Forty Years of 'Spy'. Leslie Ward
was therefore unable to reply.
Other members of the Collins family visited us. There was old Mrs. Collins, the widow of William Collins, R.A.; a quaint old lady who wore her kid boots carefully down on one side and then reversed them and wore them down on the other. She had a horror of Highlanders because they wore kilts, which she considered scandalous.
Charles Collins, one of the original pre-Raphaelite brotherhood, her son, and Wilkie's brother, paid frequent week-end visits to our house, and the memory of Charles is surrounded by a halo of mystery and wonder, for he possessed a magic snuff-box made of gold inset with jewels, and at a word of command a little bird appeared on it, which disappeared in the same wonderful manner. But what was even more wonderful, Mr. Collins persuaded me that the bird flew all round the room singing until it returned to the box and fascinated me all over again. In after years I remember seeing a similar box and discovering the deception and mechanism. My disappointment for my shattered ideal was very hard to bear.
My imagination as a small child, although it endowed me with happy hours, was sometimes rather too much for me. On being presented with a sword, I invented a lion to kill with it, and grew so frightened finally of the creature of my own invention that at the last moment, preparatory to a triumphant rush intended to culminate in victory, I was obliged to retreat in terror behind my mother's skirts, my clutch becoming so frantic that she had to release herself from my grasp.
On leaving Harewood Square, my parents went to live at Upton Park, Slough, where I spent some of the happiest days of my life. Always a charming little place, it was then to me very beautiful. I remember the old church, delightfully situated by the roadside, the little gate by the low wall, and the long line of dark green yews bordering the flagged paths, where the stately people walked into church, followed by small Page boys in livery carrying big bags containing the prayer-books. Leech has depicted those quaint children in many a humorous drawing. There were two ladies whom I recollect as far from stately. I wish I could meet them now. Such subjects for a caricature one rarely has the opportunity of seeing. Quite six feet, ungainly, gawky, with odd clothes and queer faces, not unlike those of birds, they always inspired me with the utmost curiosity and astonishment. These ladies bore the name of "Trumper," and I remember they called upon us one day. The servant—perhaps embarrassed by their strange appearance—announced them as the "Miss Trumpeters," and the accidental name labelled them for ever. Even now I think of them as "the Trumpeters." The eccentricity of the Miss Trumpers was evidently hereditary, for on the occasion of a dinner-party given at their house, old Mrs. Trumper startled her guests at an early stage of the meal by bending a little too far over her plate, and causing her wig and cap to fall with a splash into her soup.
The ivy mantled tower was claimed very jealously in those days by the natives of Upton to be the tower of Gray's "Elegy," but it was in Stoke Poges churchyard that Gray wrote his exquisite poem, and it is there by the east wall of the old church that "the poet sleeps his last sleep."
In the meadow by the chancel window stands the cenotaph raised to his memory by John Penn, who, although the Pennsylvanians will assure you he rests safely in their native town, is buried in a village called Penn not far distant.
The churchyard always impresses me with its atmosphere of romantic associations; the fine old elm tree, and the pines, and the two ancient yews casting their dark shade—
"Where heaves the turf with many a mouldering heap,"
all add to the poetic feeling that is still so completely preserved.
When one enters the church the impression gained outside is somewhat impaired by some startlingly ugly stained glass windows, which to my mind are a blot on the church. There is one which is so crushingly obvious as to be positively painful to the eye. It must be remembered, of course, that these drawbacks are comparatively modern, and a few of the windows are very quaint. One very old one reveals an anticipatory gentleman riding a wooden bicycle.
The Reverend Hammond Tooke was then Rector of Upton Church, and a friend of my people. Mrs. Tooke was interested in me, and gave me my first Bible, which I still possess, but which, I am afraid, is not opened as often as it used to be. My excuse lies in my fear lest it should fall to pieces if I touched it. On the way to and from church we used to pass the old Rectory House (in after days the residence of George Augustus Sala), then owned by an admiral of whom I have not the slightest recollection. The admiral's garden was a source of unfailing interest, for there, on the surface of a small pond, floated a miniature man-o'-war.
Another scene of happy hours was Herschel House, which belonged to an old lady whom we frequently visited. On her lawn stood the famous telescope, which was so gigantically constructed that—in search of science!—it enabled me to my delight to run up and down it. Sir William Herschel made most of his great discoveries at this house, including that of the planet Uranus.
Living so near Windsor we naturally witnessed a great number of incidents, interesting and spectacular. From our roof we saw the funeral procession of the Duchess of Kent, winding along the Slough road, and from a shop window in Windsor watched the bridal carriage of the Princess Royal (on the occasion of her marriage to the Crown Prince of Prussia) being dragged up Windsor Hill by the Eton boys. I can also recall an opportunity being given us of witnessing from the platform of Slough station, gaily decorated for the occasion, the entry of a train which was conveying Victor Emmanuel, then King of Sardinia, to Windsor Castle. If I remember rightly, the Mayor—with the inevitable Corporation—read an address, and it was then that I saw the robust monarch in his smart green and gold uniform, with a plumed hat: his round features and enormous moustache are not easily forgotten.
The station-master at Slough was an extraordinary character, and full of importance, with an appearance in keeping. He must have weighed quite twenty-two stone. He used to walk down the platform heralding the approaching train with a penetrating voice that resounded through the station. There is a story told of how he went to his grandson's christening, and, missing his accustomed position of supreme importance and prominence, he grew bored, fell asleep in a comfortable pew … and snored until the roof vibrated! When the officiating clergyman attempted to rouse him by asking the portly sponsor the name of his godchild, he awoke suddenly and replied loudly, "Slough—Slough—change for Windsor!"
During the progress of my father's commissioned pictures, "The Visit of Queen Victoria to the Tomb of Napoleon I." and "The Investiture of Napoleon III. with the Order of the Garter" (both of which, I believe, still hang in Buckingham Palace), the Queen and Prince Consort made frequent visits to my father's studio. On one of these visits of inspection, the Queen was attracted by some little pictures done by my mother of her children, with which she was so much pleased that she asked her to paint one of Princess Beatrice (then a baby of ten months old). Before the departure of the Royal family on this occasion, we children were sent for, and upon entering the room made our bow and curtsey as we had been taught to do by our governess. My youngest sister, however, being a mere baby, toddled in after us with an air of indifference which she continued to show. I suppose the gold and scarlet liveries of the Royal servants were more attractive to her than the quiet presence of the Royal people. When the Queen departed, we hurried to the nursery windows. To my delight, I saw the Prince of Wales waving his mother's sunshade to us, and in return I kept waving my hand to him until the carriage was out of sight.
In after years my father told me with some amusement, how the Prince Consort (who was growing stouter) reduced the size of the painted figure of himself in my father's picture by drawing a chalk line, and remarking, "That's where my waist should be!"
I sat to my parents very often, and my father occasionally gave me sixpence as a reward for the agonies I considered I endured, standing in awkward attitudes, impatiently awaiting my freedom. In my mother's charming picture called "God save the Queen," which represents her sitting at the piano, her fingers on the keys, her face framed by soft curls is turned to a small group representing her children who are singing the National Anthem. Here I figure with sword, trumpet, and helmet, looking as if I would die for my Queen and my country, while my sisters watch with wide interested eyes.
My sisters and I often played about my mother's studio while she painted. She never seemed to find our presence troublesome, although I believe we were sometimes a nuisance, whereas my father was obliged to limit his attentions to