MEMOIRS OF A MUSICIAN

Southland Times, Issue 18975, 23 June 1923, Page 8

MEMOIRS OF A MUSICIAN

(By “Eupho.”) PART XVIII. This is a thing is true, Even-thing comes to an end: The loving of me and you. The walking of friend and friend. f’hall I weep the beauty I knew, Or the greatness gathered away, Or the truth that is only true, As the things that a man will say ? For ever until the waves rear To the skies with a terrible tune. And cover the earth and air. And climb up the beach of the moon. Then go, for all things must end. And this is true as I say— A friend will be leaving a friend, And a man will be going away. -—James Stephens. First Clown: A pestilence on him for a mad rogue! He poured a flagon of Rhenish on my head once. This same skull, sir, was Yorick's skull, the King's jester. Hamlet: This? First Clown: E'en that. Hamlet: I>et me see—(Takes up skull)—Alas, poor Yorick! I knew him, Horatio; a fellow of infinite jest, of most excellent fancy: he hath borne me on h s back a thousand times; and nowhow abhorred in my imagination it is! My gorge rises at it. Here huug those Ips that 1 have kissed I know not how oft. Where be your gibes now? Your gambols? Your songs? Your flashes of merriment, that were wont to set the table on a roar? —Wm. Shakespeare. This little town of rainy days and grey clouds, wide streets and one-man tram cars, never gave to the world a brighter comedian than the late Wattie Smith, who was a comic actor first and a vocalist afterwards. Wat tie’s ‘‘star’’ part was Lurcher in “Dorothy," and he rose to metropolitan heights whenever he appeared as the funnyman in a modern opera. His passing leaves a big gap in old-time theatricals, and like many of our old-timers his place cannot be filled. Whether it is the influence of “the pictures” or the lure of the motor-car, the locally-bred actor is going out with the fashions of yester-year. Wireless, no doubt, will also help to crush any sort of individual endeavour, for all the new ideas have a tendency to make humanity a conglomerate mass and crush out every possibility of individual development. Wattie belonged to the old school, where a man could exploit his own personality, and in so doing enter the realm of lofty art, for if the comedian is an artist, then Wattie was artistic to his finger-ends. He could compare to W. S. Percy, Harry Quealy, Arthur Stigant, and any of the noted professionals. Comedian, first and last, he should have given himself over to the stage, and in so doing not only have been true to himself, but have added a little genuine laughter to the scanty share given to this country by its own people. Yes, New Zealand has produced no humourists, unless it be men like Wattie Smith or A. F. Grenfell. In Art we have David A. C. Low and one or two others, but in literature not one. A strange thing when you begin to think about it, and which proves that we’re not such a laughingly happy-go-lucky crowd as the directors of the Bank of New Zealand would seem to suggest. But you shouldn’t even lose hope of the Bank of New Zealand, for isn’t it, in one instance, anyway, closely connected with something brilliantly witty’ in the literature of this young nation ? Frank Maguire was an Invercargill youth who should have lived long enough to have written his reminiscences—but alas, he didn’t. I knew him better than most people did, and he told me his history on more than one occasion. He came here from Ireland when very young, and in due time started work in the printing department of the Southland Daily News. While at “the case” he began to take an interest in shorthand, and after some time showed exceptional skill. He was, by the way, entirely self-taught, and used to laugh at the idea of having a tutor for shorthand. Soon his opportunity came as a reporter, and he must have put up the longest record as a staff reporter for Southland. He seldom left the town, and was only in Dunedin once or twice in his life, and had not visited Queenstown more than twice or so. But he knew the secret history of Invercargill, the history that should be written but never will be. In any case if you were fortunate enough to hear the story of this town and some of its old-time citizens, from Frank Maguire you would be well-equipped to look facts fairly in the face, and to realise that things are not always what they seem. The Invercargill of the seventies was his chief abhorrence and delight, and anecdotes illustrating the frailties or qualities of the city’s pioneers were numerous and to the point. Genial, generous, sarcastic, Irish, with contempt for the incompetents in high places, and a love for the sport who was not too sporty, quiet to strangers, outspoken to his friends, and there you have the late Francis Maguire, journalist, who watched Invercargill through the end of a reporter’s pencil for four busy decades. But I must continue 1895, and here let me say that I’m getting too close to the present day to feel entirely comfortable. The people I deal with now are mostly out and about, many with a future. No wonder I don’t seem so much at home with say, Mr E. Lepetit as I did with Bobbie Wotton. Lepetit, our “star” flautist, came out young from one of the Channel Islands, and was doing good work as a young man in 1895 when he rode into practices from Longbush. He has kept the faith, and still retains the old enthusiasm, and more than the old technique. But Bobbie Wotton, the ancient early Victorian actor, isn’t he almost lost in the romantic mists of antiquity, and doesn’t he seem to fit our memoirs better on that account? Certainly! But it is obvious we can’t go much further and with number 20 the memoirs will be concluded—a matter of two more articles. So I would like those who have anything to say, to write now. There may have been a person missed out, or someone who did not receive full justice. You probably know a little incident in connection with the past of this city which would be of interest. If so, kindly let us have it at once, for if left too late, it will be lost for ever. It may be a

