ROMANCES CONNECTED WITH SONG.

Otago Witness, Issue 2467, 26 June 1901, Page 70

ROMANCES CONNECTED WITH SONG.

(By J. Cuthbeet Hadden-, in Chambers's Journal.) Writers of songs—that is to say. of the words oi tongs—have a hard fate t Ko

one ever thinks of them, or, for that matter, of their words either. The one subject of attention is the singer; or. if a thought is bestowed in anothw direction, it is the composer of the music who is the object of it. We look on oiu programmes and. find that "The lost chord" is attributed to Sir Arthur Sullivan, and as for poor Adelaide Procter, &he might as well have never written a line. We discuss the origin of "Home, sweet home," but it is the melody alone with which our dlscussior is concerned : what care we for John Howard Payne and his painful experiences? We have "My Pretty Jane" s,ung to us, and we at once recall — -I£ xre are old enough — Mr Sims Re-eves, who by his fine renderings of this song has made his own the immortality which should have been shared by the post and the composer. And ,«o we might go on. What we miss by this exclusiveness of interest only those who have looked into the origin and history of some of oui popular songs can tell. Let us take one or two cases by way of illustration. Supposing we look first at the abovementioned "Home, sweet home." There is a fine irony about the authorship of this song which puts a meaning on "no place like home" very different from that which is generally accepted. John Howard Payne was all his life a wanderer. He began his career at 17 as the original "Boy Hamlet," and from that time till his death in Tunis he had no home better than a boardinghouse, and knew no sweet more wholesome than the bitter-sweet of unsettled bachelorhood. At one time he occupied, as he tells us. a comfortless room that had long be?n untenanted and unaired, with only a bed and a stove, an old washstand, md two chairs each of a different sort. At another time he was fleeing from his country and his creditors. Yet he never lost heart. He could even make fun of his difficulties and distres&es in a parody of his famous song : The postman never raps but a dunning note to bring ; Each single knock's a bailiff, and a writ comes with. each. ring. I dare not go home now, but some day I mean to call To see if all those duns are still sitting in the hall. Home! home! I won't go home; Oh no' however humble, there's no place like my home. But if Payne had his difficulties, he had his little love episode too ; otherwise we should never have had "Home, sweet home." Just ten years ago - a paragraph was going the rounds of the newspapers to the effect that a certain Miss Mary Harden, of Athens, U.S.A., had died, and that the original manuscript of the celebrated song had been buried with her. This Miss Harden, who was in her seventy-ninth year, was the daughter of a General Harden, of Savannah. When she was still quite young her father was appointed comim&sioner to treat with the Cerokee Indians ; and Payne, who was one of his assistants, met the lady, and conceived a passionate attachment for her. Unforturately, he had no home, "sweet" or otherwise," to offer her, and the young lovedieam was never realised. It was a pity foe Payne, as the lady's subsequent history showed. On the death of her father it was found that his affairs were greatly embarrassed, and much of Ins property lost. She at once set to work to earn her living, and so well had she prospered that at her death &he left an estate worth five thousand pounds ; and now her remains rest at Athens, with that romantic memento beside her — the manuscript "interlined with loving expressions which she did not wish to be made public."

And "My Pietty Jane" — what of her? RLe is generally supposed, when any thought is given to her at all, to be purely a fiction of the poet's brain, a creature of imagination all compact. But Jane was a very real personality. When Ed ware 1 Fitzball was a youth he often took his morning walk in one of the picturesque walled lanes of Burwell, an interesting village with a fine old church about 11 miles from Ccmbridge. Near one of these lanes '"a farmer did dwell" who had a daughter named Jane. She was a very pretty girl, and the arch manner in which she used to nod to young Fitzball quite carried his heart away. One morning he felt himself to be very hardly smitten, and sitting down in one of his father's fields (for the elder Fitzball was a farmer too), just at the time when "the bloom is on the rye," he wrote "My pretty Jane." He says the composition took him exactly 10 minutes : that is \i hat inspiration does ! Of course it was not likely that he would place much value on an effoit thai had given him so little

