame was great; the work was performed something in the manner of old books with illuminated margins. Along the ample margins which the poetry left on the page the artist sketched his fanciful creations, contracting or expanding them according to the space. Some of those designs were in keeping with the poems, but there were others which alarmed fastidious people: the serious and the pious were not prepared to admire shapes trembling in nudity round the verses of a grave divine. In the exuberance of Young there are many fine figures; but they are figures of speech only, on which art should waste none of its skill. This work was so much, in many parts, to the satisfaction of Flaxman that he introduced Blake to Hayley the poet, who, in 1800, persuaded him to remove to Felpham in Sussex, to make engravings for the Life of Cowper. To that place he accordingly went with his wife and sister, and was welcomed by Hayley with much affection. Of his journey and his feelings he gives the following account to Flaxman, whom he usually addressed thus,
"Dear Sculptor of Eternity:—
We are arrived safe at our cottage, which is more beautiful than I thought it, and more convenient. It is a perfect model for cottages and, I think, for palaces of magnificence, only enlarging and not altering its proportions, and adding ornaments and not principals. Nothing can be more grand than its simplicity and usefulness. Felpham is a sweet place for study, because it is more spiritual than London. Heaven opens here on all sides her golden gates; her windows are not obstructed by vapours; voices of celestial inhabitants are more distinctly heard, and their forms more distinctly seen; and my cottage is also a shadow of their houses. My wife and sister are both well, and are courting Neptune for an embrace."
Thus far had he written in the language and feelings of a person of upper air; though some of the expressions are tinctured with the peculiar enthusiasm of the man, they might find shelter under the licence of figurative speech, and pass muster as the poetic language of new-found happiness. Blake thus continues:
"And now begins a new life, because another covering of earth is shaken off. I am more famed in heaven for my works than I could well conceive. In my brain are studies and chambers filled with books and pictures of old, which I wrote and painted in ages of eternity before my mortal life, and those works are the delight and study of archangels. Why, then, should I be anxious about the riches or fame of mortality? You, O dear Flaxman, are a sublime archangel, my friend and companion from eternity. Farewell, my dear friend, remember me and my wife in love and friendship to Mrs. Flaxman, whom we ardently desire to entertain beneath our thatched roof of russet gold."
This letter, written in the year 1800, gives the true twofold image of the author's mind. During the day he was a man of sagacity and, sense, who handled his graver wisely, and conversed in a wholesome and pleasant manner; in the evening, when he had done his prescribed task, he gave a loose to his imagination. While employed on those engravings which accompany the works of Cowper, he saw such company as the country where he resided afforded, and talked with Hayley about poetry with a feeling to which the author of the Triumphs of Temper was an utter stranger; but at the close of day away went Blake to the sea shore to indulge in his own thoughts and "High converse with the dead to hold." Here he forgot the present moment, and lived in the past. He conceived, verily, that he had lived in other days, and had formed friendships with Homer and Moses, with Pindar and Virgil, with Dante and Milton. These great men, he asserted, appeared to him in visions, and even entered into conversation. Milton, in a moment of confidence, entrusted him with a whole poem of his, which the world had never seen; but unfortunately the communication was oral, and the poetry seemed to have lost much of its brightness in Blake's recitation. When asked about the looks of those visions, he answered, "They are all majestic shadows, grey but luminous, and superior to the common height of men." It was evident that the solitude of the country gave him a larger swing in imaginary matters. His wife often accompanied him to these strange interviews; she saw nothing and heard as little, but she was certain that her husband both heard and saw.
Blake's mind at all times resembled that first page in the magician's book of gramoury, which made
The cobweb on the dungeon wall,
Seem tapestry in lordly hall.
His mind could convert the most ordinary occurrence into something mystical and supernatural. He often saw less majestic shapes than those of the poets of old. "Did you ever see a fairy's funeral, madam?" he once said to a lady who happened to sit by him in company. "Never, sir!" was the answer. "I have," said Blake, "but not before last night. I was walking alone in my garden; there was great stillness among the branches and flowers, and more than common sweetness in the air. I heard a low and pleasant sound, and I knew not whence it came. At last I saw the broad leaf of a flower move, and underneath I saw a procession of creatures of the size and colour of green and grey grasshoppers, bearing a body laid out on a rose-leaf, which they buried with songs, and then disappeared. It was a fairy funeral." It would, perhaps, have been better for his fame had he connected it more with the superstitious beliefs of his country — amongst the elves and fairies his fancy might have wandered at will — their popular character would perhaps have kept him within the bounds of traditionary belief, and the sea of his imagination might have had a shore.