recollection of the Black Doctor or another version of that story of a hat picked up in Dee street in the sixties. Under that hat lying in the mud was a head. The man who picked up the hat looked surprised and exclaimed, “You here.” “Yes, replied the head, but the dray and the two bullocks are under me.” It may be something about Campbell, the ranger. Campbell once said to me, “A Hi’lanman is equal to twelve Englishmen any day in the week.” He believed it too. You may have heard something about Judge Denniston while he was a postal clerk here; of the Brogdenites; of the old Immigration Barracks in Tay street; of Joe Brey and the horse-cars; of the old Baths behind the railway station; of “Twimoa,” who lived in a dug-out on the foreshore; of the big Albion blaze; of the first railway trip to Makarewa; and of a thousand and one things of interest to this column. So, please, dip your pen into the ink now, whether for a line merely or a whole page. Ah, you are getting down the ink bottle already, so many thanks. But I must not forget 1895. On September 5 and 6 Watkin Mills began to warble in the Zealandia Hall. He had with him the Misses Gertrude Lonsdale and Edith Kirkwood, Mr Harold Wilde and Mons. Eduard Parlowitz, the latter by the look of his name, a kind of French-Pole. Watkin could sing all right, and he was good on the older English songs. This show was a treat to music lovers. A Choral and Orchestral Union concert on September 29 introduces Miss Mair, Messrs J. Porteous, Tom Brown, A. S. Cookson, W. J. Ferguson, Frank Lillicrap, and E. Lepetit. Mrs E. B. McKay, nee Miss Kirwan, is accompanist, Chas. Gray conductor, and Mr A. H. le Hoyles honorary secretary. Also during this month St. John’s played “H.M.S. Pinafore” for three nights in the Zealandia Hall, Dick Nash painting the scenes. The old Zealandia, first built by Duncan McFarlane as a roller skating rink and latterly used as wool stores and for poultry shows, and still later as a picture theatre, had to be the real theatre of the town when Broad, Small and Co. bought the Theatre Royal about J£9s, or later. It? was in. thiiUwm that both

Paderewski and Mark Hamborg played, while Carreno was lucky enough to get into the, then, new Municipal Theatre. The Zealandia is again a wool store. Edward Branscombe brought along his Westminster Glee Singers on October 2 and 3. At a Methodist Church concert on October 4 Miss Waiati Fyfe was accounted an acquisition. The Rev. A. Mitchell also sang at this concert. The anniversary of Trafalgar Day, October 20, 100 years ago, was celebrated by a good concert. Miss Fitzmaurice Gill with her dramatic company had a week’s drama at the Zealandia, starting on October 24, playing “The Girl of My Heart,” “Uncle Tom’s Cabin,” “The French Spy,” “The Bank of England,” etc. Miss Gill put on a great show’, and the staging was fairly elaborate. The plays were a success, but there were not the eternal “pictures” to contend with in those ancient times. A St. Paul’s Organ Fund concert on October 24 brings in Mr Webb as an elocutionist, Mr Mockridge as a vocalist, and Mr Carr as an organist, the others being old favourites. Mr Glen was honoraary secretary.

