I walked with Anne on Danman’s Moor, and the strong wind blew a colour into her hollow cheeks. Moreover, her eyes looked very big and lustrous. But she wore such a faded gown as any village alewife would have scorned; and the looseness made her shoulders seem huckled. Withal on her lips was such a smile as I shall give Christ’s Mother in my masterpiece. As I gazed the rosiness deepened, and she murmured in a voice half-moan, ‘Is there aught worthy there?’ So, being malicious of humour, I praised that smile, and saw her bosom rise and fall like a wild beast’s panting apart from the hunters. _Jan. 9, 1704._--At last I have left Hambleton. There was no money there, and my lord strove to repress my ambition with his eternal ‘Thy uncle on his death-bed wished it so. For, leaving thee not a penny, he commended thee to my care. The chaplainship shall be thine, an’ I need no secretary-work save what thou canst do at odd times. Alas! nine daughters have I to dower!’ And Anne had given me all, so I rolled my pictures in a bundle and am come to seek the patronage of our great men, who, as I have learnt, are ever ready to help on struggling Wits. _July 27, 1704._--O Heaven, that this world should be so cruel! Flouted in rich fools’ antechambers; turned roughly from door after door! Shame devours me to-day; for though poverty no longer pricks me I have sold my honour. Twenty golden pieces earned with bloody sweat lie on the table. The signs were delivered scarce two hours since. The first I wrought had some solace, for the Angel was a careful presentment of Lucy, as sweet a maid as England holds. But twelve years old, and yet with the wit and loveliness of Sheba’s queen, how she shrivels her base-born half-sister! A hundred times since I came to this town has her proud excellence disquieted my slumbers. The beauty that daunts a man’s the beauty for me. Accursed be this vile place where art and genius crouch together in the alleys! _Septr. 30, 1704._--The last page I may write in this poor journal shall contain naught of anger. Once I read that he conquers who strives with circumstance. No greater fallacy was ever writ. The last coin is spent; utter ruin in store. The certainty of my gift hinders me from pandering again to the vulgar. Life and I nearly parted at the great humiliation. Those terrible pictures, to whose doing desperation forced me, haunt me like ghosts. I dared not pace the streets lest I should see my handiwork swinging over the causey. It is better for me to die. To Anne I bequeath all good and tender wishes, for she alone would aid me in my early strugglings. In this my last hour I fully acknowledge her kindness....