After a residence of three years in his cottage at Felpham, he removed to 17, South Molten Street, London, where he lived seventeen years. He came back to town with a fancy not a little exalted by the solitude of the country, and in this mood designed and engraved an extensive and strange work which he entitled Jerusalem. A production so exclusively wild was not allowed to make its appearance in an ordinary way: he thus announced it: — "After my three years' slumber on the banks of the ocean, I again display my giant forms to the public." Of these designs there are no less than a hundred; what their meaning is the artist has left unexplained. It seems of a religious, political, and spiritual kind, and wanders from hell to heaven, and from heaven to earth — now glancing into the distractions of our own days, and then making a transition to the antediluvians. The crowning defect is obscurity; meaning seems now and then about to dawn; you turn plate after plate, and read motto after motto, in the hope of escaping from darkness into light. But the first might as well be looked at last: the whole seems a riddle which no ingenuity can solve. Yet, if the work be looked at for form and effect rather than for meaning, many figures may be pronounced worthy of Michael Angelo. There is wonderful freedom of attitude and position. Men, spirits, gods, and angels move with an ease which makes one lament that we know not wherefore they are put in motion. Well might Hayley call him his "gentle visionary Blake." He considered the Jerusalem to be his greatest work, and for a set of the tinted engravings charged twenty-five guineas. Few joined the artist in his admiration. The Jerusalem, with all its giant forms, failed to force its way into circulation.
His next work was the Illustrations of Blair's Grave, which came to the world with the following commendation by Fuseli: — "The author of the moral series before us has endeavoured to awaken sensibility by touching our sympathies with nearer, less ambiguous, and less ludicrous imagery, than what mythology, gothic Superstition, or symbols, as far-fetched as inadequate, could supply. His avocation has been chiefly employed to spread a familiar and domestic atmosphere round the most important of all subjects, to connect the visible and the invisible world without provoking probability, and to load the eye from the milder light of time to the radiations of eternity." For these twelve "Inventions," as he called them, Blake received twenty guineas from Cromek, the engraver — a man of skill in art and taste in literature. The price was little, but nevertheless it was more than he usually received for such productions. He also undertook to engrave them.
But Blake's mode of engraving was as peculiar as his style of designing; it had little of that grace of execution about it which attracts customers, and the "Inventions," after an experiment or two, were placed under the fashionable graver of Louis Schiavonetti. Blake was deeply incensed — he complained that he was deprived of the profit of engraving his own designs, and, with even less justice that Schiavonetti was unfit for the task.
Some of these twelve "Inventions" are natural and poetic, others exhibit laborious attempts at the terrific and the sublime. "The Old Man at Death's Door" is one of the best; in "The Last Day" there are fine groups and admirable single figures. "The Wise Ones of the Earth Pleading before the Inexorable Throne," and the "Descent of the Condemned," are creations of a high order. "The Death of the Strong Wicked Man" is fearful and extravagant, and the flames in which the soul departs from the body have no warrant in the poem or in belief. "The Descent of Christ into the Grave" is formal and tame; and the hoary old soul, in the "Death of the Good Man," travelling heavenward between two ordinary angels, required little outlay of fancy. The frontispiece — a naked Angel descending headlong, and rousing the dead with the sound of the last trumpet — alarmed the devout people of the north, and made maids and matrons retire behind their fans.
If the tranquillity of Blake's life was a little disturbed by the dispute about the twelve "Inventions," it was completely shaken by the controversy which now arose between him and Cromek respecting his Canterbury Pilgrimage, and the famous one by Stothard. That two artists at one and the same time should choose the same subject for the pencil seems scarcely credible, — especially when such subject was not of a temporary interest. The coincidence here was so close, that Blake accused Stothard of obtaining knowledge of his design through Cromek, while Stothard, with equal warmth, asserted that Blake had commenced his picture in rivalry of himself. Blake declared that Cromek had actually commissioned him to paint the Pilgrimage before Stothard thought of his; to which Cromek replied that the order had been given in a vision, for he never gave it. Stothard, a man as little likely to be led aside from truth by love of gain as by visions, added to Cromek's denial the startling testimony that Blake visited him during the early progress of his picture, and expressed his approbation of it in such terms that he proposed to introduce Blake's portrait in the procession, as a mark of esteem. It is probable that Blake obeyed some imaginary revelation in this matter, and mistook it for the order of an earthly employer; but whether commissioned by a vision or by mortal lips, his Canterbury Pilgrimage made its appearance in an exhibition of his principal works in the house of his brother in Broad Street, during the summer of 1809.
Of original designs, this singular exhibition contained sixteen: — they were announced as chiefly "of a spiritual and political nature" — but then the spiritual works and political feelings of Blake were unlike those of any other man. One piece represented "The Spiritual Form of Nelson guiding Leviathan." Another, "The Spiritual Form of Pitt guiding Behemoth." This probably confounded both divines and politicians; there is no doubt that plain men went wondering away. The chief attraction was The Canterbury Pilgrimage, not indeed from its excellence, but from the circumstance of its origin, which was well known about town, and pointedly alluded to in the catalogue. The picture is a failure. Blake was too great a visionary for dealing with such literal wantons as the Wife of Bath and her jolly companions. The natural flesh and blood of Chaucer prevailed against him. He gives grossness of body for grossness of mind — tries to be merry and wicked — and in vain.
