MEMOIRS OF A MUSICIAN

Southland Times, Issue 18969, 16 June 1923, Page 7

MEMOIRS OF A MUSICIAN

(By “Eupho.”) Part XVII. '’On Page 240. for instance, one may read ‘There are many females in the novels of Emile Zola.’ My intention was to have the fourth word read felines, and so it stood in the final proof, but my ambition to surmount the initial letter .of, Zola’s Christian name with an* acute accent (an ambition I shall forswear on this present page), compelled the printer to reset the line, so that subsequently when I opened the book at this page, I read with amazement that there are many females in the novpls of Emile Zola, a statement that cannot be readily denied, to be sure, but still it is no discovery of which to boast.” The same trouble that pursued Carl Van Vechten in 1920 came hot on the heels of Andrew Kinross in 1899 when he published “My Life and Lays” in Invercargill. • But Andrew was not so patient as Carl, and in the copy of the Lays which lies at my hand, numerous corrections are friade in pen-and-ink. If Andrew ever attains a wide immortality think how valuable the little book will become. Just imagine a copy of “The Everlasting Mercy” so decorated by John Masefield or a volume of his prose or vetse dealt with similarly by Rudyard Kipling. Andrew Kinross was born in Glasgow on August 19, 1829, and. after many experiences on land and- sea settled in the Southland district, 1863 when he became the band of Myross Bush and the laureatte of Invercargill and added interest to various events by poems of occasion. But Andrew was not only a poet, farmer, and aspiring politician, he was a step-dancer, elocutionist, long-distance walker, ‘ and would think nothing of a twenty mile walk to give a political speech. His proudest boast was that he was a Liberal before Sir George Grey. Andrew was also a letterwriter of no mean ability and a lion of the Press. For many years he was a member of the Land Board, and always had plenty of time for the cockatoo, as he has sung: “Although only a cockatoo tilling the soil, Yet his spirit may soar above trouble and toil; And his brain may be fertile, his heart may be true. Though the humblest of work he may faithfully do."

He contested the Awarua seat but was defeated and must have been one of the oldest and staunchest advocates of a graduated land tax. He was certainly one of the best historians of early Southland and as far back as 1867 he wrote this “Ode to Southland.” “Oh- Southland, land of virgin scil> Fit land for hardy sons of toil, Where herds may graze upon each slope, And willing man may proudly hope By industry and frugal care To found a home both firm and fair. I do not crave a soldier’s fame, Nor yet in blood to write my name; But would the paths of peaee persue, And patiently the earth subdue, And clothe each field with verdure green Where only tussocks coarse have been. I like to watch the yellow corn Sparkling with dew in early morn, And know each waving crop was grown By labour that was all my own; And with the aid of Him above, Who set us here to hope and love. I still will strive to act my part by fate assigned with manly heart; And hope to see this infant State Part of a nation rich and great In spite o. all the gloom and haze That darkens new its early days. - ' But he could do better than this, and must be remembered as a hard fighter for political freedom. When nearing the eighties, Mr Kinross, who wis a small thinnish man, would appear at various gatherings and step-dance for the mirth of the crowd. He would also recite his own verses., and he was not bad either. But to crown all he would think nothing of a casual stroll out to Winton where he would put in a week gathering and burning wood on a farm, then walk home to Invercargill again without turning a hair. In spite of frail childhood and a hard life, he was able to enjoy a well-earned and comfortable retirement, and died here about eighty-five or so. He was a friend of Thos. Bracken’s and wrote a poem of welcome to the, author of “Not. Understood,” when that gifted Irish journalist visited this town. Kinross used to tell me of a favourite poem he had written but I think the best piece of verse produced by this Scottish bard who was also a Southland pioheer is his “My Own True Love.” It has a genuine poetic ring, and it possesses a good idea. “My own (rue love is beautiful, out better still she’s kind;

No selfish or unkindly thought can enter in her mind; No angry tear e’er dims her eye, no frown e’er clouds her face She always with a lover’s warmth returns my fond embrace.

