Forty Years of 'Spy'

About that time I made several slight caricatures of Dickens, which have been not only exhibited, but published.

CHAPTER IV

WORK AND PLAY

School-days ended.—A trip to Paris.—Versailles and the Morgue.—I enter the office of Sydney Smirke, R.A.—Montague Williams and Christchurch.—A squall.—Frith as arbitrator.—I nearly lose my life.—William Virtue to the rescue.—The Honourable Mr. Butler Johnson Munro.—I visit Knebworth.—Lord Lytton.—Spiritualism.—My first picture in the Royal Academy.—A Scotch holiday with my friend Richard Dunlop.—Patrick Adam.—Mr. and Mrs. Arthur Lewis.—Mr. George Fox.—Sir William Jaffray.—Mr. William Cobbett.—Adventures on and off a horse.—Peter Graham.—Cruikshank.—Mr. Phené Spiers.—Johnstone Forbes-Robertson and Irving.—Fred Walker.—Arthur Sullivan.—Sir Henry de Bathe.—Sir Spencer Ponsonby.—Du Maurier.—Arthur Cecil.—Sir Francis Burnand.—The Bennett Benefit.

After leaving school, I took a trip with some schoolfellows to Paris. Our visit was not remarkably adventurous. I remember my interest in the outside seats on the trains, our nearly being frozen to death while indulging in the novelty of a journey to Versailles, and my excitement when I thought I had discovered Shakespeare in the Morgue, although second thoughts led me to the conclusion I was a little late in the day.

My great ambition at this period of my life was to be able to study drawing and painting, but my father was inexorable in his decision, and I entered the office of Sydney Smirke, R.A., to learn architecture.

Mr. Smirke was one of three talented brothers (the sons of the very distinguished artist, Robert Smirke, R.A.), Sir Edward Smirke, the City Solicitor, and Sir Robert Smirke, R.A., who achieved fame as an architect and designed Covent Garden Theatre among buildings of note. It is probable (I was told at the time) that Mr. Sydney Smirke would have received a knighthood, had he not opposed Queen Victoria's desire at that time that all Art Exhibitions should be restricted to the neighbourhood of South Kensington. He had then decided with the Committee who commissioned him upon the present site of Burlington House for the Royal Academy, which was to be built to his design. Among his best-known works are the Carlton and Conservative Club houses, the Reading Room, and the Roman and Assyrian Galleries at the British Museum.

While I was in Mr. Smirke's office, I longed more than ever to be an artist, for the purely mechanical part of the profession did not appeal to me in the least, neither did the prospect of an architect's life commend itself. After a year during which I worked very conscientiously, considering my adverse sympathies, with bricks and mortar, Mr. Smirke finished his last work on Burlington House, and announced his intention of retiring.

In the meantime I had visited Christchurch and Bournemouth, and had completed a series of drawings of interiors. One of these—of the Lady Chapel—was bought by Montague Williams, whose wife had then recently died. My picture, which represented a woman placing flowers upon a tomb, figured in the drawing, was the best work I had done up to that period, and it probably possessed some sad association or suggestion for him. I had wished to sell the picture to the Rev. Zacchary Nash, the Rector of Christchurch, and he wrote to me, saying, "If you very much wish me to buy the water-colour drawing, I will; but I dislike all pictures, and consider they never rise to my preconceived idea of the subject or object they are intended to represent."

The walls of his house were entirely without the usual ornamentation, and I do not remember to have seen there a single picture, with the exception of the usual conventional and handed-down portraits of relations.

I was made a member of the Architectural Association, and exhibited my drawings of Christchurch, which were so highly appreciated by my father, and so pleased him by what he considered my advance in the architectural profession, that I had not the heart to tell him of my ever-increasing desire to leave it and go through the Academy Schools, and become a painter. He had repeatedly said he would rather I swept a crossing than be an artist, whereupon I decided upon the one outside our house, in anticipation.