trouble, and as a matter of fact "My pretty Jane" lay for many years unheeded among other juvenile efforts of the author. By1 and-bye Fitzball went to Loudon, ard was 1 engaged to writ sovigs for Vauxhall Gardens. He thought of "My pretty Jane," end gave the manuscript to Sir Henry Bishop to be set to music. Sir Henry made the music, but thought s>o little of it that he threw the song into tl:e wastepaper basket. Fitzball, "calling one day upon Bishop whon the latter was out. found the song, which he handed to the manager of Vauxhall, and it was sung at the Gardens that very night. It run the whole season, and W3S tLc leading encore song for many a day. The "pretty Jane" who 5 Wcss its heroine, it is sad to have to add, died of consumption in the height of her youth and beauty. It is &aid that FiUball painted a portrait of her which is r.uw in the possession at his descendants-. Such is the romance connected with a scng which is ys popular to-day as it was when first heard, more than half a century ago. As Fiizball himself &ayp, the unaffected simplicity of the words may give some idea of how little difficulty there sometimes is in plea&ing the public— "if one always knew the way to accomplish it." Another real personality that is seMcm suspected is associated with the old song of "Robin Adau." The hero, in fact bore that name. When we first hear of him, i about a hundred and fifty years ago. he was | an impulsive J'oung Irishman studying for the medical profession in Dublin. As medical students sometimes will, he got into a scrape and had to leave the city. He meant to go to London, but on arriving at Holyhead he found that his purse would not pay for the journey by coach, and &o he set off on i>jt. He had not gone far when he come upon an overturned carriage, the owner of which proved to be a well-known lady of fashion. She had received some slight injury, and our medical student proceeded to exercise his art in having her set right. Presently the journey was resumed, Adair having a place in "the carriage — for London happened to be the lady's destination as well as Adair's. Arrived at the metropolis. Adair found himself in possession of a cheque for a hundred guineas and an invitation to visit j his fellow-travellei as often as he pleased. With the money thus placed at his disposal he completed his medical studies, and soon acquired an excellent practice. One night lie was at a dance given by his old benefactress, when he met Lady Caroline Kcppsl, the second daughter of the Earl of Albemarle. One both sides it was a case of love at first sight, but its course was naturally far from • smooth. On the part of the lady's family, the idea of such a mesalliance was not to be thought of, and eveiy means was taken to disillusionise her. She was sent abroad, and fell ill. She came home, and Bath was tried. It was all to no purpose : What's this dull town to me? Robin's not near. At last the union was reluctantly consented to : and in the Grand Magazine of LTniversal Intelligence those who are intcre=ted may to-day read the following chronicle of the event: — "February 22, .1758, Robert Adair, Esq. , to the Right Hon. the Lady Caroline Keppel." Shortly after the marriage Adair was maße Inspectorgeneral of Military Hospitals ; and later on, the King Laving taken a fancy to him, h3 was appointed Royal Sergeant-surgeon and surgeon of Chelsea Hospital. Adair lived until 1790 : but Lady Caroline died many years before, in giving birth to her thiid child. The son of the union, the Right Hon. Sir Robert Adair, died in 1855. This, then, is the romance of "Robin Adair," written by the disconsolate Lady Caroline when her relatives were in effectually endeavouring to subdue her passion by a course of treatment at the "dull town" of Bath. The story reminds us of a later incident of the same kind. Lord Arthur Hill's wooing was romantic enough to have one of its episodes embalmed in song. The lady who is now his wife acted at one time in the capacity of companion to hi.s mother. Thinki ing that a marriage with her would be ! against his interests, she suddenly diaap- ! peared, and it was only with difficulty that 1 he could di&cover her whereabouts and in- | duce her to reconsider her determination. ! It is this episode- which Lady Hill has j commemorated in the song "In the gloamI ing," which at one psriod was at much in ! vogue as "Grandfather's clock" or "Xancy Lee" herself. And speaking of Bath, that town, dull as Mrs Robin Adaii declared it to be, j seems to have been famed for its romance jin the matter of songs. The well-known j lyric of Haynes Bayly, "Oh no! we never mention Lei I,"'1 ,"' is associated with it in a rather interesting way. When Bayly was a student at Oxford he received one day a i letter / from a young lady tit Bath with j whom' he had ~ some slight acquaintance. I The lady's brother, a fellow student of ! Bayly, was unwell, and she feared he might ' be' suffering from incipient consumption, I which had carried off several members of his family. He had not sent satisfactory accounts of himself ; and his sister was now ' I taking the liberty of addressing Mr Bayly i lo entreat him to tell her his candid opinion | oi the young man's case. The young man's ' case proved hopeless ; Bayly nursed him I like a brothei, &at constantly with him, and was with him when he died. Returning to Bath, the poet was overwhelmed by the bereaved family tvith thanks for his attention, and became a constant visitor ar their house. Natiually the sistei had to be solaced, and, as '"pity is akin to leve," it was not long before the poet pro- | posed. Unfortunately, like Howard Payne, he had no means for seiting up a home of his own, and the result was> that the lovers gradually drifted apart. By-and-bye the j lady gave her hand to s more prosperous i suitor. This preyed upop Bayly's spirits J so much that his father sent him off on a tour through Scotland to get rid of his I melancholy. The cure proved effectual, but ; not before Bayly had eased his aching heart J by writing "Oh no! we never mention her." Poor iellow ! he died not long after, though , ctrtdinjy not of his disappointment.