And when misfortunes press on me she sweetly tries to cheer— No harsh reflections from the past from her I ever hear; Though vainly after wealth I strive, her love I still retain, Through all the many cares of life she never gives me pain.

And when to high and noble thoughts my soul will oft aspire, With truly sympathetic heart she shares each fond desire; She makes this dull and dreary life seem something more divine, The halo of her constant love gilds every act of mine.

But I have never met my love upon this solid earth It was a poet's sanguine dream that gave my love her birth; Perhaps a maid so good and kind, so loving, sweet and fair Duells only in some far-off land in castles in the air.” It would be easy enough to make quite an article on Anorew run roes. Arthur H. Adams did so once in the Red Page df the Bulletin,” but the author of “Alaoriland’’ was adverse in his criticism. A more favourable review was that of Frank Morton in the “Triad,” where he referred to Kinross as a man not to speak out or something to that effect. Both these notices appeared years after the publication of “My Lite and Lays.’’ The bard has many descendants in this district, but I know too well, that he himself would like to be enshrined in these memoir, and it is with pleasure that a little word or two for him is included. Another literary man of old Invercargill was John Craig, printer, and one of the original owners or the Southland Daily News. H?s book of adventures on the Australian gold-fields was pub.ished by j Cassells, was well noticed by the Literary I World and other critical journals, and had I a wide circulation. It is an authenic work, ! and deals with the early days of Melbourne and other Victorian towns, but Melbourne particularly. The thrill of that romantic period is Jned in John Craig's book, and he was '■''anted quite a man of letters in his tx- ”te.. His method of authorship i was son, ■ laborious, and goes to prove that thu'. a deal in what Anthony Trollope says ‘Out, cobblers’ wax being more ! important •• .. inspiration. Why cobblers’ I wax ( is a. to keep the author sticking I to his chair. The articles appeared serially in a local journal, but they were not quite complete. They were then corrected and * re set in Craig’s print-shop in Tay Street, ■ and after many recorrection#, alterations ; and amplifications three books were printed . and bound. Mr Craig held two and sent one l the rounds of the London publishers, but i it did not wander long, for as soon as I ( EsseU’s reader got the taste.of it, it didn't go any further. Craig was a serious cadaverous man, who suffered a lot from j asthma. He had one great regret, and that I was that he ever sold out of the News. But of course a man who saw Melbourne j rise, cuuld’nt be satisfied with Invercargills •iTftwth, and yet by taking a f- Ise step he