On my return, my father immediately exerted himself to find a new office for me, and Mr. Smirke suggested a colleague of his, Mr. Street, in the following letter:—

My dear Sir,

… with regard to Leslie I quite concur with you in wishing him to get into some busy and eminent office where he can see and profit by all the matters connected with the carrying out of architectural work. I have enclosed herewith a note to Mr. Street, requesting him to tell me candidly whether he can readily admit Leslie into his office, and I shall not fail to let him know how highly I appreciate Leslie's qualification. At the same time I must remind you that in an eminent architect's office, each stool has its money value and very big premiums are realised. What I shall tell Street will be that in taking Leslie into his office he is taking an excellent draughtsman with taste and intelligence to boot, and not a raw recruit—one in short, who would be found useful from the first day of his entrance.

    Yours sincerely,
    Sydney Smirke.

My father in the meantime had spoken to his friend Mr. Edward Barry, R.A., with a view to my entering his office. This interview resulted in my calling upon Mr. Barry with specimens of my work, of which he approved and upon which he complimented me. At the same time he warned me that T-squares and compass, and not the paint brush, would be my daily implements for at least five years. This was too much for me, and I frankly told him it would be impossible, and that three years—until my coming of age—would be my limit. Barry then expressed his opinion that an artist's career was what I was fitted for, and not an architect's office, and although I quite agreed with him I went home with a heavy heart at the thought of my father's disappointment. On my return I sought my room, and, after locking the door, I sat down to consider the situation. Also, I found that—perhaps from the effect of my excitement—my nose was bleeding, and I endeavoured to staunch the flow of blood. Presently, before I had decided upon a tactful plan of action, my father knocked at the door, and when I opened it, rushed in, greatly excited to hear the result of the interview. A rousing scene followed, and although I respected his feelings and was sorry to go against his wishes, I instinctively clung to my decision to live my life as I chose and to follow my own career. The same evening my father consulted his friend, Mr. Frith, on the matter, and he kindly consented to act as mediator in this affair of my future career. After trying to dissuade me, and presenting an artist's life from its very blackest standpoint, and still finding me full of hope and enthusiasm, Mr. Frith at last said, "I don't mind telling you that, had you been my son, I should certainly have encouraged you in your desire to adopt an artist's profession."

Finally my father was persuaded, and as there was nothing more to be said, we shook hands upon my determination. Thus we buried the long-cherished idea of my architectural career, of which I was heartily glad to hear the last.

After the disagreement, Frith, to encourage me, commissioned me to "square out" one of his pictures from a small sketch—"The Procession of Our Lady of Boulogne." I received eighteen guineas when my task was completed, but in my excitement at receiving my first cheque, I threw it (in its envelope) accidentally in the fire. I was in despair when I discovered my blunder, and, in my ignorance of paper money, went to Frith and told him of the calamity. He chaffed me, and said, "You know, Leslie, I'm not compelled to give you another cheque … but if you wish it I will." Whereupon he gave me my long-looked-for and fateful eighteen guineas.

I was now free to face my future and to begin life as I wished; and in the meanwhile I nearly ended it prematurely while I was on a visit to my friend William Virtue, at Sunbury. At my host's suggestion, we started with three friends for a bathe in the river, early on a Sunday morning, the tide being high and the current strong. I was a fair swimmer and very fond of the pastime, and so, when our return home for breakfast was suggested, I thought to have one more plunge, whereupon Bill, as we called him, being familiar with the current in the vicinity of the weir, advised me to avail myself of one in particular, which would, if I followed it, he said, carry me back to the boat. I acted upon the suggestion, but upon reaching our boat found myself unable to get a firm enough grip upon it, and, after making several attempts, became quite exhausted, and then tried to float on my back to give myself a rest. Then an article I had been reading the night before headed "Precautions in case of Drowning," came to my mind, with the advice when exhausted to "Throw yourself upon your back." But this precaution proved fruitless, as at this moment an under-current sucked me down. Being by this time quite helpless, I was shot up again like the imp in the bottle, only to be washed under again, and then in desperation I called for "Help!" and sank for the last time. In my case no past incidents lit up my brain with one lightning flash of thought—no beautiful ideas surged up—as one has heard told in novels. I only thought of the boat … I must get to the boat … and when I sank I said to myself, "Good-bye."