Those who missed instruction in his pictures, found entertainment in his catalogue, a wild performance, overflowing with the oddities and dreams of the author — which may be considered as a kind of public declaration of his faith concerning art and artists. His first anxiety is about his colours. "Colouring," says this new lecturer on the Chiaro-scuro, "does not depend on where the colours are put, but on where the lights and darks are put, and all depends on form or outline. Where that is wrong the colouring never can be right, and it is always wrong in Titian and Correggio, Rubens, and Rembrandt; till we get rid of them, we shall never equal Raphael and Albert Durer, Michael Angelo and Julio Romano. Clearness and precision have been my chief objects in painting these pictures — clear colours and firm, determinate lineaments, unbroken by shadows — which ought to display, and not hide form, as is the practice of the later schools of Italy and Flanders. The picture of The Spiritual Form of Pitt is a proof of power of colours, unsullied with oil or with any cloggy vehicle. Oil has been falsely supposed to give strength to colours, but a little consideration must show the fallacy of this opinion. Oil will not drink or absorb colour enough to stand the test of any little time, and of the air. Let the works of artists since Rubens' time witness to the villany of those who first brought oil-painting into general opinion and practice, since which we have never had a picture painted that would show itself by the side of an earlier composition. This is an awful thing to say to oil-painters; they may call it madness, but it is true. All the genuine old little pictures are in fresco and not in oil."
Having settled the true principles and proper materials of colour, he proceeds to open up the mystery of his own productious. Those who failed to comprehend the pictures on looking at them, had only to turn to the following account of the Pitt and the Nelson: — "These two pictures," he says, "are compositions of a mythological cast, similar to those Apotheoses of Persian, Hindoo, and Egyptian antiquity, which are still preserved in rude monuments, being copies from some stupendous originals now lost, or perhaps buried to some happier age. The Artist, having been taken, in vision, to the ancient republics, monarchies, and patriarchates of Asia, has seen those wonderful originals, called in the sacred Scriptures the cherubim, which were painted and sculptured on the walls of temples, towns, cities, palaces, and erected in the highly cultivated states of Egypt, Moab, and Edom, among the rivers of Paradise, being originals from. which the Greeks and. Hetrurians copied Hercules, Venus, Apollo, and all the ground-works of ancient art. They were executed in a very superior style to those justly-admired copies, being with their accompaniments terrific and grand in the highest degree. The artist has endeavoured to emulate the grandeur of those scenes in his vision, and to apply it to modern times on a smaller scale. The Greek Muses are daughters of Memory, and not of Inspiration or Imagination, and therefore not authors of such sublime conceptions; some of these wonderful originals were one hundred feet in height; some were painted as pictures, seine were carved as basso-relievos, and some as groups of statues, all containing mythological and recondite meaning. The artist wishes it was now the fashion to make such monuments, and then he should not doubt of having a national commission to execute those pictures of Nelson and Pitt on a scale suitable to the grandeur of the nation who is the parent of his heroes, in highly-finished fresco, where the colours would be as permanent as precious stones."
The man who could not only write down, but deliberately correct the printer's sheets which recorded matter so utterly wild and mad, was at the same time perfectly sensible to the exquisite nature of Chaucer's delineations, and felt rightly what sort of skill his inimitable pilgrims required at the hand of an artist. He who saw visions in Coele-Syria and statues a hundred feet high, wrote thus concerning Chaucer: — "The Characters of his pilgrims are the characters which compose all ages and nations; as one age falls another rises, different to mortal sight, but to immortals only the same: for we see the same characters repeated again and again, in animals, in vegetables and in men; nothing new occurs in identical existence. Accident ever varies; substance can never suffer change nor decay. Of Chaucer's characters, some of the names or titles are altered by time, but the characters themselves for ever remain unaltered, and consequently they are the physiognomies of universal human life, beyond which nature never steps. Names alter — things never alter; I have known multitudes of those who would have been monks in the age of monkery, who in this deistical age are deists. As Linnaeus numbered the plants, so Chaucer numbered the classes of men."
His own notions, and much of his peculiar practice in art, are scattered at random over the pages of this curious production. His love of a distinct outline made him use close and clinging dresses; they are frequently very graceful — at other times they are constrained and deform the figures which they so scantily cover. "The great and golden rule of art," says he, "is this: — that the more distinct and sharp and wiry the bounding line, the more perfect the work of art; and the less keen and sharp this external line, the greater is the evidence of weak imitative plagiarism and bungling: Protogenes and Apelles knew each other by this line. How do we distinguish the oak from the beech, the horse from the ox; but by the bounding outline? How do we distinguish one face or countenance from another, but by the bounding line and its infinite inflections and movements? Leave out this line, and you leave out life itself: all is chaos again, and the line of the Almighty must be drawn out upon it, before man or beast can exist."
