Forty Years of 'Spy'

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

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1

Spelt Zoffanj on his tombstone.