My host, who was then in smooth water on the other side of the river exclaimed, to the rest of the party, "Where's Ward?" and as he spoke he observed the ring in the water where I had disappeared. Fearing I was dead, he exclaimed, "Good God, how shall I break the news?" but he plunged in and lost no time in rescuing me.

How it was done, he was scarcely able to say, but he found me obedient to his directions, and, being a powerfully built man, he was able to battle against the rush of water, whilst supporting me. I was eventually dragged into the boat, and, wonderful to relate, I had retained sufficient consciousness to know I was alive, while fearing at the same time for Virtue, who, placing me in safety, had swum after another of our party who had rashly gone to the aid of both of us, and was in difficulties himself. Needless to add, my heroic friend was in a fainting condition when we reached his house, but with the aid of a little brandy, he soon recovered, and no harm came to any of us. In fact, in the afternoon I had sufficiently recovered to walk to Teddington, where I called upon the Edward Levys, who had taken a house there for the summer. Feeling quite fit in spite of the episode of the morning, I was sitting in the drawing-room regaling my hostess with the little incident of my rescue, when she asked me to ring the bell for tea. On either side of the fireplace a bell appeared to be attached to the wall. One of these, as happens in old-fashioned houses, was a dummy, and this one I attempted to pull; being at that age when a young man does not wish to be outwitted, and finding the bell was extremely difficult to manage, I gave it an extra hard tug, and, to my consternation, pulled off the dummy handle and with it masses of plaster which came showering down all around me. My feelings on discovering my blunder were too deep for words.

Another lamentable accident happened to me when I was attempting to coax my coming moustache with a pair of curling tongs—to curl the edges! In carelessly handling the lamp (which exploded), and in trying to blow out the flames, I burnt myself so badly that I lost every atom of hair on my face, eyebrows, eyelashes, and the rest. Seeing an advertisement a little later for hair restorer and moustache renovator, I bought it in high hopes, and rubbed it well in (as directions) before going to bed. When, the next morning I arose, expectant, I was puzzled to find my lips swollen out of all proportion, and my disappointment was not untinged with feelings that can be left to the imagination.

About this time I received my first commission, through Mrs. Pender (afterwards Lady Pender), who asked my father if I could be induced to undertake a series of drawings for a friend of hers, Mrs. Butler Johnstone Munro. Of course, I jumped at the offer, and lost no time in making the acquaintance of my patroness, who was an eccentric old lady of eighty, and quite an original character. Her brother, Mr. Munro of Novar, had left her his collection of pictures of all schools, which she prized greatly, and she wished me to make a plan and series of drawings to scale, of the pictures in their frames exactly as they hung upon the walls of her house in Hamilton Place, that it might give her an idea how they should be placed in a mansion she was moving into. The work took me a little over three months to complete, and when it was done, I made sure of a handsome remuneration from Mrs. Butler Johnstone, who was very wealthy. Alas! the five-pound note which she paid me after my first day's work was all I ever got, for she died suddenly while I was taking a summer holiday, and I was "mug" enough not to send in a claim to her executors. Thus only the memory and satisfaction of having studied some of the finest pictures in this country was left me by way of compensation for my trouble. I often, however, look back in amusement at some of my experiences while I was working for this quaint old lady, who, I may mention, seemed to consider me at her beck and call, and used to telegraph for me to come and show her guests a portfolio containing an almost unique set of water-colour drawings by Turner. Colonel Butler Johnstone, M.P. (my patroness's husband) came into the room one day when I was starting upon my commission; he evidently had no sympathy with art, for he said that he thought that I might be better occupied. It seemed to him, he said, rather ridiculous to undertake such tedious work, because when it was completed he couldn't see the object of it.

