Forty Years of 'Spy'. Leslie Ward
on the occasion of one of our many visits to Brighton, we saw the great comet, and a new brother arrived:—all three very wonderful events to me.
The brilliance of the "star with a tail" aroused my sister and me to leave our beds and open the window to gaze curiously upon this phenomenon. Simultaneously a carriage drove up to the door, and my mother (who had just arrived from Slough) alighted, and after her the nurse with a baby in her arms. We were reprimanded severely for our temerity in being out of bed, but we could not return until we had had a glimpse of the new baby, who became one of the most beautiful children imaginable.
In Brighton we visited some relations of my father's, the Misses Smith, daughters of Horace Smith, one of the authors of "The Rejected Addresses." Of the two sisters, Miss Tysie was considered the most interesting, and although Miss Rosie was beautiful, her sister was considered the principal object of attraction by the innumerable people they knew. Everybody worth knowing in the world of art and especially of literature came to see the "Recamier" of Brighton; Thackeray was counted amongst her intimates, and we may possibly know her again in a character in one of his books. I remember being impressed with these ladies as they were very kind to us. Miss Tysie died only comparatively recently.
Two years later, I met a real hero, a general of six feet four inches, who seemed to me like a brilliant personage from the pages of a romantic drama.
General Sir John Hearsey, then just returned from India, where he had taken a conspicuous part in quelling the Mutiny, came to stay with us at Upton Park with his wife, dazzling my wondering eyes with curiosities and strange toys, embroideries, and queer things such as I had never seen or heard of before. Their two children were in charge of a dark-eyed ayah, whose native dress and beringed ears and nose created no little stir in sleepy Upton.
I could never have dreamt of a finer soldier than the General, and I shall never forget the awe I felt when he showed me the wounds all about his neck, caused by sabre-cuts, and so deep I could put my fingers in them. My father painted a splendid portrait of him in native uniform and another of the beautiful Lady Hearsey in a gorgeous Indian dress of red and silver.
Another friend of my childhood was the late Mr. Birch, the sculptor; he was assisting my father at that time by modelling some of the groups for his pictures, and he used to encourage me to try and model, both in wax and clay. Some thirty years later, we met at a public dinner, and I realised the then famous sculptor and A.R.A. was none other than the Mr. Birch of my childhood.
When I was quite a small boy, we left Upton Park and came to Kent Villa. The house (which became afterwards the residence of Orchardson, the painter), was built for my father, who went to live at Kensington Park chiefly through Dr. Doran, a great friend of his (of whom I have more to say later on).
There were two big studios, one above the other, for my parents. The house, which was covered with creepers, was large and roomy. It was approached by a carriage drive, the iron gates to which were a special feature. There was a garden at the back where we used frequently to dine in a tent until the long-legged spiders grew too numerous; but we often received our friends there when the weather was summery.
There was a ladies' school next door, and I recollect in later years my father's consternation when the girls, getting to know by some means or other (I think by the back stairs), of the Prince of Wales' intended visit, formed a guard of honour at our gate to receive him, which caused annoyance to my father and natural surprise to His Royal Highness.
My parents were very regular in their habits, for no matter how late the hour of retiring, they always began to work by nine. At four my father would take a glass of sherry and a sandwich before he went his usual long walk with my mother to the West End, and from there they wandered into the neighbourhood of Drury Lane, and lingered at the old curiosity shops. They were connoisseurs of old furniture and bought with discretion. As great believers in exercise, this walk was a regular pastime; on their return they dined about seven and often read to one another afterwards. My father's insatiable love of history and of the past led him to seek with undying interest any new light upon old events.
J. H. Edge, K.C., in his novel, "The Quicksands of Life," writes of my father: "The artist was then and probably will be for all time the head of his school. He was a big, burly, genial man, with a large mind, a larger heart, and a large brain. He was a splendid historian, with an unfailing memory, untiring energy and industry, and at the same time, like all true artists, men who appreciate shades of colour and shades of character—highly strung and morbidly sensitive, but not to true criticism which he never feared." Highly religious and intensely conscientious in every way and yet so very forgetful that his friends sometimes dubbed him the "Casual Ward." Brilliant conversational powers combined with a strong sense of humour, made him a delightful companion. His love of children was extraordinary. He never failed to visit our nursery twice a day, when we were tiny, and I have often seen him in later years, when bending was not easy, on his knees playing games with the youngest children. His voice was very penetrating, and they used to say at Windsor that one might hear him from the beginning of the Long Walk to the Statue. In church he frequently disturbed other worshippers by loudly repeating (to himself, as he thought) the service from beginning to end. I remember that on Sundays when the weather did not permit of our venturing to church, my father would read the service at home out of a very old Prayer-book, and when he came to the prayer for the safety of George IV., we children used to laugh before the time came, in expectation of his customary mistake. His powers of mimicry were extraordinary; I have seen him keeping a party of friends helpless with laughter over his imitations of old-fashioned ballet-dancers. His burlesque of Taglioni was side-splitting, especially as he grew stouter. Although a painter of historical subjects, he was extraordinarily fond of landscape, and among those of other places of interest there are some charming sketches of Rome, which he made while studying there in the company of his friend George Richmond, R.A. Among his drawings in the library at Windsor Castle, which were purchased after his death, are some remarkably interesting studies of many of the important people who sat to him for the pictures of Royal ceremonies. For the studies of the Peeresses' robes in "The Investiture of Napoleon III. with the Order of the Garter," my father was indebted to Lady Waterford (then Mistress of the Robes), whose detailed sketches were extraordinarily clever and very useful. This lady was a remarkable artist, her colour and execution being brilliant, so much so that when she was complaining of her lack of training in art, Watts told her no one who was an artist ever wished to see any of her work different from what it was … and he meant it. My father had an equally high opinion of her gift.
Perhaps the "South Sea Bubble" is one of the most widely known of my father's pictures. Removed from the National Gallery to the Tate not very long ago, this splendid example of a painter-historian's talent remains as fresh as the day it was painted, and its undoubted worth, although unrecognised by a section of intolerant modernists, will, I think, stand the test of time.
I recollect many well-known people who came to our house in those days; some, of course, I knew intimately, and amongst those, Marcus Stone and Vicat Cole, who calling together one evening, were announced by the servant as "The Marquis Stone and Viscount Cole."
Gambert, the great art dealer, afterwards consul at Nice, is always connected in my mind with the Crystal Palace, where he invited my parents to a dinner-party in the saloon, and we were told to wait outside. My sister and I walked about, quite engrossed with sight-seeing. The evening drew on and the people left, the stall-holders packed up their goods and departed, while we sat on one of the seats and huddled ourselves in a corner. As the dusk grew deeper we thought of the tragic fate of the "Babes in the Wood." Up above, the great roof loomed mysteriously, and as fear grew into terror, we resolved as a last resort to pray. Our prayer ended, a stall-keeper, interested, no doubt, came to the rescue, and on hearing our story, stayed with us until our parents came.
We loved the Crystal Palace none the less for our misadventure, and the happiest day of the year, to me at least, was my mother's birthday, on the first of June, when we annually hired a private omnibus, packed a delicious lunch, and drove to the Palace, where we visited our favourite amusements, or rambled in the spacious grounds. Sims Reeves, Carlotta Patti, Grisi, Adelina Patti, sang there to distinguished audiences. Blondin astonished us with remarkable feats, and Stead, the "Perfect Cure," aroused our laughter with his eccentric dancing. A great source of attraction to me were the life-like models