clean and neat; nothing sordid. Blake himself, with his serene, cheerful, dignified presence and manner, made all seem natural and of course. Conversing with him, you saw or felt nothing of his poverty, though he took no pains to conceal it; if he had, you would have been effectually reminded of it. What, in description, sounds mean and miserable wore, to Blake's intimates, a delightful aspect. Such an expression as his 'wretched rooms,' as by some they have been described, is to them quite unintelligible. 'I should only like to go in this afternoon!' declared one friend, while talking of them to me. 'And, ah! that divine window!' exclaimed another. Charming and poetic the view from it seemed to those accustomed to associate Blake's person and conversation with it. While a third with brisk emphasis affirms, 'There was no "misery" in Blake's rooms for men who love art, a good table' (not, of course, in the ' epicure's sense), and warmth.' 'I never look upon him as an unfortunate man of genius. He knew every great man of his day, and had enough.'
Happening to read to the author of the letter lately quoted a passage from a MS. in which the word 'squalor' was used in connexion with Blake's home, the following quaint remonstrance was elicited:—
My dear Sir,
Late as we parted last night, I awaked at dawn with the question in my ear. Squalor?—squalor?
Crush it; it is a roc's egg to your fabric.
I have met with this perverse mistake elsewhere. It gives a notion altogether false of the man, his house, and his habits.
No, certainly;—whatever was in Blake's house, there was no squalor. Himself, his wife, and his rooms, were clean and orderly; everything was in its place. His delightful working corner had its implements ready—tempting to the hand. The millionaire's upholsterer can furnish no enrichments like those of Blake's enchanted rooms.