This was a little disconcerting, but I was not discouraged.

I remember, one summer morning, Mrs. Butler Johnstone arriving on horseback at my father's house, and sending in a message by the servant to inform Mr. Leslie Ward, that the "Honourable Mrs. Butler Johnstone Munro" was waiting to see him, and, upon my hastening downstairs, I saw at the front door, mounted upon a good, but aged horse, my strange employer, shielding her wrinkled old face from the sun with a white parasol, which I afterwards discovered she habitually used whilst riding in the Park during the season. This call was to ask me to accompany her to the Kensington Museum, and there to act as her mouthpiece, she being desirous of making a proposition to Sir Wentworth Cole as to her intention of making a temporary loan of pictures to that institute. While we were driving to the Museum in a hansom cab, I remember that a somewhat ridiculous contretemps took place. The old lady, in giving her directions to the driver, managed to get her bonnet and cape entangled and dragged off, and I was reprimanded severely for the vain attempts I made to act as the "gallant" in assisting her to replace them.

My visit for six weeks, with my parents, to the first Lord Lytton (Bulwer Lytton) at Knebworth, made a great impression upon my mind, as I suppose I began to consider myself "grown up," and was rather flattered on receiving so interesting an invitation. During my stay I made a water-colour painting of the great hall, which was hung with rich red hangings and a fine old Elizabethan curtain. I also both caricatured from memory and drew a portrait of my host (for which he sat), for his appearance proved an irresistible attraction to me. Lord Lytton had a remarkably narrow face with a high forehead; his nose was piercingly aquiline, and seemed to swoop down between his closely-set blue eyes, which changed in expression as his interest waxed and waned. When he was interestedly questioning his neighbour, he became almost satanic looking, and his glance grew so keenly inquisitive as to give the appearance of a "cast" in his eyes. Carefully curled hair crowned his forehead, and his bushy eyebrows, beard and moustache gave a curious expression to his face, which was rather pale, except in the evening, when he slightly "touched up," as the dandies of his day were in the habit of doing. His beau ideal was D'Orsay, and he showed the nicest care in the choice of his clothes. His trousers were baggy as they tapered downward, and rather suggested a sailor's in the way they widened towards the feet. I can see him now standing on the hearthrug awaiting the announcement of dinner—dressed up "to the eyes," and listening with bent, attentive head to his guests. It was typical of Lord Lytton that he listened to the most insignificant of his guests with all the deference that he would have shown to the greatest. Replacing his hookah (for he smoked opium) he would be silent for a considerable time, watching us out of his odd eyes, and when he spoke it was in a soft voice which he never raised above a low tone. He told many stories of "Dis-ra-eel-i," whose name he pronounced with slow deliberation, and one strained one's ears to catch every word that he said, they were so interesting. I wish I could remember them now.

AT KNEBWORTH

In Art he had no taste whatever, but he was especially fond of artists with literary tastes, which perhaps explains why he "took" so much to Maclise and my father. Maclise (whom he considered everything that could be desired both as a personality and an artist) painted his portrait, which is now at Knebworth. It is an extraordinarily good likeness, but very hard in the quality of painting, and unsympathetic in treatment.

When I was at Knebworth I first found myself in public opposition to my father's dislike of tobacco. I do not think I have mentioned this distaste before. When he gave a dinner at home, he usually persuaded a friend to choose the cigars, and was very glad to escape from the atmosphere of tobacco when they were being smoked by his guests. Later in life the doctor ordered an occasional cigarette to soothe his nerves; he smoked one, and that was too much for him.