had to spend a lifetime in the shallows of a local printery. But if he had been more successful as a journalist would he ever have written the finest book of its sort by a Southlander to date? That’s a question. The quaintest author of old Southland was Mr Dugalol Ferguson who although a farm and station* hand wandering about from job to job was yet able to turn out several first-class stories of colonial life and a historical novel of Scotland. Ferguson was also a poet, and besides miscellaneous poems, put the whole Book of Job into verse. Printing and paper were cheap in the early days, and Ferguson’s poems are well printed and bound. The novels were published in London and “Bush Life in Australia and New Zealand” is something of a homely classic. Miss Edith Howes, the wellknown authoress, was at. one tune a resident of this town, living with her parents in Spey street. But she was not famous then, nor could she claim to being a pioneer, but it is interesting to note that she too is one of us. Other writers have lived in the town and passed on, but as regards mere literary visitors their name is legion. Mark Twain, of course, lectured here, and he seemed dull, heavy and not as witty as he should have been. But really too much was expected of him. Max O’Rell we have dealt with previously. But David Christie Murray, the novelist, came here with his own dramatic company and stayed in town quite a while. Probably he didn’t make enough to get away. He was a fine stamp of a man and an emotional actor of considerable parts, but who would ever have thought that this down-and-outer would go back to London and become a man of mark. He might have remained in Invercargill, and we know how far he could have risen thfcn. Miss Dulcie Deamer was here with the Taylor-Carrington Dramatic Company, and played a part in the old Zealandia Hall, Esk Street ; Frank Morton came along as a reporter on a certain manslaughter case, and C. N. Baeyertz would first come as a representative of the “Triad” and latterly as a judge of competitions. Another poet of the past who should not be overlooked, and who was an old resident, was John Patterson the bootmaker bard. John’s advertisements were all written in verse, and as he was a Crimean veteran turned out fair patriotic odes. Sergeant Patterson was tall, straight, and white headed. He wore a red coat covered with medals, and judging by his adventures must have possessed about nine lives. The Sergeant would exhibit himself on all great occasions, and you could pick his proud bearing about a mile away. I make no apology for introducing literary, dramatic and other matters into these memoirs, because they are the memoirs of a man interested in music, and not strictly musical memories. That would have meant something entirely different. Music has certainly taken up a large share of my leisure, but it has been one influence only in my life, and a recital of the eccentricities of singers and instrumentalists would not be an elevating record. I have used all the material that came my way, and it is haphazard material at that because my life has been haphazard to a large extent, as the lives of most men are. Like the Chinese fisherman all that came into my net has been fish, and that is the most reasonable attitude. You must enjoy yourself where you are, because as Arnold Bennett has pointed out you never really get to Mecca, no matter how long and wearily you trudge along the road. I enclose at this stage a letter from a lady who remembers the Invercargill of her girlhood, and writes entertainingly of it. I only wish more letters of this sort came my way, for they introduce a new point of view, and bring to light many details that would otherwise be forgotten. Mention of “Hie Deacon” calls to mind a cheap method of advertising carried out by these dramatic amateurs. They wrote in chalk on the aSphalt in all parts of the town, “Who is the Deacon?” I happened to see several of these advts. in Dee street where the question had been answered by witty schoolboys. The boys wrote under the query, “Why, J. S. Baxter, of course.” The well-known prohib. and grocer being at that time a prominent deacon in St. Paul’s Church. Did those enterprising boys get on in the world or did they just remain here ?

Dear Eupho.—Your “Memoirs of a musician” are most interesting and it gives me great pleasure indeed to read them every Saturday evening. About Mr and Mrs Nugent Wood, I have a miner’s right (belonging to my father of course) at hand, dated 1872 and signed John Nugent Wood, warden. As a young girl I lived in Invercargill for a year, nurse-girl in a musical family, that was in 1897-98 and it was that year that there were a number of P.O.P. concerts given by local talent. Messrs Ted Wright, Wattie Smith, Dick Nash, T. J. Anthony, E. R. Godward, Mr and Mrs Chas. Wood, Mrs Ross, Miss Miller and others that I cannot remember took part in those concerts. The Theatre Royal in Dee street (now Broad Smalls) was then in use. The Invercargill Amateur Operatic Society, staged “Dorothy” and “Ruddigore” (which means red blood) about that time, and although my memory fails me With many of the actors, well do I remember the two leading ladies in “Dorothy,” Misses Innes and Morrison (I think it was Morrison.) Mr A. F. Grenfell (who still sings and does not look a day older) and Mr E. B. McKay took leading men’s parts. In looking over my scrap book. I have come across a poem called “Ruddigore” which unfolds the plot, of that opera. Mr Grenfell as one of the heirs in “Rucfeigore” was always busy committing some crime, he also sang “Queen of My Heart,” most beautifully. Well here is the poem:—

“Sir Rupert Murgatroyd, His leisure and his riches He ruthlessly employ’d In persecuting witches. W :; ’ fear he‘d make them quake—duck them in his lake— He. reek their bones V\ .1 sticks and stones, And burn them at the slake. phorus— This .snort he much enjoy'd, Did Rupert Murgatroyd— N sense of shame Or pity came To Rupert Murgatroyd! Once on the village green, A palsied hag he roasted, And what took place, I ween, Shook his composure boasted. For, as the torture grim Seized on each withered limb. The writhing dame Mid fire and flame Yelled forth this curse on him! ‘ Each Lord of Riddigore, Despite his best endeavour, Shall do one crime, no more, Once, ev’ry day, for ever’ This doom he can’t defy However he may try, For should he stay His hand, that day In torture he shall die.” The prophecy came true; Each heir who held the title Had, ev’ry day, to do Some crime of import vital; Until with guilt o’er-plied “I’ll sin no more!” he cried, And on the day He said that say, In agony he died! And thus with sinning cloyed, Hez died each Murgatroyd; And so shall fall, Both one and all, Each coming Murgatroyd!”