These abominations, concealed outline and tricks of colour — now bring on one of those visionary fits to which Blake was so liable, and he narrates with the most amusing wildness sundry revelations made to him concerning them. He informs us that certain painters were demons let loose on earth to confound the "sharp, wiry outline," and fill men's minds with fear and perturbations. He signifies that he himself was for some time a miserable instrument in the, hands of Chiaro-scuro demons, who employed him in making experiment pictures in oil." "These pictures," says he, "were the result of temptations and perturbations labouring to destroy imaginative power by means of that infernal machine called Chiaro-scuro, in the hands of Venetian and Flemish demons, who hate the Roman and Florentine schools. They cause that everything in art shall become a machine; they cause that the execution shall be all blocked up with brown shadows; they put the artist in fear and doubt of his own original conception. The spirit of Titian was particularly active in raising doubts concerning the possibility of executing without a model. Rubens is a most outrageous demon, and by infusing the remembrances of his pictures, and style of execution, hinders all power of individual thought. Correggio is a soft and effeminate consequently a most cruel demon, whose whole delight is to cause endless labour to whoever suffers him to enter his mind." When all this is translated into the language of sublunary life, it only means that Blake was haunted with the excellences of other men's works, and finding himself unequal to the task of rivalling the soft and glowing colours and singular effects of light and shade of certain great masters, betook himself to the study of others not less eminent, who happened to have laid out their strength in outline.
The impression which the talents and oddities of Blake made on men of taste and genius is well described by one whose judgment in whatever is poetical no one will question. Charles Lamb had communicated to James Montgomery's book on chimney-sweepers the little song by Blake, which I have already quoted; it touched the feelings of Bernard Barton so deeply, that he made inquiries of his friend about the author, upon which he received the following letter in explanation, written some six years ago. — "Blake is a real name, I assure you," says Lamb; "and a most extraordinary man he is, if he be still living. He is the Blake whose wild designs accompany a splendid edition of Blair's Grave, which you may perhaps have seen or heard of; in one of which he pictures the parting of soul and body by a solid mass of human form floating off, God knows how, from a lumpish mass, fac-simile to itself — left behind on the death-bed. He paints in water-colours marvellous strange pictures — visions of his brain which he asserts that he has seen. They have great merit. He has seen the old Welsh bards on Snowdon. He has seen the beautifulest, the strongest, and the ugliest man left alive from the massacre of the Britons by the Romans, and has painted them from memory (I have seen these paintings), and asserts them to be as good as the figures of Raphael and Angelo, but not better, as they had precisely the same retro-visions and prophetic visions with himself. The painters in oil (which he will have it that neither of these great masters ever practised) he affirms to have been the ruin of art; and asserts that all the while he was engaged on his water paintings, Titian was disturbing him — Titian, the evil genius of oil-painting! His pictures, one in particular, the Canterbury Pilgrims, have wonderful power and spirit, but hard and dry, yet with grace. He has written a catalogue of them, with a most spirited criticism on Chaucer, but mystical and full of vision. I have heard of his poems, but never seen them. There is one to a tiger, which I have heard recited, beginning
Tiger, tiger, burning bright,
Through the deserts of the night,
which is glorius. But, alas! I have not the book, and the man is flown, whither I know not — to Hades or a madhouse — but I must look on him as one of the most extraordinary persons of the age."
To describe the conversations which Blake held in prose with demons, and in verse with angels, would fill volumes, and an ordinary gallery could not contain all the heads which he drew of his visionary visitants. That all this was real he himself most sincerely believed; nay, so infectious was his enthusiasm, that some acute and sensible persons who heard him expatiate shook their heads, and hinted that he was an extraordinary man, and that there might be something in the matter. One of his brethren, an artist of some note, employed him frequently in drawing the portraits of those who appeared to him in visions. The most propitious time for those "angel visits" was from nine at night till five in the morning; and so docile were his spiritual sitters, that they appeared at the wish of his friends. Sometimes, however, the shape which he desired to draw was long in appearing, and he sat with his pencil and paper ready and his eyes idly roaming in vacancy; all at once the vision came upon him, and he began to work like one possessed.
He was requested to draw the likeness of Sir William Wallace — the eye of Blake sparkled, for he admired heroes. "William Wallace!" he exclaimed, "I see him now — there, there, how noble he looks — reach me my things!" Having drawn for some time, with the same care of hand and steadiness of eye, as if a living sitter had been before him, Blake stopt suddenly, and said, "I cannot finish him — Edward the First has stept in between him and me." "That's lucky," said his friend, "for I want the portrait of Edward too." Blake took another sheet of paper, and sketched the features of Plantagenet; upon which his majesty politely vanished, and the artist finished the head of Wallace. "And pray, Sir," said a gentleman, who heard Blake's friend tell his story, "was Sir William Wallace an heroic-looking man? And what sort of personage was Edward?" The answer was: "There they are, Sir, both framed and hanging on the wall behind you, judge for yourself." "I looked (says my informant) and saw two warlike heads of the size of common life. That of Wallace was noble and heroic, that of Edward stern and bloody. The first had the front of a god, the latter the aspect of a demon."
