Forty years of 'Spy'

by Sir Leslie Ward

"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.