Little more remains to be told.
Blake in great pain of body—stomach trouble and shivering fits—was driven to his bed. When he knew the end was near, he said to his wife: “I have no grief but in leaving you, Catherine. We have lived happy, 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 commanded, and I have sought to worship God truly in my own home, when I was not seen of men.”
While the wife ministered to him he exclaimed suddenly, “You have ever been an angel to me, I will draw you.” And he did. In answer to her, he expressed a wish to be buried at Bunhill Fields by the Church of England.
At midday on August 12th, 1827, he burst into strong joyous song, and then corrected his previous word about parting by assuring Catherine that he would always be there to take care of her. Then he remained quite quiet till his spirit passed away.
EPILOGUE
Life is a voyage of discovery or rediscovery. Those, like Blake, born in a Christian land make the same voyage. The Christian tradition is handed on to us in our tender infancy, and most people take what their immediate teachers tell them, and live on that dry stock for the rest of their days. But the sinner and the genius, like Blake, early throw their inheritance overboard, and driven by native energy go in adventurous quest of new lands. The first half of Blake’s life was spent thus. He would rebel at all costs, he would above all protest against what he hated—the religion of repression.
For many years Christianity and repression were for him synonymous terms. His craving was for expression. Parents, teachers, priests, kings, governments, were enemies to spontaneous self-expression. Then they must go. His youthful exuberance admitted of no half-measures. Like Ezekiel and Christ, he poured out his invective against hireling shepherds: unlike them, he ceased for a time to believe in good shepherds. One and all they were out to repress men’s instincts and passions, until, driven in, the pent-up passion poisoned their whole nature, or in the weaker sort was rendered passive. Blake proclaimed his doctrine with vehemence, but no one regarded him.
Pursuing this course for many years, he perceived some wonderful things. Art is expression; and he made an application of all the glories of art to human character. Teach men to express themselves, and then instead of their being as dull and similar as a flock of sheep governed by the herd instinct, they would grow into a beautiful variety. Man would create himself as an artist creates his works. The same law governed both. Repression when successful induced a nerveless, sapless type. Man became an overwhipped dog. Expression produced a strong, beautiful character above all petty and tiresome rules of conduct. The conduct of such is carelessly right.