The friend who obliged me with these anecdotes, on observing the interest which I took in the subject, said, "I know much about Blake — I was his companion for nine years. I have sat beside him from ten at night till three in the morning, sometimes slumbering and sometimes waking, but Blake never slept; he sat with a pencil and paper drawing portraits of those whom I most desired to see. I will show you, Sir, seine of these works." He took out a large book filled with drawings, opened it, and continued, "Observe the poetic fervour of that face — it is Pindar as he stood a conqueror in the Olympic games. And this lovely creature is Corinna, who conquered in poetry in the same place. That lady is Lais, the courtesan — with the impudence which is part of her profession, she stept in between Blake and Corinna, and he was obliged to paint her to get her away! There! that is a face of a different stamp — can you conjecture who he is?" "Some scoundrel, I should think, Sir." "There now-that is a strong proof of the accuracy of Blake — he is a scoundrel indeed! The very individual task-master whom Moses slew in Egypt. And who is this now-only imagine who this is?" "Other than a good one, I doubt, Sir." "You are right, it is a fiend — he resembles, and this is remarkable, two men who shall be nameless; one is a great lawyer, and the other — I wish I durst name him — is a suborner of false witnesses. The other head now? — this speaks for itself — it is the head of Herod; how like an eminent officer in the army!"
He closed the book, and taking out a small panel from a private drawer, said, "This is the last which I shall show you; but it is the greatest curiosity of all. Only look at the splendour of the colouring and the original character of the thing!" "I see," said I, "a naked figure with a strong body and a short neck — with burning eyes which long for moisture, and a face worthy of a murderer, holding a bloody cup in his clawed hands, out of which it seems eager to drink. I never saw any shape so strange, nor did I ever see any colouring so curiously splendid — a kind of glistening green and dusky gold, beautifully varnished. But what in the world is it?" "It is a ghost, Sir — the ghost of a flea — a spiritualization of the thing!" "He saw this in a vision then?" I said. "I'll tell you all about it, Sir. I called on him one evening, and found Blake more than usually excited. He told me he had seen a wonderful thing — the ghost of a flea! And did you make a drawing of him?' I inquired. 'No, indeed,' said he. 'I wish I had, but I shall, if he appears again!' He looked earnestly into a corner of the room, and then said, 'Here he is — reach me my things — I shall keep my eye on him. There he comes! his eager tongue whisking out of his mouth, a cup in his hand to hold blood, and covered with a scaly skin of gold and green;' — as he described him so he drew him."
Visions, such as are said to arise in the sight of those who indulge in opium, were frequently present to Blake, nevertheless he sometimes desired to see a spirit in vain. "For many years," said he, "I longed to see Satan — I never could believe that he was the vulgar fiend which our legends represent him — I imagined him a classic spirit, such as he appeared to him of Uz, with some of his original splendour about him. At last I saw him. I was going up stairs in the dark, when suddenly a light came streaming amongst my feet; I turned round, and there he was looking fiercely at me through the iron grating of my staircase window. I called for my things — Katherine thought the fit of song was on me, and brought me pen and ink — I said, hush! — never mind — this will do — as he appeared so I drew him — there he is." Upon this, Blake took out a piece of paper with a grated window sketched on it, while through the bars glared the most frightful phantom that ever man imagined. Its eyes were large and like live coals — its teeth as long as those of a harrow, and the claws seemed such as might appear in the distempered dream of a clerk in the Herald's office. "It is the gothic fiend of our legends, said Blake — the true devil — all else are apocryphal."
These stories are scarcely credible, yet there can be no doubt of their accuracy. Another friend, on whose veracity I have the fullest dependence, called one evening on Blake, and found him sitting with a pencil and a panel, drawing a portrait with all the seeming anxiety of a man who is conscious that he has got a fastidious sitter; he looked and drew, and drew and looked, yet no living soul was visible. "Disturb me not," said he, in a whisper, "I have one sitting to me." "Sitting to you!" exclaimed his astonished visitor, "where is he, and what is he? — I see no one." "But I see him, Sir," answered Blake haughtily, "there he is, his name is Lot — you may read of him in the Scripture. He is sitting for his portrait."
Had he always thought so idly, and wrought on such visionary matters, this memoir would have been the story of a madman, instead of the life of a man of genius, some of whose works are worthy of any age or nation. Even while he was indulging in these laughable fancies, and seeing visions at the request of his friends, he conceived, and drew, and engraved, one of the noblest of all his productions — the Inventions for the Book of Job. He accomplished this series in a small room, which served him for kitchen, bedchamber, and study, where he had no other companion but his faithful Katherine, and no larger income than some seventeen or eighteen shillings a week. Of these Inventions, as the artist loved to call them, there are twenty-one representing the Man of Uz sustaining his dignity amidst the inflictions of Satan, the reproaches of his friends, and the insults of his wife. It was in such things that Blake shone; the Scripture overawed his imagination, and he was too devout to attempt aught beyond a literal embodying of the majestic scene. He goes step by step with the narrative; always simple, and often sublime — never wandering from the subject — nor overlaying the text with the weight of his own exuberant fancy [list of plates omitted].
