He died at his zenith. His celebrity was ephemeral; for, possessed of a curious medium, the secret of whose preparation he refused to share with any contemporary, he used it with such fatal effect that his works, which were strangely rich at first, became almost colourless after the lapse of a few decades. The only picture still existent is at Hambleton; where is also preserved the journal whence the following extracts are taken. It is a ‘Boadicea,’ faded to a sober brown. * * * * * _Jan. 12, 1700._--This morning my uncle chose the story of Jacob wrestling with the Angel. I know not how I bore his tedious droning. He pictured the dullest scene, put into their mouths the dullest words. And there came something that thrust a hand through my breast and caught about my heart, and forced tears down my cheeks. Oh to have shown them what I beheld! Little Anne saw me through the broken panel of the Earl’s pew, and put her fingers to my knee to feel the thrilling. But I thrust them away, for the child is a bastard and as ugly as a toad--yet not so ugly neither, but foreign (her mother came of the Rouvigny’s) and pale and quiet. She is downtrodden by madam the Countess. May be I was hard upon her. The lass blenched, for had she not but yesternight slyly given me her father’s present--a golden guinea--to buy colours for my work? What if she give me no more! Alack! So after the _Amen_ was mumbled I stole with her to the pools amongst the groove-hillocks, and showed her rush-tips covered with hoar above the ice. As we stood she put her arm about my neck and said: ‘We are both lonely, none loves us.’ And I fell angry again and struck her face. ‘I am not lonely, I shall be famous,’ I cried; ‘but you, Mistress Craven-spirit, are fit for naught but nursing madam’s brats.’ _May 1, 1703._--Too terrible Fortune, prisoning me in an iron cage; from between whose bars I see thy wheel turning, turning, turning! To-day is my twentieth birthday, and I have done no work for all these years. Creations enow have stirred my brain. I see heroes in jewelled harness; ruddy-hued and beautiful dames. They play their parts, yet when I take the crayon, ’tis to depict a crowd of malkins. God, never was being so ill-fated! Anne brought me a purse woven of her own coarse hair; it held eight crowns and a posy-ring. Yesterday I had threatened to leave this accursed house and never send word. She hath now sold all her trinkets. The office of secretary to such a dotard as the Earl I loathe; and the continual buzzing of my hummer-bee-uncle frets my very soul.