Miss Jessie McLauchlin, the Scottish vocalist, appeared on November 3 to a crowded and enthusiastic house—“maistly Scotch.” Mr W. B. Scandrett was Mayor at the time, and he introduced Jessie in a manner befitting her talent. Mr Scandrett, by the way, was a gentleman of the old school, who with Dr Grigor, and “Mr Jiarvey, the solicitor,” as he was always called, wore a top hat and a tail coat on all occasions to the last. Mr Scandrett, in spite of his bell-topper and a business-like manner, was truly democratic, and he fought hard I for the free-reading room reform. At a pubI lie meeting where the question was threshed out he was strenuously opposed by a lady who moved resplendently in high i al circles, and it would seem that she was I against the reading room being made too popular. W. B. S., on the other hand, held his point and was victorious in the end. But to return to Miss Jessie McLauchlin and her concert. She had the requisite dash for “The Blue Bonnets are over the Border,” and the pathos for any Scotch love song. Her husband, Mr R. Buchanan, was pianist, and he was no other than a son of Robert Buchanan, Scotch poet and novelist whose heart was so big that as a young man he wrote a pamphlet against Swinburne and his poetry. Robert Buchanan could hit hard, but like most hard hitters, he was hardly a hard thinker. So even if he was a gifted poet and a clever novelist he managed to get into some queer tangles which prove decidedly entertaining reading to-day. How dull would the lives of literary men be if they all lived as quietly as Tennyson. But there are always your Robert Buchanan’s who step in where policeinen fear to tread and so leave biographers something lively to write about. IA good little company with a home-made comedy called “Williams, J. P.” made a sparsely-filled house ripple with laughter on November 7. And now’ on November 8 the Taylor-Carrington Dramatic Company stage “Erin go Bragh” and other plays. A good old company, and without doubt about the worst set of actors and actresses ever seen. Charlie Taylor is genial and Miss E. Carrington is nice, but they made no attempt to put the show on well. When in the mood one could enjoy those plays, but the mood would have to be considerably merry. I used often to feel like throwing cabbages, and the crowd deserved more stale vegetables than a long-suffering public ever gave them. I don’t say Charlie or Ella lacked ability, but I do say that as far as I was concerned they seemed to put on pretty poor shows. No doubt this was economy, but if one is going to save himself. at the expense of the public, the public will soon see him and his company, kicked as. high as Kilderoy’s kite. An Orphan’s Club concert was held in Ashley’s Hall on November 24. The Orphans’ were young then, and not aristocratic. The only difference between an Orphans’ concert and a church concert in the old days was tobacco smoke. A Municipal Band concert, that is the old City Band with a new name on November 28 finds Jack W. Glennie full of vim as conductor and booster in general. For five nights, on December 14 to 18 to be exact, John F. Sheridan has a Musical Comedy Company, staging “The Earl and the Girl,” “Fun on the Bristol,” etc. John was something of a comedian and his “Widow’ O’Brien” (O’Bre-on) who had risen in the world was a treat to see. He“took himself dreadfully in earnest, and used to sell a little book about his travels for a shilling. Being a student of human nature I spent a shilling and have regretted it ever since. I could have got two packets of cigarettes for that bob, and more fun, too. But who can refuse to hear the secrets of an actor’s life—which he never tells. “A Woman’s Honour” on December 12 and 13 is upheld by the Irish Amateur Dramatic Company with Bob Wills waxing decidedly excited behind the curtain, and determined to get a good press notice. Here on December 19, 20, 21 and 22 comes Geo. Stephenson, who was bent on being a second Tom Pollard ,only more so. He had what he called an English Comedy Company of sixty performers, including some Pollardians. Here are the Misses May Beatty and Alice Pollard, while Fred. W. Duval is advance agent. Other players are the Misses May Garstang, Matelle Morgan, Ronald Watts Phillips, and Messrs Chas. McNaughton, Harold Reeves, Chas, and Will Bovis, Arthur Lissant, Chas. Albert, Edward Laurie, and others. They played “Rose of the Riverina,” “Bill Adams,” “The Dandy Doctor,” and “The Skirt Dancer.” It was a good company, and a lively show, and George was a great old manager who enjoyed the new game like a school bey. After retiring from theatrical management he was auctioneer for Messrs Wright, Stephenson’s in Gore for many years, and was well liked by everybody. But 1 always felt he’d sooner swing a baton than an auctioneer’s hammer; in any case he’d sooner blow into a town as an advance agent, rather than a stock agent. Mentioning the Pollards in connection with this company gives me an opportunity to answer a query in regard to Miss Daphne Pollard, which has been put to me fairly often of late. Who was Miss Daphne Pollard? They are referring to that bright little commedienne who did such great work during the war and was like a sister to every Aussie at the Front. The answer is that she was not a Pollard at all, but a member of an Australian company run by a relative of Tom Pollard’s who gave every clever girl in his show this well-known theatrical name for professional reasons. Daphne certainly added lustre to the name of Pollard, but the name of Pollard in its place added limelight to Daphne, and so you have a decidedly strong combination with which a vivacious Australian girl was to be assisted in a leap from earth up to the stars. Kew is not a notable suburb—it hasn't gone ahead as it should have, but still there is the future. However, Kew was not so handy half a century ago, but that made no difference to Mrs Howard, whose keenness for matters musical would bring her all the way in to St. John’s Church Sunday after Sunday. Think what a task that was. She was an accomplished pianist, always ready to do her share, despite bad weather, bad roads, and the bad old times. Mrs Howard never lost interest in her hobby, for once a musician, always a musician.