While employed on these remarkable productions, he was made sensible that the little approbation which the world had ever bestowed on him was fast leaving him. The waywardness of his fancy, and the peculiar execution of his compositions, were alike unadapted for popularity; the demand for his works lessened yearly from the time that he exhibited his Canterbury Pilgrimage; and he could hardly procure sufficient to sustain life, when old age was creeping upon him. Yet, poverty-stricken as he was, his cheerfulness never forsook him — he uttered no complaint — he contracted no debt, and continued to the last manly and independent. It is the fashion to praise genius when it is gone to the grave — the fashion is cheap and convenient. Of the existence of Blake few men of taste could be ignorant — of his great merits multitudes knew, nor was his extreme poverty any secret. Yet he was reduced — one of the ornaments of the age — to a miserable garret and a crust of bread, and would have perished from want, had not some friends, neither wealthy nor powerful, averted this disgrace from coming upon our country. One of these gentlemen, Mr. Linnell, employed Blake to engrave his Inventions of the Book of Job; by this he earned money enough to keep him living — for the good old man still laboured with all the ardour of the days of his youth, and with skill equal to his enthusiasm. These engravings are very rare, very beautiful, and very peculiar. They are in the earlier fashion of workmanship and bear no resemblance whatever to the polished and graceful style which now prevails. I have never seen a tinted copy, nor am I sure that tinting would accord with the extreme simplicity of the designs, and the mode in which they are handled. The Songs of Innocence, and these Inventions for Job, are the happiest of Blake's works, and ought to be in the portfolios of all who are lovers of nature and imagination.
Two extensive works, bearing the ominous names of Prophecies, one concerning America the other Europe, next made their appearance from his pencil and graver. The first contains eighteen, and the other seventeen plates, and both are plentifully seasoned with verse, without the incumbrance of rhyme. It is impossible to give a satisfactory description of these works; the frontispiece of the latter, representing the Ancient of Days, in an orb of light, stooping into chaos, to measure out the world, has been admired less for its meaning than for the grandeur of its outline. A head and a tail-piece in the other have been much noticed — one exhibits the bottom of the sea, with enormous fishes preying on a dead body — the other, the surface, with a dead body floating, on which an eagle with outstretched wings is feeding. The two angels pouring out the spotted plague upon Britain — an angel standing in the sun, attended by three furies — and several other Inventions in these wild works, exhibit wonderful strength of drawing and splendour of colouring. Of loose prints — but which were meant doubtless to form part of some extensive work — one of the most remarkable is the Great Sea Serpent; and a figure, sinking in a stormy sea at sunset — the glow of which, with the foam upon the dark waves, produces a magical effect.
After a residence of seventeen years in South Molton Street, Blake removed (not in consequence, alas! of any increase of fortune), to No. 3, Fountain Court, Strand. This was in the year 1823. Here he engraved by day and saw visions by night, and occasionally employed himself in making Inventions for Dante; and such was his application that he designed in all one hundred and two, and engraved seven. It was publicly known that he was in a declining state of health; that old age had come upon him, and that he was in want. Several friends, and artists among the number, aided him a little, in a delicate way, by purchasing his works, of which he had many copies. He sold many of his Songs of Innocence, and also of Urizen, and he wrought incessantly upon what he counted his masterpiece, the Jerusalem, tinting and adorning it, with the hope that his favourite would find a purchaser. No one, however, was found ready to lay out twenty-five guineas on a work which no one could have any hope of comprehending, and this disappointment sank to the old man's heart.
He had now reached his seventy-first year, and the strength of nature was fast yielding. Yet he was to the last cheerful and contented. "I glory," he said, "in dying and have no grief but in leaving you, Katherine; we have lived happy, and we have lived long; we have been ever together, but we shall be divided soon. Why should I fear death? Nor do I fear it. I have endeavoured to live as Christ commands, and have sought to worship God truly — in my own house, when I was not seen of men." He grew weaker and weaker — he could no longer sit upright, and was laid in his bed, with no one to watch over him, save his wife, who, feeble and old herself, required help in such a touching duty.
The "Ancient of Days" was such a favourite with Blake, that three days before his death, he sat bolstered up in bed, and tinted it with his choicest colours and in his happiest style. He touched and retouched it held it at arm's length, and then threw it from him, exclaiming, "There! that will do! I cannot mend it!" He saw his wife in tears — she felt this was to be the last of his works—" Stay, Kate! (cried Blake) keep just as you are — I will draw your portrait — for you have ever been an angel to me" — she obeyed, and the dying artist made a fine likeness.
