No 3 Kapunda

A few pieces of curious greenish-looking stone —but they gave birth to one of our oldest Northern towns. Kapunda was founded on copper. Today the mines are idle, but their mission has been fulfilled. The prosperity of the town now rests on its agricultural and pastoral industries.

Everybody calls him "Tom." I cannot imagine any other mayor so widely Christian-named by the townspeople as Mr. Thomas Davie, mayor of Kapunda, now serving his fifteenth term as councillor, and fifth as chief magistrate of the town. That he is popular goes without saying. People don't hurl your front name at you as a rule unless they like you. I nearly dropped into the habit of addressing him as "Tom" myself. Mr. Davie is real Kapunda. He loves his town. He has fought its battles for many a long for many a long year, and he is still fighting them, for, old as Kapunda is, it still has many pioneer problems to overcome.

After Gawler Kapunda is the oldest town north of Adelaide. Yet it has no main road. What roads here are atrocious after rain. The chief highway between Gawler and Kapunda is called the "dirt road." The name gives you an idea of what it is. When it rains the "dirt road" goes out of commission, and you have to make a detour which adds ten miles to your journey. That is what I had to do, for when I left Gawler Jupiter Pluvius was out to show what he could do when attacked by a fit of energy.

"Don't take the dirt road," said the people at Gawler.

"Don't take the dirt road," repeated the Automobile Association man.

So I stuck to the bitumen, which took me as far as Tarlee. Then I struck ten miles of Hades as I climbed, and slipped, and bumped, over the hills on the thing they call a road between Tarlee and Kapunda. But it had one virtue — there was, at least, a metal bottom. It was just as well, for the pot holes were on the portly side — a sort of E.O.S. in pot holes — and they were not improved by the fact that you couldn't see them for water. You crawled along gingerly at ten miles an hour, but even that pace was not slow enough to stop you from sliding into miniature rivers which hurled cascades of liquid mud back at you until you looked as if you had been taking part in a football scramble in a pug hole.

I have not given you this description of my journey to enlist your sympathy. I want to show you that Kapunda, which came into being about 90 years ago, and is only 48 miles from Adelaide, is little better off today in the matter of roads than it was when Captain Bagot drew his celebrated log behind a bullock dray between Gawler and the Kapunda mines in 1842 to mark the track. Does that not suggest there is something wrong in the State of South Australia? It is just as well I do not live in Kapunda. I would take the local members by the coat lapel, I would look at them very seriously, and I would ask, "Well, what are you going to do about it?"

Birth Of Kapunda

One day in the latter part of 1842, Charles Samuel Bagot was out riding on his father's extensive property. He stopped to admire some wildflowers. Then his eye lighted on something else— peculiarly colored green stone. He had never seen anything like it before. He took samples to his father, Captain Bagot. The elder man promptly diagnosed copper. Bidding his son say nothing of the find, he sent the samples to England. The report came back— "Rich copper, superior to anything being received in England." That was the beginning of Kapunda.

But, almost simultaneously with young Bagot's find on the plains where the town now stands, a similar find was made by Francis Dutton on a hill. Mr. Dutton also said nothing. But, meeting his old friend, Captain Bagot one day, he took his into his confidence. Without answering, the captain put his hand in his pocket and produced some of his samples. Then the two men compared notes. They were surprised to discover that the two finds, made about the same time, were separate and distinct, yet close together. In four months in 1845 copper to the value of £6,225 was exported. The reports stated that such rich ore had never previously been seen in England. That, however is anticipating. Both men knew their fortunes were made— that was, provided they could keep the secret until they had secured the property.

For a whole month they were kept on tenterhooks while the formality of advertising the land weekly in the "Government Gazette" was being complied with. The month seemed like a year. They lived all the time in fear that someone else might hear of the find, and rob them of their prize. But Fortune was kind to them. This was South Australia's first copper mine. Today the names Bagot and Dutton stand high in the estimation of Australians. The descendants of both families are still amongst us.

