ect of lighting, at the same time that he has the power of making them
express the most varied moods of nature."

Toward the last part of his life Turner's peculiarities increased; he
became more morose, more jealous. He was always unwilling to have even his
most intimate friends visit his studio, but he finally withdrew from his
own house and home. Of late years he had frequently left his house for
months at a time, and secreted himself in some distant quarter, taking
care that he should not be followed or known. When the great Exhibition of
1851 opened, Turner left orders with his housekeeper that no one should be
admitted to see his pictures. For twenty years the rain had been streaming
in upon them through the leaky roof, and many were hopelessly ruined. He
sent no pictures to the exhibition of that year, and he was hardly to be
recognized when he appeared in the gallery. Finally his prolonged absence
from the Academy meetings alarmed his friends; but no one dared seek him
out. His housekeeper alone, of all that had known him, had the interest to
hunt up the old artist. Taking a hint from a letter in one of his coats,
she went to Chelsea, and, after careful search, found his hiding-place,
with but one more day of life in him. It is said that, feeling the need of
purer air than that of Queen Anne Street, he went out to Chelsea and found
an eligible, little cottage by the side of the river, with a railed-in
roof whence he could observe the sky. The landlady demanded references
from the shabby, old man, when he testily replied, "My good woman, I'll
buy the house outright." She then demanded his name--"in case, sir, any
gentleman should call, you know." "Name?" said he, "what's your name?" "My
name is Mrs. Booth." "Then I am Mr. Booth." And so he was known, the boys
along the river-side calling him "Puggy Booth," and the tradesmen "Admiral
Booth," the theory being that he was an old admiral in reduced
circumstances. In a low studded, attic room, poorly furnished, with a
single roof window, the great artist was found in his mortal sickness. He
sent for his favorite doctor from Margate, who frankly told him that death
was at hand. "Go down stairs," exclaimed Turner, "take a glass of sherry,
and then look at me again." But no stimulant could change the verdict of
the physician. An hour before he died he was wheeled to the window for a
last look at the Thames, bathed in sunshine and dotted with sails. Up to
the last sickness