Leslie Ward - Forty Years of 'Spy'

During my enforced rest from all exercise of any importance, I spent my time in compiling a book of autographs and in sketching anything I fancied. My aptitude and love for drawing were not encouraged at school at the request of my father, but I was always caricaturing the masters, and having the result confiscated. It was inevitable, living as I did in an atmosphere of art, loving the profession, and sitting to my parents, that I should grow more and more interested and more determined to become a painter myself, although strangely enough I never had a lesson from either my father or mother.

The boy is indeed the father of the man, for just as I anticipated my future by becoming the school caricaturist, so Alban Doran, one of my schoolfellows (and the son of my father's friend, Dr. Doran), spent the time usually occupied by the average schoolboy in play or sport, in searching for animal-culæ or bottling strange insects, the result of his tedious discoveries. I believe he kept an aquarium even in his nursery, and was more interested in microscopes than cricket. The clever boy became a brilliant man, distinguishing himself at "Bart's," was joint compiler with Sir James Paget and Dr. Goodhart of the current edition of the Catalogues of the Pathological series in the Museum of the College of Surgeons. His success as a surgeon and a woman's specialist was all the more wonderful, when we remember his nervous shaking hands, which might have been expected to render his touch uncertain; but when an operation demands his skill the nervousness vanishes, and his hand steadies. He is noted for a remarkable collection of the ear-bones from every type of living creature in this country, and especially for his literary contributions to the study of surgery.

When I was at home on my holidays I spent a great deal of my time in a temporary studio erected on the terrace of the House of Lords. Here I watched my father paint his frescoes for the Houses of Parliament. Fresco painting would not endure the humidity of our climate, and several of these historical paintings which hung in the corridor of the House of Commons began to mildew. Other important frescoes were completely destroyed by the damp; but my father restored his works, and they were placed under glass, which preserved them. With his last two or three frescoes he adopted a then new process called "water-glass," which was a decided success.

Another holiday was spent at Hastings, where my father occupied much of his time restoring frescoes which he discovered, half-obliterated, in the old Parish Church at Battle. He intended eventually to complete his task; but on his return to London he found that the great pressure of work and engagements rendered this impossible. The dean of the parish wrote in consequence to say that the restorations looked so patchy that it would be better to whitewash them over!

The Archæological Society met that year at Hastings, and my father, who intended to prepare me for an architectural career, thought it would encourage me if we attended their meetings, at which Planché, the President, presided. We visited all the places of interest near, and I heard many edifying discourses upon their histories, while I watched the members, who were rather antiquities themselves, and thoroughly enjoyed the many excellent luncheons spread for us at our various halting places.

À propos of restoration, my father visited Kew Church in 1865, and found in the churchyard Gainsborough's tomb, which was in a deplorable state of neglect. Near to Gainsborough are buried Zoffany, 1 1 Spelt Zoffanj on his tombstone. R.A., Jeremiah Meyer, R.A., miniature painter and enamellist (the former's great friend), and Joshua Kirby, F.S.A., also a contemporary. My father at once took steps to have the tomb restored at his own expense, and as the result of his inquiries and efforts in that direction, received the following letter which is interesting in its quaint diction as well as in reference to the subject.

My Dear Sir,

It is with much pleasure that I learn that one great man is intending to do Honor to the Memory of another. In reply to your note, I beg that you will consider that my Rights, as the Holder of the Freehold, are to be subservient by all means to the laudable object of paying our Honor to the Memory of the great Gainsborough.

To J. Rigby, Esq., Kew.

To this capital letter my father replied:—

Dear and Reverend Sir,

I cannot refrain from expressing to you my warm thanks for the very kind and disinterested manner in which you have been pleased to entertain my humble idea in regard to the restoration of Gainsborough's tomb, and the erection of a tablet to his memory in the church, the duties of which you so ably fulfil, nor can I but wholly appreciate your very kind but far too flattering reference to myself in your letter to our friend Mr. Rigby which coming from such a source is I assure you most truly valued.

The tomb was restored, a new railing placed around it, and a tablet to the artist's memory was also placed by my father inside the church.

Some very pleasant memories are connected with enjoyable summers spent at Sevenoaks, where my father took a house for two years, close to the seven oaks from which the neighbourhood takes its name. Particularly I remember the amusing incident of the burglar. I was awakened from midnight slumbers by my sister knocking at the door and calling in a melodramatic voice "Awake!… awake!… There is a burglar in our room." I promptly rushed to her bedroom, where I found my other sister crouching under the bedclothes in speechless terror. Having satisfied myself as to the utter absence of a burglar in that particular room, I started to search the house—but by this time the whole household was thoroughly roused; the various members appeared with candles, and together we ransacked the establishment from garret to cellar. In the excitement of the moment we had not had time to consider our appearances and the procession was ludicrous in the extreme. My grandfather (in the absence of my father) came first in dressing-gown, a candle in one hand and a stick in the other. My mother came next (in curl papers), and then my eldest sister. It was the day of chignons, when everybody, without exception, wore their hair in that particular style. On this occasion my sister's head was conspicuous by its quaint little hastily bundled up knot. I wore a night-shirt only; but my other sister, who was of a theatrical turn of mind (she who had awakened me), had taken the most trouble, for she wore stockings which, owing to some oversight in the way of garters, were coming down.

After satisfying ourselves about the burglar—who was conspicuous by his absence—we adjourned to our respective rooms, while I went back to see the sister upon whom fright had had such paralyzing effects. There I heard an ominous rattle in the chimney.

"Flora!" said my stage-struck sister, in trembling tones, with one hand raised ( à la Lady Macbeth)—and the poor girl under the clothes cowered deeper and deeper.

Two seconds later a large brick rattled down and subsided noisily into the fireplace.

"That is the end of the burglar," said I, and the terrified figure emerged from the bed, brave and reassured. Retiring to my room I recollected the procession, and having made a mental note of the affair went back to bed. Early the next morning I arose and made a complete caricature of the incident of the burglar, which set our family (and friends next day) roaring with laughter when they saw it.

In those days we used to sketch at Knole House, then in the possession of Lord and Lady Delaware. My mother made some very beautiful little pictures of the interiors there, and several smaller studies. She copied a Teniers so perfectly that one could have mistaken it for the original. The painting was supposed to represent "Peter and the Angels in the Guard Room," and the guards were very conspicuous. On the other hand, as one only discovered a little angel with Peter in the distance, one could almost suppose Teniers had forgotten them until the last minute, and then had finally decided to relegate them to the background. This picture (the original) was sold at Christie's during a sale from Knole several years ago.