But a few words about the founders. Captain Charles Harvey Bagot slipped into the world of disillusion we call life in Ireland. He became a soldier, won distinction in the East, and, retiring with the rank of captain, came to Australia shortly after Colonel Gawler became Governor. He was soon a prominent figure in the public life of the young province. He was nominated to the Legislative Council in the days when the Governor was a sort of Mussolini. When South Australia got a piebald Constitution, a kind of preparation for the responsibilities of full constitutional government, he was again made a member of the Council— this time as an elected representative for Light. When, eventually, the Imperial authorities went the whole hog in the matter of a Constitution, Captain Bagot was again sent into Parliament. Thus he had the unique experience of serving his country under all three forms of government it has known. He lived to be 92, and died in 1880.

Francis Stacker Dutton, the other discoverer of the mine, also became prominent as a legislator. He, too, was a member of the mixed Parliament. Light sent him back with Captain Bagot when South Australia was given full permission to mismanage its own affairs, and when Hanson formed his Ministry, Dutton was C.C.L. He was, unless I am very much at fault, the first person to hold that portfolio. He was twice Premier before he went to London as Agent General. He died in 1877 while filling that office.

Some Prominent People

For a town of its size Kapunda has produced some "big" men. Patrick McMahon Glynn, small in stature and huge in intellect, was one of them. Journalist, K.C., State legislator, State Minister, one of the framers of the Federal Constitution, member of the first House of Representatives, Federal Minister (several portfolios), and general authority on Constitutional law, he was the last of the conventionists elected to the Commonwealth Parliament to let go his seat.

Teaching five-finger exercises to demure young misses with plaits hanging down their backs. Directing the Elder Conservatorium. It is a stride of some magnitude. Dr. Harold Davies made it. Years ago, as a young man not long out from England, he wearily counted "One and two and three and four and" to the budding Pachmanns and Carrenos — excuse the absence of the little worm over the "n," but we haven't got one — of Kapunda. At that time his brother Charlie was organist at Christ Church. I wonder if the "doc." remembers?

Another man who gained eminence in his chosen profession was Dr. J. A. G. Hamilton, who, as a young man, physicked the bodies of the people about what time Archdeacon Whitington attended to their souls. The dear old archdeacon is very kindly remembered still. If he had not been so very, very deaf, an affection brought about by malarial fever, he would have been a bishop. But a word of advice. If you ever go to Kapunda, don't mention elections; at all events not old-time elections. Kapunda is, and always has been, a public-spirited town. Even now, with the bad old days far behind, the civic fathers wear a hunted and harassed look— something handed down to them, I suppose, by their agitated forebears. As soon as you mention elections you hear all kinds of tales of the things that happened in the benighted fifties and sixties, when the "free and independents" exercised their privileges to the full, and the law of libel was as dead as leg of mutton sleeves and crinolines.

One of these incidents occurred on the very occasion that Francis Dutton was made Agent-General. When he resigned his seat, feeling ran very high on the choice of a successor. The rival candidates were John Rowe and "Nobby" White. On that occasion Ballygawley wasn't in it with Kapunda. One day, when Rowe was addressing an open-air meeting from a bullock dray, amid the jeers and hoots of a hostile crowd, a local giant seized him in his arms, and tossed him into the centre of his enemies. Nevertheless, Rowe won the election.

Another time Ebenezer Ward, under the pretext, of, asking a question, took the platform at a meeting of the rival candidate, and held it for an hour. The wiley Ebenezer turned what had been a favorable reception to his enemy into a hostile one. These are the sort of tales that old residents will pour into your ears as long as you are prepared to listen— and even after.

What I like about most of our country towns is that they preserve the photographs of the men who have made local history. I have already told you of the portraits in the Institute at Gawler. Kapunda also has its gallery of notables, which is housed in the council chamber. There you may see the mayors of the past from Dr. Blood, who filled the office on the inauguration of the corporation in 1865, almost down to the present day. These photographs are of great interest. The habit of preserving them should be encouraged. They are like wine — they become more valuable as the years pass. Future generations will esteem them even more fully than do we today. They denote civic pride. A town which has no civic pride is not a town. It is just a centre without a soul.

