Forty years of 'Spy'

by Sir Leslie Ward

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.