So, refusing to the last to work in traces,—­flying out against Reynolds, the bland and popular President of the Royal Academy, yet acknowledging with enthusiasm what he deemed to be excellence,—­loving Fuseli with a steadfast love through all neglect, and hurling his indignation at a public that refused to see his worth,—­flouting at Bacon, the great philosopher, and fighting for Barry, the restorer of the antique, he resolutely pursued his appointed way unmoved.  But the day was fast drawing on into darkness.  The firm will never quailed, but the sturdy feet faltered.  Yet, as the sun went down, soft lights overspread the heavens.  Young men came to him with fresh hearts, and drew out all the freshness of his own.  Little children learned to watch for his footsteps over the Hampstead hills, and sat on his knee, sunning him with their caresses.  Men who towered above their time, reverencing the god within, and bowing not down to the daemon a la mode, gathered around him, listened to his words, and did obeisance to his genius.  They never teased him with unsympathetic questioning, or enraged him with blunt contradiction.  They received his visions simply, and discussed them rationally, deeming them worthy of study rather than of ridicule or vulgar incredulity.  To their requests the spirits were docile.  Sitting by his side at midnight, they watched while he summoned from unknown realms long-vanished shades.  William Wallace arose from his “gory bed,” Edward I. turned back from the lilies of France, and, forgetting their ancient hate, stood before him with placid dignity.  The man who built the Pyramids lifted his ungainly features from the ingulfing centuries; souls of blood—­thirsty men, duly forced into the shape of fleas, lent their hideousness to his night; and the Evil One himself did not disdain to sit for his portrait to this undismayed magician.  That these are actual portraits of concrete object? is not to be affirmed.  That they are portraits of what Blake saw is as little to be denied.  We are assured that his whole manner was that of a man copying, and not inventing, and the simplicity and sincerity of his life forbid any thought of intentional deceit.  No criticism affected him.  Nothing could shake his faith.  “It must be right:  I saw it so,” was the beginning and end of his defence.  The testimony of these friends of his is that he was of all artists most spiritual, devoted, and single-minded.  One of them says, if asked to point out among the intellectual a happy man, he should at once think of Blake.  One, a young artist, finding his invention flag for a whole fortnight, had recourse to Blake.

“It is just so with us,” he exclaimed, turning to his wife, “is it not, for weeks together, when the visions forsake us?  What do we do then, Kate?”

“We kneel down and pray, Mr. Blake.”