The heroine of "Sally in our alley" would ' not seem to have been a very promising subject foi a song which lias recently been, lcviwd with irarked success. The son#, wlikli was from the pen of the equally brilliant and unfortunate Henry Carey, wts v. iittcn as the outcome of a day's merrymaking. While wardering one day in the (j'lUskal.-. of London, Cdie/s attention was attracted by a young working-man and Ins sweetheart. The young fellow was evidently dote: mined to nrike the best of his holiday. He took the girl to the vanous sights' in the vicinity, treated Ler to a boat-iide, then to a turn on the merry-go-round ; after w Inch he escorted her to a cheap lunch-house and gave her a iveat oT bacon, onions, cahss, and ale. During the whole course of their ou( ing the two were followed by Carsy. whn was greatly delighted with the ardent simplicity of the courts-hip. Returning home, when the activity of the young* people proved too much for la's endurance," he wrote the famous song, which- he shortly afterwards published, as r,o publisher would touch it. It was gieeted at first with a storm of ridicule. All London roared with laughter at the idea of a man making a song on such a subject. It was pronounced low, coarse, or.d vulgar. ,aiid Carey was denominated the "Alley Pofef He was, in fact, thrown into despair, and vowed that be would vi rice no more. He did not keep his vow. Xor was there any need of las doing so. for he lived to see his song nuke its way into the best society, a,nd had the satisfaction of knowing that it had been sung at a , Court, conceit. i One of Mr Milton Wellings's most sue- ' cessful songs, "Some day," was wntlen ' under circumstances perhaps more painful than romantic. His wife was out yachting with some friends, and it was rumoured that the vessel had met with an accideno j at sea. Being naturally most anxious to j ascertain the truth of this report, he at once telegraphed to Cowes, I&le of Wight, j whither he knew his wife had gone, but I received no reply. He telegraphed again. ' but still no reply. Eventually it became '< too late to telegraph any more that day, and Mr Welliiigs sat up all night, in the utmost agony of mind, awaiting the reply which never came. During this time of terrible suspense he by chance picked up the words of "Some day,"' which had been i lying on his table for weeks, and he was j so struck by the line '"Or are you dead, or j do you live?"' that the melody forced it- j self through his mind at once, and the song ' which everybody has heard sprang into existence. !