Technical High School

Kapunda, however, is full of civic pride. Mr. Davie and I soon got on intimate terms, and we set out together to see Kapunda. It has good streets, good buildings, a fine hospital, solid looking schools, spacious recreation reserves, and cheery and optimistic citizens. One of the things which interested me specially was the Technical High School, where the headmaster, Mr. G. F. Purser, and his staff steer the youth of the copper city through the intricacies of physics, chemistry, geometry, algebra, and other mysterious propaganda coming under the wide definition of "maths.," as well as the more prosaic arts of posting ledgers, typing letters, stenography, and domestic arts. Kapunda owes its high school to the generosity of Sir Sidney Kidman. He presented it for the purpose to which it is being devoted. It was formerly his residence in the days when he was one of Kapunda's most prominent citizens. It stands back in extensive grounds, has a well-kept garden, and a large conservatory. Mr. Purser, whose eyes light up the moment you mention flowers, makes the most of these unusual features. The large rooms of the residence, the wide hall, and the great kitchen are admirably suited to the purpose to which the building has been devoted. When I was there 71 students were on the roll. They seemed to be engrossed in their work. That was the thing which struck me most. There was no sign of inattention. The boys and girls seemed to be taking their work seriously.

Sir Sidney is still a sort of squire in Kapunda. He is best remembered by the old people as a dare-devil youth who knew everything there was to know about horses. The mayor told me how he and other youngsters, when he was a boy, were afraid to accept Sir Sidney's hospitality when he offered to drive them out to the Sunday-school picnics, because the "cattle king" would never drive anything but half-broken colts, whose one aim in life seemed to be to perform the most impossible gymnastics ever thought out by man or beast. Sir Sidney has never forgotten Kapunda. His cheque book has been frequently at its service. I know it is not fashionable these days to extol millionaires, or even reputed ones. More's the pity. Instead of wishing we had fewer, I would like to see more. I'll tell you why. It is because of that very economic virtue which so many call a vice, that the more a man has the more he wants. When a man has wealth he must invest it. He can't spend all his income. He must put it into industry, into the development of pastoral properties, into farming, or he may lend it in the form of mortgage. But in whatever manner he invests it, he is doing his country a good turn, and he is helping you and me! He doesn't do that from patriotic motives. He does it for sordid gain. But the main fact is that he does it— and he can't do it without providing employment and circulating money. That's where you and I come in. We get our 'whack.' Trite! I know— but we're liable to forget it.

This is not a panegyric on Sir Sidney Kidman. I don't know whether he is a millionaire or not, and it is not my business. It is just a shaft of light which penetrates my brain when I think of Sir Sidney's plucky battle from the time he started work at 2/6 a week until today, when, despite drought and pestilence and all the other ills to which stock are heir, Sir Sidney stands unrivalled as "Australia's cattle king." To me it is a wonderful romance. If I had the leisure I should like to make a book of it. Nothing fascinates me more than the story of a self-made man. Personally I never had a desire for wealth beyond a modest independence. But when I come across men who, starting from behind scratch, build up big businesses and amass large fortunes, I went to shake hands with them, not because they are influential and important, but because I know that behind their success is a story of bitter struggle, indomitable courage, stoic perseverance, and Australian grit, more thrilling than any novelist could tell.

Meditations On Babies

I suppose few country hospitals are better equipped than the one on the hill overlooking Kapunda. It is a substantial building of three blocks — general, midwifery, and isolation. It serves a large area. When I was there the matron, Sister B. Simons, was complaining that things were too quiet. That struck me as funny. My view was that the slacker things were in the hospital the happier they were in the town. There you have a still further illustration of the proverb that one man's meat is another man's' poison.

This reminds me of a quaint experience I had in another town which must be nameless. I was seeking information about a certain building which I knew had a good story behind it. My investigations eventually led me to the local undertaker. I found him happily whistling "The Sweet By and By" as he put the finishing touches to a handsome oak casket destined to house the remains of one of the town's newly defunct. I asked him the age of a certain resident. For a moment he shook his head. Then he had an inspiration. He went to the pocket of an old coat and drew out a black-covered book. Sure enough he had the age. He also had the ages of all the other old residents who might soon be requiring his services. How is that for business acumen?

To return to the Kapunda Hospital. The most populous part of the institution I found to be the midwifery section, in one room I was shown a row of tiny cradles, each holding an equally tiny new arrival. I gazed meditatively at all those red-faced, wrinkled, unconcerned human atoms, just starting out on the journey we are finishing. The matron picked one up and held it out to me. I drew back. It looked too small and delicate and jelly-like for handling by a mere male.

