THE COURIER OF THE DAFFODILS

Evening Star, Issue 21518, 16 September 1933, Page 2

THE COURIER OF THE DAFFODILS

[Written by C. R. Allen, for tlie 1 Evening Star.’] It will not be Jong before the hills about the town of Lawrence will be rich with a gold that is not to bo had by dredging. Pilgrimages will be made to see the daffodils that have become a later glory of this depleted town. There may be those with no knowledge of the man to whom this latest asset of Lawrence is primarily due. It must be more than twenty years since the late Alexander Wilson, M.A., went to Lawrence to deliver a lecture. The headmaster of the Otago Boys’ High School as he then was, could lecture on matters literary to the great profit and entertainment of his listeners; but on this occasion he spoke, not as a man of letters, but as a gardener. Ho was, perhaps, the most eminent grower of bulbs in these parts, and his garden on Maori Hill was a Mecca for all lovers of daffodils. On the occasion of this lecture he took with him a bag full of bulbs to illustrate his thesis, I cannot say if these particular bulbs were the pioneers of that golden colony which inhabits Lawrence every spring. It is certain, however, that Daffodil Day in that town is the direct outcome of the lecture delivered by Mr Wilson. No man of sensibility could wish for a better memorial. Mr Wilson was so well known to people who have gardens, and to those hungry generations who tread them down (not the gardens, but the people), that one is_ a little chary of attempting a portrait'. The impression he left with many was that he had far more of the savant than the dominie in his composition. This is not to maintain that he lacked the aptitude to teach. His love of English literature was infectious. He made the lure of his subject all the more potent, because he seemed less bent upon impressing his pupils than impressing himself. One retains a very vivid impression of Browning’s ‘ Evelyn Hope ’ as it was interpreted by him. “ Beautiful Evelyn Hope is dead.” One could almost persuade oneself that one were eavesdropping, so entirely preoccupied did he seem to become. To any boy with a bias towards literary composition he was full of kindly encouragement, He _ was, of course, a sever© critic, for criticism was the bent his own genius followed. Still, a disposition on the part of any pupil seriously to turn author filled him, I imagine, with the same kind of interest that the discovery of a rare bulb would have done. As a speaker he was equable rather than eloquent. It is no secret nowadays that it was his humour that in part informed that column in a Saturday morning newspaper which for so long has appeared over the composite nom de guerre of “ Givis.” Alexander Wilson’s great friend and collaborator in these columns predeceased him by a few months. One evening every week was set aside for fruitful converse. I cannot say whether a “ home and home ” principle was adopted. In any case we may be sure that the senior member of this .conspiracy must have traversed a path through the daffodils on many an evening in the spring and early summer. On his homeward way ho would drop the “ copy ” into a convenient pillarbox. The comedy of anonvmity was well maintained, but there lacked not both internal -and external. evidence to establish the authorship of these paragraphs. External, evidence might consist in the arrival at a certain vestry door on the occasion of a week-night service of the devil from the newspaper office, in pursuit of deferred copy. Mr Alexander Wilson might have accomplished more under differing circumstances. As a professor of English literature, for instance, he might have found more time to write. One cannot say whether he cultivated his garden in obedience to the admonition of the French wit. He surprised his friends in later years by exchanging his position as rector for that of oaitor of an influential northern newspaper, in which office he appears signally to have failed. The literary portion of the journal was conducted, of course, with his wonted scholarly brilliance, but the newspaper was engaged in a life struggle with a powerful opponent. Emotion recollected in tranquUity was not calculated to win the battle. Mr Wilson left New Zealand for his native Scotland. He left behind him his daffodils and his friends, but his books, or the essence of thein, he took with him. He never married, remaining faithful, like the late Lord Balfour, to the memory of his dead betrothed. Was it an impertinence to fancy that he had her in mind when he read • Beautiful Evelyn Hope ’ ? So one did fancy after one’s own barbarous fashion. . To leave the world a little better than we found it is the aim that most of us tritely declare to be ours. The schoolmaster is supposed to have more than the wonted share of opportunity to contribute to this ■ betterment. It cannot be claimed for Alexander Wilson that he was a great or influential schoolmaster. He was a sad, if not an embittered man. To those who would find solace in the kingdom of the mind, however, he very effectually indicated the way. Perhaps it may be said that two motives inspire the teacher—the love of teaching, and the love of his subject. It is improbable that Alexander Wilson loved teaching for its own sake, for the personal relationship with young people that it brought him. That ~o jit*v"cted I nr'’" -, could be proven by example: but that was more in connection with his garden than his school. Perhaps, after all, he is best remembered by the daffodils.