No 20 Gladstone

Somewhere, in some part of the world, is a letter from the Right Honorable William Eward Gladstone. In it the great English Liberal gives his consent to a little northern town in South Australia bearing his name. When that was granted, somewhere about 1883, Gladstone was a very small place indeed. Where is that letter today? The corporation would very much like to know.

But the story of Gladstone does not begin with the incorporation of the town in the early eighties. Before that it was a district council area, called after the great sheep station of Booyoolie. The story of that station is a romance in itself. I will give it to you presently.

The history of most of our towns may be divided into three natural phases. First there is a sheep run, hundreds, and sometimes thousands, of square miles in extent. Then a tiny settlement springs up about the station, the great holding is sub divided, and the district council comes into being. Finally, with the growth of population and increase of buildings, the town is born. Gladstone went through all those stages.

In the earlier days of its existence Gladstone consisted of two towns. The first was laid out, on what is now the eastern side of the railway line, by Washington Moorhouse and Oliver Horner in 1871. Horner subsequently became first mayor. The land on the western side, called the Hundred of Yangya, was then open country devoted to farming. When the selector threw up the block the Government laid it out as a second town. They called it Booyoolie — after the station.

Story Of Booyoolie

In company with the mayor (Mr. J. W. McNamee), the town clerk (Mr. C. Budge), and Mr. W. Hancock, I paid a visit to what was left of Booyoolie station. The homestead, with its delightful old English garden, is still intact. The house is occupied at certain portions of the year by the present owners, who come to see that nobody has walked off with the 4,000 acres which remain of the estate. The shearing sheds, and the bachelor quarters with their quaint old prints of famous race horses of bygone days, are still intact. In a glass case in the stables I saw a greater variety of horse bits than I ever knew existed. Those stables are a veritable museum of equine antiquities.

Finally, in a shed close by, I saw the great State coach with its places for coachman and footman, as solid and substantial today, except for the destruction of the paintwork, as it was when the original Hughes imported it from England some 90 years ago. That old coach, I expect, will play an important part in the pageant which will be staged for the jubilee celebrations of Gladstone next March.

The original owners of Booyoolie, on the site of which Gladstone now stands, were the brothers Herbert Bristow Hughes and Bristow Herbert Hughes. Note that strange transposition of names. The lease is dated July 1, 1851. A third brother was John Bristow Hughes, perhaps the best known of all three, but, so far as I can trace, he had nothing to do with the Booyoolie run. The original lease covered 200 square miles of country. It took in what are now Laura in the north, Georgetown in the south, Mount Lock in the east, and Crystal Brook in the west. In 1859 Herbert took over his brother's interests in the property, and Bristow returned to England. Herbert seems to have been a resourceful sort of gentleman. I have lost count of the number of pastoral properties he acquired in this and neighboring States— of course, they were colonies then — but they were extensive enough to lead him to build steamers and barges to carry his wool down the Darling and the Murray rivers to Morgan. When they built the Broken Hill line to Adelaide, Herbert scrapped the steamers in favor of the quicker mode of transport.

Lying alongside the shearing sheds are a couple of huge iron boiling down vats or kettles. Their size would attract your attention any time. But when you know their story they assume a larger importance in your eyes. They are part of the plant of the first meat preserving works in South Australia. These works were on Booyoolie station. Here is the tale. It gives further evidence of the resourcefulness of Herbert Bristow.

In 1870 the colony experienced one of those periodic waves of disaster similar to that from which we are emerging today. Prices for sheep fell to such a low level that it was not worth while trucking the stock to market. Mr. Hughes met the situation by importing from England a complete boiling-down plant. He also brought men from Scotland to work it. The scheme was a great success. He preserved and sold the meat until such time as a rise in prices made it more profitable to sell the live sheep. Then he sold the plant, which was re-erected at Port Adelaide. The two great pots beside the shearing shed are practically the only reminders that remain locally of that curious experiment. I think the corporation should secure one of those old kettles as a momento of early Gladstone. Mr. Hughes died at St. Peters in 1892.

Gladstone Gaol

I have done it. I have been in prison. That is something most men hide if they have been behind the bars. I am shameless enough to glory in it. From a journalistic point of view it was an enlightening experience, an illuminating exposition of how things were done in the "good" old days. As I trudged through the seemingly endless corridors with the visiting justice (Mr. Hancock), viewing cell after cell, and courtyard after courtyard, a jumble of words seemed to be doing a fantastic and chaotic dance in my mind. Gaols, loans, and taxes seemed to be inextricably mixed up. When eventually I got them sorted out they fell into something of this form:— "Why, with a population of about 900, does Gladstone need a huge gaol which will accommodate sixty prisoners?"

