‘Imagination is my world.’ So wrote William Blake. His was a world of ‘historical inventions’. Nelson and Lucifer, Pitt and the Great Red Dragon, chimney sweeps and cherubim, the Surrey Hills and Jerusalem in ruins, the alms houses of Mile End and the vast abyss of Satan’s bosom. He saw the fires of the Gordon Riots and the serpent in the Garden of Eden. His subjects were Milton and Merlin, Dante and Job, ‘Elegy Written in a Country Churchyard’ and the Book of Revelation. He held infinity in the palm of his hand, yet worked through the night to write and grave all that was on his mind. ‘I have very little of Mr Blake’s company,’ said Catherine Blake with the indulgent sigh of all wives of Great Men. ‘He is always in Paradise.’
As a boy, Blake had seen a tree filled with angels on Peckham Rye. As an apprentice engraver, sent by his master James Basire to sketch the gothic tombs in Westminster Abbey, he saw a great procession of monks, priests, choristers and incense burners walking to heavenly music.
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