Then there was a comedy drama staged by leading amateurs in aid of the Railway Rowing Club, called “The Deacon.” This was staged two nights and like the operas was a great success. Those taking part in “The Deacon” were Mr W. Poole as Geo Darrah (Mr Poole went to the South African war and died of fever there). Well he was the villian; Mr T. J. Anthony was Deacon Thornton, who had a passion for “lemonade with a stick in it.” Mr Anthony filled the title role as if born to it. Mr J. H. Porter took the part of Geo. Graef and Mr E. R. God" uo, ’- J ■ ‘ ’

D. Smith the black servants, Pete and Billy respectively, who kept the audience in screams of laughter. Mrs W. McLeod took the part of Mrs Thornton and Mrs C. Wood of Geo. Darrah the villian’a wife. Master Freddie W r ood, then only four years old, also took part and spoke up like a man, much to the delight of the audience. Mrs E. R. Godward made a capital cld maid, in lovo with Deacon Thornton, Miss Burgayne and Miss Ida Thomson also took part. An orchestra consisting of Mrs Blue (piano). Mrs C. Wood and W. J. Ferguson (violins), Mr J. Humphries (cornet), and Mr A. Ferguson (bass violin) livened the concert with some good music and kGeo. Double made up the actors, etc. After that I got out of the run of things as my place of residence was changed, but looking back through your “Memoirs” I can recall so plainly many of the people you mention.—Yours faithfully, MRS MARGARET G. McVICAR.

