The work of one of the greatest spirits that ever made Art his medium has yet its way to make among the general public. The world entertained the angel unawares, for three-quarters of a century have passed since the death of William Blake, and still his name and his work are but indifferently known. Yet to those that know them, the designs from his pencil, and the poems from his pen, are among the most precious things that Art has bequeathed to us. It is my purpose in the following pages to tell over again the main outlines of his life, quite shortly and simply, for the great biography on Blake (that of Alexander Gilchrist) can be consulted by all, and contains almost every detail known about him. To this monumental work, and to Messrs. Ellis and Yeats's more recently issued and exhaustive Commentary on Blake, I owe all my facts. A brief memoir is a necessary preface to the review I propose making of those engraved and painted books, pictures, drawings and engravings of Blake's which our National Collections possess. William Blake was one of those unique beings who live above this actual world, in the high places of imagination. At four years old he saw his first vision, as his wife reminded him in old age, in the presence of Mr. Crabb Robinson: "You know, dear, the first time you saw God was when you were four years old, and He put His head to the window and set you screaming." Quaintly, crudely, as the story is told by Mrs. Blake, it bears testimony to the fact that the visionary faculty was developed in Blake from the beginning. Imagination claimed him definitely as her child from that early day when, having rambled far afield into the country (as it was his pastime to do throughout life), he saw, in a meadow near Dulwich, a tree amongst whose branches glistening angels clustered and sang. It may be, as one of Blake's critics suggests, that Nature was herself the basis of the supernatural beauty he saw, though he was all unwitting of it. Standing beneath a tree laden with delicate pink blossom, and gazing up into the rosy gloom, Blake may well have translated this pulsating beauty into a miracle. Above among the greenery he may have seemed to catch glimpses of aspiring hands and faces among the crowding wings of flame and rose and sun-kissed gold. A little breeze would set angelic wings and garments all a-moving and a-fluttering, and a thrush's voice suddenly cleaving the silence seem an angel's song indeed, too exquisite to be endured without tears, to the quivering, spell-bound wanderer.