The very joyfulness with which this singular man welcomed the coming of death made his dying moments intensely mournful. He lay chanting songs, and the verses and the music were both the offspring of the moment. He lamented that he could no longer commit those inspirations, as he called them, to paper. "Kate," he said, "I am a changing man — I always rose and wrote down my thoughts, whether it rained, snowed, or shone, and you arose too and sat beside me — This can be no longer." He died on the 12th of August, 1827, without any visible pain — his wife, who sat watching him, did not perceive when he ceased breathing.
William Blake was of low stature and slender make, with a high pallid forehead, and eyes large, dark, and expressive. His temper was touchy, and when moved, he spoke with an indignant eloquence, which commanded respect. His voice, in general, was low and musical, his manners gentle and unassuming, his conversation a singular mixture of knowledge and enthusiasm. His whole life was one of labour and privation, — he had never tasted the luxury of that independence which comes from professional profit. This untoward fortune he endured with unshaken equanimity — offering himself, in imagination, as a martyr in the great cause of poetic art; — Pitying some of his more fortunate brethren for their inordinate love of gain; and not doubting that whatever he might have won in gold by adopting other methods, would have been a poor compensation for the ultimate loss of fame. Under this agreeable delusion he lived all his life — he was satisfied when his graver gained him a guinea a week — the greater the present denial, the surer the glory hereafter.
Though he was the companion of Flaxman and Fuseli, and sometimes their pupil, he never attained that professional skill, without which all genius is bestowed in vain. He was his own teacher chiefly; and self-instruction, the parent occasionally of great beauties, seldom fails to produce great deformities. He was a most splendid tinter, but no colourist, and his works were all of small dimensions, and therefore confined to the cabinet and the portfolio. His happiest flights, as well as his wildest, are thus likely to remain shut up from the world. If we look at the man through his best and most intelligible works. we shall find that he who could produce the Songs of Innocence and Experience, the Gates of Paradise, and the Inventions for Job, was the possessor of very lofty faculties, with no common skill in art, and moreover that, both in thought and mode of treatment, he was a decided original. But should we, shutting our eyes to the merits of those works, determine to weigh his worth by his Urizen, his Prophecies of Europe and America, and his Jerusalem, our conclusion would be very unfavourable; we would say that, with much freedom of composition and boldness of posture, he was unmeaning, mystical, and extravagant, and that his original mode of working out his conceptions was little better than a brilliant way of animating absurdity. An overflow of imagination is a failing uncommon in this age, and has generally received of late little quarter from the critical portion of mankind. Yet imagination is the life and spirit of all great works of genius and taste; and, indeed, without it, the head thinks and the hand labours in vain. Ten thousand authors and artists rise to the proper, the graceful, and the beautiful, for ten who ascend into "the heaven of invention." A work — whether from poet or painter — conceived in the fiery ecstasy of imagination, lives through every limb; while one elaborated out by skill and taste only will look, in comparison, like a withered and sapless tree beside one green and flourishing. Blake's misfortune was that of possessing this precious gift in excess. His fancy overmastered him — until he at length confounded "the mind's eye" with the corporeal organ, and dreamed himself out of the sympathies of actual life.
His method of colouring was a secret which he kept to himself, or confided only to his wife; he believed that it was revealed in a vision, and that he was bound in honour to conceal it from the world. 'His modes of preparing his grounds,' says Smith, in his Supplement to the Life of Nollekens, 'and laying them over his panels for painting, mixing his colours, and manner of working, were those which he considered to have been practised by the early fresco painters, whose productions still remain in many instances vividly and permanently fresh. His ground was a mixture of whiting and carpenters' glue, which he passed over several times in the coatings; his colours he ground himself, and also united with them the same sort of glue, but in a much weaker state. He would, in the course of painting a picture, pass a very thin transparent wash of glue-water over the whole of the parts he had worked upon, and then proceed with his finishing. He had many secret modes of working, both as a colourist and an engraver. His method of eating away the plain copper, and leaving the lines of his subjects and his words as stereotype, is, in my mind, perfectly original. Mrs. Blake is in possession of the secret, and she ought to receive something considerable for its communication, as I am quite certain it may be used to advantage, both to artists and literary characters in general. The affection and fortitude of this woman entitled her to much respect. She shared her husband's lot without a murmur, set her heart solely upon his fame, and soothed him in those hours of misgiving and despondency which are not unknown to the strongest intellects. She still lives to lament the loss of Blake—and feel it.
Of Blake's merits as a poet I have already spoken — but something more may be said—for there is a simplicity and a pathos in many of his snatches of verse worthy of the olden muse. On all his works there is an impress of poetic thought, and what is still better a gentle humanity and charitable feeling towards the meanest work of God, suchas a few bards have indulged in. On the orphan
children going to church on Holy Thursday, the following touching verses were composed — they are inserted between the procession of girls and the procession of boys in one of his singular engravings : —
" 'Twas on a Holy Thursday, their innocent faces clean,
Came children walking two and two, in red, and blue, and green ;
Grey-headed beadles walked before with wands as white as snow,
Till into the high dome of Paul's, they like Thames waters flow.