À propos of this detestation of tobacco, I suffered what I supposed then to be one of the most humiliating moments of my life. When the cigars were handed round to the guests after dinner, I took one and began to light it, whereupon my father, who had never allowed me to smoke in his presence, saw my cigar, and waved it magnificently down. Considering myself "grown up," I was at the most sensitive period of my boyhood, and I felt I must appear ridiculous in the eyes of all the men at the table, when possibly the whole episode had passed unnoticed, or if they had observed me, would not have given a moment's notice to the occurrence.

There was a French cook at Knebworth who used to go fishing in the lake for minnows. Lord Lytton was wont to damp my ardour when I expressed a desire to fish, by informing me that there were pike, but that nobody had ever succeeded in catching any. Strangely enough, from the moment I started to fish, I was very successful. Never a day passed without my making a good haul; and although the Frenchman failed to catch them, he knew the secret of stuffing and serving them for dinner.

Lord Lytton was in some respects rather curious, for he informed me that if I went on fishing I should empty the lake. However, I went down one morning and found the whole lake drained and the fish destroyed. The only explanation which occurred to me was that he might have regarded fishing as cruel, just as he considered shooting brutal; for after once hearing the cries of a hare he had wounded he never handled a gun again.

An American lady named Madame de Rossit was then acting as Lord Lytton's secretary. She had her little daughter with her, a very precocious child, who had been brought up evidently on the great man's poetry. I remember a very painful evening when all the household and the neighbours were present to hear the child recite "The Lady of Lyons." Anything more distressing could hardly be imagined.

Hume, the spiritualist and medium, whom I mentioned in connection with the S. C. Halls, constantly came, and Lord Lytton, with a view to testing my psychic possibilities, arranged that I should work with the planchette. He was, I think, making experiments more out of curiosity than earnest belief. Our attempts were entirely without results. I was evidently not en rapport.

My host was always attracted by the mysterious; he loved haunted rooms and tales of ghosts. There was a room at Knebworth where a "yellow boy" walked at midnight, and the house itself was full of surprises. For instance, you went to a bookcase to take down a volume, and found the books were merely shams, or you attempted to open another case, and found it was a concealed entrance to the drawing-room. There were some fine pieces of old oak in the house, nevertheless, and upon my mother's expression of admiration for one old door he had it packed and sent to her as a present.

In the grounds, there was a curious maze that we found just as troublesome, but more picturesque. Then there was the beautiful Horace Garden, of which my father made a painting. Down a delightful green vista of lawns, barred with shadows from the trees overhead, stood statues of the Greek and Roman poets and philosophers, grey against the sunlit scene. This garden was Lytton's idea, and it was certainly one of the greatest "beauty spots" of Knebworth. The house itself did not inspire me; but at night, when the moon shone, the griffins on the front, silhouetted romantically against the sky, gave a mysterious beauty to the building, in the glamour of the moonlight.

I will conclude my memories of Knebworth with Lord Lytton's advice to me that no young man's education was complete until he had mastered the entire works of Sir Walter Scott.

On my return to London, I sent my painting to the Royal Academy, where it was very favourably received and well hung.

The Telegraph, coupling me with my father in this notice, said: "We have already mentioned a masterly drawing by E. M. Ward, R.A., and we would call attention to the work of something more than promise by the Academician's young son, 'The Hall at Knebworth, Herts.'"

Needless to say, I was encouraged by kindly criticism, for having chosen my profession in the teeth of opposition, I felt I had to succeed, and was extremely anxious to gain the approval of my father. I entered Carey's to take a preliminary course of instruction preparatory to the Royal Academy Schools. These studios were well known in former days as Sass's School of Art, where many eminent artists had attended before they rose to fame. At the same time I studied at the Slade School, where Poynter was then professor. I then copied at the National Gallery the well-known picture of "A Tailor," by Moroni, selected by my father, who had a very high regard for that wonderful old master. Now that everything was running smoothly I was quite happy. I was at liberty to follow my own desires, with the thought of the future before me, which I faced with all the optimism of youth and an untroubled mind.