Andrew Kinross, the bard of Myross Bush, and laureate of Invercargill, used to say that he spent more time and money, and read more widely also, than most men, with a view to getting into Parliament, and yet he never succeeded. If he would point a moral, and he certainly hinted one, it was that the most genuine men do not always reach the House, or anywhere else they wish to get for that matter. Which reminds me that many of the musicians and others who stayed in this town, generally deemed it but a port of call. They were determined to make good somewhere else, but not all of them. Such men were J. J. Zimmer, who did not get out of here after all, and H. A. Cobbledick who did. Zimmer who would argue on any subject had a “heart,” and whenever he became involved in an argument, and appeared to be getting the worst of it, he would raise his hand to his left side with an appropriate gesture, ancLao moracould.be said. Cobble-

dick was a pianist and poet, and used to I publish local verse, and some not quite so ; local. His Dutchman’s address to the Post J Office clock, inspired by Rip van Winkle, j was good. Some particulars to hand show the I I.A.D.C. exceedingly active a few years ; later, playing many melodramas and bring- I ing out no end of local talent. “The Siege j of Sebastopol,” or “Neck or Nothing” was a well-staged effort. Mr L. W. J. Morten | (“Chookie”) played the star part, and was ' quite a dashing hero, “Chookie” was juve- i nile lead with the I.A.D.C. for years, and i never failed to convince his audiences that I he was a fine fellow, which, of course, he was. In private life he was a clerk in the Municipal Offices, being assistant to Town Clerk, Tommy Walker, but he died in the early thirties and Invercargill lost cne of the most brilliant dramatic enthusiasts it ever had. Another player was Clem. Griffith, who went away with Pollard’s I think. He considered he had a voice, he told me, but it was not accounted good enough from the professional viewpoint. Clem, who was a school teacher, got into journalism for a while in South Africa, came back to Inver- I cargill and with Charlie Griffiths, who was ; no relation as the name is spelt differently, | started “The Critic,” a weekly in this town. | “The Critic” did not criticise very long and i Clem joined the Times as a reporter. He | next appeared on the staff of the News, and from there went to Christchurch Sun. Truth was his next berth and I believe he represents Truth in an Australian or New’ Zealand town today. Miss Kirwan. who was a prominent [ member of the I.A.D.C. and was extremely | versatile, being singer and -pianist as well as actress, became Mrs Clem Griffith, and if there is anything in heredity there should be a new generation of gifted writers, vocalists and actors. The comedian was Teddy Ward, a mere boy then, but a boy who had no end of ability. If you could not laugh at Ted’s Frenchman there was no laugh in you. Teddy who lives at Winton to-day has become very deaf,, but can take part in debates with the best of them. He was a bright particular star of the old I.A.D.C. Bob Wills comes in here, but he was the power behind the throne, the kick back of the football, the general utility if you like. He has been dealt with freely last week, but to treat him adequ- 1 ately would take about four columns. Just . as the Hibernian Band of to-day is largely Bob Wills’, so was the I.A.D.C. Take away Bob and there would have been a generalless army left. I’ncre were clever and ‘ vivacious ladies in the company and those j Who remember the Misses Hishon, Wills, I and Dickenson can vouch fcr that. Some I of the mere men, the Messrs Mick O’Brien, Pat Scully, Tom McGrath, R. McCarthy, S. Allen, and T. Martin were not bad at all. Others were Mr J. Robertson, now a leading lawyer here, F. Mossman, J. Miller. J. Forde, E. Collins, and D. Watson. Ladies to come in later were, Miss Lynch and Miss Florence Cockroft-, the latter being a mest entertaining comedienne. The orchestra were always good, Mr Phil Mohr, being musical director, with instrumentalists. Messrs W. J. Ferguson, J. McGrath, E. Lepetit, Frank Lillicrap, Jack Waugh, Mrs Wood and Miss Stone. Mr D. F. Bradley was scenic artist, and P. R. G. Ross, mechanist, and Bob Wills producer and general-manager. Bob tcld me about the difficulties of staging in the old days, and yet it had its advantages. In the “Siege of Sebastopol” for instance, there was a snow scene. To get the best effect salt Ivas used in large quantities and the scene was a great success. But later on when salt became dear and scarce it would have been criminal to have so wasted it. This was a case where the old was better than the new. On one occasion a whcle scene collapsed but was righted quickly enough to prevent dramatic disaster. The I.A.D.C. were ar happy family and they had good times, both in the Zealandia Hall and in extended tours of Southland. (To be continued.)