"What's his name?" I asked.

"It isn't a he; it's a she," she said indignantly.

But how was I to know? To me they all looked alike. "Do you ever get them mixed?" I asked.

"No," she answered. "We know every one of them."

I looked at her in admiration. I am quite sure that if I had anything to do with those babies I'd never be able to tell t'other from which. I put this doubt into words.

"Nonsense," said the matron. “They're all quite different."

I took her word for it. Nevertheless those babies fascinated me. Newly born children always do. You see, Nature has endowed me with the gift of imagination, and as I gaze on the midgets I cannot help asking myself what sort of road they will have to travel in the years that lie ahead. For babies are the playthings of destiny! Can you imagine Napoleon as a baby? He conquered half the world and kept the other half so busy that it never had time to go to sleep. In ten years he transformed himself from a starving unemployed soldier to Emperor of one of the greatest nations on earth. Yet there was a time when Napoleon was a wrinkled, squawking, thumb sucking mite of humanity, just like these babies I have been looking at. That is why babies fascinate me. All the world's great— its Mussolinis, its Shakespeares, its von Bismarcks, its Nelsons, and its other big names which have left this planet either better or worse for their coming— had their beginning just like you and I, and the helpless atoms I saw in the Kapunda Hospital.

Prince And The Children

During my visit to the Technical High School I came across a facsimile letter written to the children of Australia by the Prince of Wales on the conclusion of his last tour of the Commonwealth. It is dated August 16, 1920 and is a reproduction of his Royal Highness's own handwriting. It is a lengthy document of about two foolscap pages. I was so struck by some of the passages that I copied them, and I do not think I need make any apologies for introducing them here.

"Australia," he says," is a magnificent country, and I think you are very fortunate to have it for your own. Make up your minds to serve Australia well for the future of every country depends before all things on the spirit of its girls and boys.

"I am not going to say good-bye, because I belong to Australia just as much as to all the other British nations, and I shall come back whenever I can. Please always think of me as one of your own kin, who will try to serve Australia as truly all his life as you will yourselves.— Edward P."

I liked the sentiment of that letter.

First "Road"To Kapunda

Another small dose of ancient history. As soon as it was decided to work the mines it became obvious that some sort of a track would have to be blazed for the benefit of miners and teamsters who would have to make the journey between Gawler and the then non-existent town of Kapunda. Without such a direction it was certain that travellers would lose themselves, and perhaps their lives, in the wild country which then existed to the north of Adelaide. So Captain Bagot conceived the idea of ploughing a furrow between Gawler and the mines. He ordered a wooden plough, which was to have been drawn behind a bullock dray between the two points. The plough was so long in arriving, however, that he had a sheaoak log hauled through the scrub to mark the trail. When the job was finished the log was abandoned. A small village sprang up about this log, and today it bears the name then bestowed on it — Sheaoak Log.

I do not think I ought to close this article without, making references to the famous sale of township allotments held at Kapunda in 1860, about the period of the opening of the railway. At the time it was an event which caused some excitement in the young colony. The Governor and Lady MacDonnell thought it sufficiently important to attend. Some 130 lots on the east side of the town were sold, including the site of the present Railway Hotel and adjoining premises. Bidders had a hectic time. The luncheon cost £27, but the liquor bill came to £90!

Away to the north-east of Kapunda lies a famous grazing property— the Anlaby estate, owned now by the Duttons. Originally it comprised 70,000 acres. Government purchases and other subdivisions have considerably reduced this area. The Duttons naturally have always been the big people of Kapunda. Dutton Park, of 40 acres, laid out as a modern recreation ground and soldiers' memorial garden, owes its existence in a large measure to their generosity. But you cannot write of Kapunda in detail within the limits of a single article. You can only give a birdseye view. If you want details, then my advice to you is to see Kapunda for yourself. It has plenty to interest you, and you will not be sorry if you go there.

NEXT WEEK Morgan: A Town of Old Stories.

Images:

· Mr. Tom Davie, Mayor of Kapunda

· Birdseye View of Kapunda, from a hill overlooking the town.

· Sir Sidney Kidman