O, what a multitude they seemed, these flowers of London town
Seated in companies they sit, with radiance all their own.
The hum of multitudes was there, but multitudes of lambs,
Thousands of little boys and girls raising their innocent hands.
Now, like a mighty wind, they raise to heaven the voice of song.
Or like harmonious thunderings, the seats of heaven among.
Beneath them sit the aged men, wise guardians of the poor.
Then cherish pity, lest you drive an angel from your door."
Under the influence of gayer feelings he wrote what he called the " Laughing Song ; " his pencil drew young men and maidens merry round a tahle, and a youth, with a plumed cap in one hand and a wine-cup in the other, chaunts these gladsome verses : —
" When the green woods laugh with the voice of joy,
And the dimpling stream runs laughing by ;
When the air does laugh with our merry wit.
And the green hill laughs with the noise of it.
When the meadows laugh with lively green.
And the grasshopper laughs in the merry scene ;
When Mary, and Susan, and Emily,
With their sweet round mouths sing ha ! ha ! he !
When the painted birds laugh in the shade.
Where our table with cherries and nuts is spread ;
Come live and be merry, and join with me,
To sing the sweet chorus of ha ! ha ! he ! "
In the " Song of the Lamb " there is a simplicity which seems easily attained till it is tried, and a religious tenderness of sentiment in perfect keeping with the poetry. A naked child is pencilled standing beside a group of lambs, and these verses are written underneath : —
" Little lamb, who made thee ?
Dost thou know who made thee ?
Gave thee life, and bade thee feed,
By the stream and o'er the mead ;
Gave the clothing of delight.
Softest clothing — woolly, bright ;
Gave thee such a tender voice,
Making all the vales rejoice ?
Little lamb, who made thee ?
Dost thou know who made thee ?
Little lamb, I'll tell thee ;
Little lamb, I'll tell thee ;
He is called by thy name,
For He calls himself a lamb ;
He is meek, and He is mild,
He became a little child ;
I a child, and thou a lamb.
We are called by His name.
Little lamb, God bless thee ;
Little lamb, God bless thee."
It would be unjust to the memory of the painter and poet to omit a song which he composed in honour of that wife who repaid with such sincere affection the regard which he had for her. It has other merits.
- ' I love the jocund dance,
The softly breathing song,
"Where innocent eyes do glance,
And where lisps the maiden's tongue.
I love the laughing vale,
I love the echoing hill,
"Where mirth does never fail.
And the jolly swain laughs his fill.
I love the pleasant cot,
I love the innocent bower,
"Where white and brown is our lot,
Or fruit at the mid-day hour.
I love the oaken seat.
Beneath the oaken tree,
"Where all the old villagers meet.
And laugh our sports to see.
I love our neighbours all,—
But, Kitty, I better love thee,
And love them I ever shall,
But thou art all to me."
Images of a sterner nature than those of domestic love were, however, at all times, familiar to his fancy : I have shown him softened down to the mood of babes and sucklings ; I shall exhibit him in a more martial temper. In a ballad, which he calls "Gwinn, King of Norway," there are many vigorous verses — the fierce Norwegian has invaded England with all his eager warriors.
" Like reared stones around a grave
They stand around their king."
But the intrepid islanders are nothing dismayed; they gather to the charge : these are the words of Blake forty-six years ago — and this man's poetry obtained no notice, while Darwin and Hayley were gorged with adulation.
" The husbandman now leaves his plough
To wade through fields of gore.
The merchant binds his brows in steel.
And leaves the trading shore.
The shepherd leaves his mellow pipe,
And sounds the trumpet shrill,
The workman throws his hammer down,
To heave the bloody bill.
Like the tall ghost of Barraton,
Who sports in stormy sky,
Gwinn leads his host, as black as nighty
When pestilence does fly.
With horses and with chariots, —
And all his spearmen bold
March to the sound of mournful song,
Like clouds around him rolled.
The armies stand like balances
Held in the Almighty's hand,
Gwinn, thou hast filled thy measure up,
Thou'rt swept from out the land.
Earth smokes with blood, and groans and shakes
To drink her children's gore,
A sea of blood ! nor can the eye
See to the trembling shore.
And on the verge of this wild sea
Famine and death do cry,
The shrieks of women and of babes
Over the field do fly."
As Blake united poetry and painting in all his compositions, I have endeavoured to show that his claims to the distinction of a poet were not slight. He wrought much and slept little, and has left volumes of verse, amounting, it is said, to nearly an hundred, prepared for the press. If they are as wild and mystical as the poetry of his " Urizen," they are as well in manuscript — if they are as natural and touching as many of his " Songs of Innocence," a judicious selection might be safely published.*
- Vide "The Poems of William Blake." With selections from his Prose Writings. Edited, with a biographical and critical introduction, by Joseph Skipsey. (London : Walter Scott. Canterbury Poets Series.)
Printed by Walter Scott, Felling, Newcastle-on-Tyne.