With these high hopes I was considerably enlivened by my first holiday in Scotland with a Scotch school friend. Dunlop and I started on tour from Edinburgh, where I was introduced to the Adams. Mr. Adam was a solicitor who, with all the security of a comfortable practice and successful life, was very anxious to bring up his son in his office; but Patrick dreamed of an artistic career, and had other ambitions. He read the lives of Constable, Turner, and David Cox, and, becoming inspired by the example of these great men, and by the works of Sam Bough (a painter of whom Edinburgh is proud), he rose at dawn to paint before going to his father's office, where he regarded the hours spent on his stool as so much waste of time, and longed for evening when he could return to his beloved pursuits again. When we met, our sympathies went out to one another, and we spent our time discussing art. Together we visited the local galleries and steeped ourselves in the beauty we found there.

At Holyrood Palace we were shown the room where the ill-fated Rizzio was murdered, and where the sad scene of love, passion, and hatred was enacted in so small a space, which was yet large enough to hold destinies between its walls. The blood-stain was pointed out to me, and I was informed at the same time that the episode of Mary Queen of Scots and the unfortunate Italian was the subject of E. M. Ward's picture of the year in the Royal Academy. (This painting, by the way, was purchased by the late Sir John Pender.) It is to be supposed that I appeared duly impressed.

When we left Edinburgh, my newly-found friend, Patrick Adam, suggested we should correspond about Art; but although he became a successful painter, and one of the foremost Scottish Academicians, I have never met him from that day to this.

During our visits to the picture galleries, my friend Richard Dunlop, who was a matter-of-fact Scot and not in the least temperamental or of an artistic turn of mind (but a splendid fellow for a' that), became distinctly bored, and after we had visited Mr. Arthur Lewis (who was a very keen sportsman and deer-stalker to the day of his death) and his wife, formerly Kate Terry, at Glen Urquhart, he retraced his steps and left me to go on alone. My continual eulogies of the beauties we saw, the exquisite colours and effects of landscape evidently became too much for him. I am glad to say that he still remains one of my best friends, and I always associate him with our mutual and equally valued friend, Charlie Frith.

On the various boats in which I voyaged from time to time, I enjoyed watching the passengers, and occasionally caricaturing people who amused me. There was one pale curate who looked as though he might have understudied Penley in The Private Secretary. He wore a long coat and broad-brimmed hat, and his smile was always dawning to order, whereupon charming dimples appeared in his cheeks. I watched him shedding the cheerful light of his fascinating smile upon the ladies, until gradually a change crept over him; the smile wore off, and presently the sea claimed him. I always think a man or woman should be economical with their expressions when they are apt to be victims of mal-de-mer, for so few smiles at sea last until the voyage is over.

About this period I was fortunate enough to be invited to Cheshire by some friends of my parents, to the house of Mr. and Mrs. George Fox, who lived at Alderley Edge. My host, who was a well-known connoisseur, possessed a remarkable collection of pictures. I remember one by Thomas Faed (called "God's Acre," representing two little children by their mother's grave). The painting was full of delicate sentiment, a qualification perhaps rather despised in these days; but the masterly loose handling and fine colour redeemed it from any such criticism from myself. I fear the picture would not realise anything like the considerable price given for it by my host, which, I believe, was over two thousand five hundred pounds.

My first evening at the Fox's is never forgotten, for I made an amusing blunder in all the superiority and imagined importance of nineteen years.

Harry Fox, the son of the house, was then twenty-one. On that memorable evening I was sitting in the drawing-room when he entered, and, attempting to be friendly and conversational, I said to him—

"Well, are you home from school now?"

My friend, who married an equally fine horse-woman, was a splendid rider in those days (as he is now). He was always dapper in his appearance, and alert in his bearing. My hunting days began when I visited Alderley Edge, and although I had ridden at Upton, Slough, I was somewhat of a novice at the riding with which I here intended to compete.