Yes, a good letter. Mr and Mrs Charlie Wood were useful musicians, and would turn a hand to any instrument, Mrs Wood being at one time pianist for the Operatic Society. Most of the other names are wellknown, but this is the first time we have heard of Mrs Godward as an actress. Mise Burgoyne became, I think, Mrs D. Coakley. George Double, of Double Broe., who assisted as a maker-up behind the scenes for years, was an enthusiastiat, and was never more happy than when rubbing the grease paint into someone’s face. In hia youth in Timaru he had taught Bob Fitzsimmons to box and besides tonsorial art and fisticuffs he was a fowl fancier with a hobby for Langshans, and a judge who officiated capably at poultry, pigeon and dog shows throughout this Dominion. George, who was still young when he died, was a good story-teller and had many quaint experiences to relate. But I must back to 1895 and music. On July 7 a Musical Union concert brought forward the cantatas “Hiawatha” and “Minnehaha.” There was also a fine choral ballad. The soloists were Miss M. Cooper and Mr A. S. Cookson. Mr Barrett, a banker, and first-class violinist, gave a solo. Mr Barrett, who removed to Riverton, was an enthusiastic Esperantist, and judged competitions in that language without a literture. A language without a literature is, of course, an imitation affair as dead as a door-nail. Mr Chas. Gray conducted this concert. Mr A. S. Cookson left Invercargill for Dunedin and was, and perhaps still is, secretary for the Employers’ Association. Musgrove’s Dramatic Company came here on August 3 and played “Sweet Nell of Old Drury,” “Old Heidelberg,” and Pretty Peggy,” in the Zealandia Hall, Esk street. Of course the chief attraction was Miss Nellie Stewart (Mrs Musgrove), and she was a “star” indeed. Nellie Stewart was not only a beautiful woman, an Australian, and a gifted actress, but was a delightful personality, and showed a deference to stage hands and others about the theatres, which unfailingly won their hearts. A drama with Nellie Stewart in the leading role was always a good play, and those who were privileged to see such a performance can look back with pleasurable regret—pleasure at the thought of a splendid dramatic past, and regret that such a class of. play and player has disappeared from the boards. Miss Stewart shared with Sarah Bernhardt and Ellen Terry the love of art which keeps one ever young, and during her last visit to Invercargill, when she played in the Municipal Theatre, Miss Stewart could out-do the latest flapper for verve and vivacity. Her girl parts were her biggest successes, and she was younger at fifty than she was at twenty—so the play goers say. Herr Hugo Herrmann, the r’s and n’s suggesting a decidedly pre-war German violinist, determined to prove he had come from the country of Wagner, Schubert and Bach. Still, possibly, if we looked up his ancestry, we would find it to be, say Yankee, and also discover that he went to school under the good name of Smith, or Brown. But then Mr Smith or Mr Brown couldn’t get so well over the footlights as Herr Hugo Herrmann, thus a necessary change of name and accent, and there you are. So in this wise pseudo-Germans, pseudo-Poles, and pseudo-Russians travelled the world and raked in the shekels, making good money out of the reputation of Beethoven and Schumann tacked on to fairish skill as violinists and pianists. Many years later they began to change back to the nomenclature of their childhood, but sometimes the police caught them and asked for an explanation. This may not have been art, but it w’as artful to say the least. There are certainly advantages in travel. The I.A.D.C. (Irish Amateur Dramatic Club) appears with a new play on August 29 and 30, to raise funds for St. Mary’s organ account, and on this occasion we notice that A. R. Wills, otherwise “Bob” Wills, is manager. Just about this time Bob was known as a crack rifle-shot and a keen volunteer. He was also solo cornet in the old City Band, now gone from the face of the earth, and he was a singer too. “Versatile,” you will say, and we reply, ‘ Certainly, yes.” Now Bob with so many irons in the fire was turning to the stage, and he turned to, too. He worked hard, end had no end of histrionic ability. He played all sorts of parts and played them well, but probably his “star” character was that of “Jerry” in the American play “A Noble Outcast.” This was revived during the war when “Bob” played “Jerry” as good as ever, and introduced that fine character to a new’ generation. “A Noble Outcast,” by John A. Fraser, is a melodrama with kick in it, and under Mr Wills’ management has been played in every towmship in Southland as well as several times in Invercargill. But A.R.W., or Bob, is also founder, conductor,and grand panjandrum, with the gold braid, of the Hibernian Band, which has a record which is Bob’s record. For how could you separate the two—it can’t be done. His sons, who were trained in this famous band, are now well-known all over Australasia— Rex, of Auckland, Arthur and Budd, of this town, and there are others coming on. Surely this is something to boast about, a reputation no one can sneeze at, starting at a quiet little pianissimo and ending double forte with all the taps turned on. Bravo, Bob!. The Rev. A. Mitchell, a Methodist parson, with a military bearing and a fine voice, sang his first song in this city on September, when the daffodils were bursting into bloom, spring poets were hard at work on the annual crop of lyrics. Tlie song was “The Village Blacksmith,” and he put a lot of dash into it. In fact everybody said he could sing, and convince one at the same time. He came, he saw, he bit the mark, and all at a sitting, so to speak. Mitchell was a member of the Mounted Rifles which were a cult here at this time, and he was a great favourite on account of a fine horse, good horsemanship, and the rarest collection of slang which over left clerical lips. He was your fighting parson of the best-seller novels, true to type, and could have been put into fiction just as he was, thereby introducing a really fine and interesting character. (To be continued).

“YOU ALL LIVE TO A GOOD OLD AGE!” A man who has passed three score years and ten was introduced to Mr Baxter in Wellington the other day. lie said, “I am very pleased to meet the man who produces Baxter’s Lung Preserver, because I have used the remedy for years for bronchitis and chest troubles. I am sure that if it had not been foy the soothing effects of Baxter’s, I wovXd have succumbed long ago.” Mr Baxter, who wore a broad smile, remarked, “Whether it is due to my preparation or not, the fact remains that most of the people whom I meet who regularly use Baxter’s Lung Preserver live to a goo . old age.” To safeguard yourself against cough.'., colds, and influenza this winter, you wi; wisely get a large bottle of “Baxter's” with out delay. It is unequalled as a cough an cold remedy. It is pleasant to take, si possesses wonderful tonic properties th help to build you up against future i tacks. Baxter's Lung Preserver is obtaii from all chemists and stores a: a large bottle; family size 4s 6d.—(A