Imagine, one citizen in every fifteen a criminal! Impossible. In fact, so weak is the penchant for wrong-doing in Gladstone that at the time of my visit the only "desperado" doing "time" was a bloodthirsty villain who had forgotten to pay his wireless licence, and had been given ten days in which to regain his memory. I should think the building of this gaol was a stupendous piece of folly. It was erected 52 years ago. The story I was told about it was that when a certain Minister representing the district was Attorney-General the electors wanted some money spent locally. The Minister didn't know exactly how to spend it but at length hit on the idea of the gaol. I wonder if it is paid for yet?

However, there is the gaol. It has fifty-nine empty cells. More often it has sixty. I was told there had been times when the "house full" notice went up. That must have been when they proclaimed measles a crime while meaning to declare it a notifiable disease. I can think of no other explanation. For a long time they used Gladstone Gaol as a prison for inebriates. They were so delighted to have prisoners that they paid them 10/ per week. When, at the end of twelve months or so, the hick-ish ladies and gentlemen were liberated with a good Government cheque for £26, they made the quickest bee line they could for Hindley street, to turn that cheque into liquid refreshment. A hectic week ended, they usually found themselves back in Gladstone to "earn" another £26 a year. That piece of absurdity lasted until quite recently. Now the pay is only 6d. per week. I do not know whether that drastic cut in the "award" had anything to do with the absence of tenants, but when I was there there wasn't a "drunk" to be seen. I felt so keenly about it that I invited my party across to the pub to have a drink, with some rude idea of encouraging local industry.

As I stood in cell No. 13, watching the warder manipulating the lock with a master key, I was reminded that this was the cell in which the notorious Budd was confined before he was dispatched to Adelaide to receive the attentions of Jack Ketch. Budd will be remembered as the gentleman who conceived an irresistible desire to own a motor car. Instead of going down Flinders street and signing a hire purchase agreement, he went to a North terrace motor stand and hired a man to drive him to Port Pirie. When nearing the end of the journey he battered the driver to death, buried the body under a shed, and took the car.

Since I have mentioned Jack Ketch, perhaps you would like to know something about that interesting personality. Away back in sixteen and sixty something Jack Ketch was the public executioner in England. He was not a particularly efficient gentleman, and he made such a mess of executing Lord William Russell and the Duke of Monmouth that he lost his post, and was sent to prison. But when his successor was himself hanged Jack got his old job back. As he was by no means the first public executioner it is a little curious that his name should have become synonymous for the official hangman. But there you are; in justice will never be eliminated from this world.

Regarding Budd, the clerk of the court (Mr. Budge) told me a curious story. One day a handsome motor car drove up to the courthouse. A well-dressed man and woman alighted, obviously father and daughter, and well-to-do. The girl evinced a lively interest in everything concerning Budd. She asked to be shown the dock in which the prisoner stood, and when it was pointed out to her, she took her place there. Then, highly excited at having stood in the dock where her hero had received his death sentence, she thanked the clerk, and departed in a state bordering on exultation. Women are puzzles! I don't think there has been a notorious murderer yet who has not received scores of love letters from unknown admirers while awaiting the attentions of the hangman.

While Gladstone gaol is empty, or nearly empty, the same precautions are observed as if it were fully tenanted. All the grilles and doors through which one passes are locked. They are opened to admit you and they are locked behind you. You are locked in the courtyards with their great stone walls over which it seems impossible to climb. You are locked in the corridors. You are locked in the inebriates' section. You are locked in everywhere until you grow utterly tired of seeing doors open and close. You would make bets with yourself that no man could ever leave that gloomy old refrigerator unless he was accompanied by a uniformed warder to manipulate the trebly-locked barriers.

Yet one man did. And he was never recaptured. He was an Italian, and is said to have made a master key out of a piece of wire. One night he opened some of the cells, and invited the inmates to walk out with him. They refused. So he left himself. He forgot to sign the visitors' book, and was never heard of again.

I asked a warder to let me have a look at his master key. He drew back, and hid the bunch behind his back. I didn't blame him. There is no greater object of suspicion than a writer with a nose for news.

Romance Of A Baronet

Gladstone gave us a few years ago one of the most sensational romances of the British aristocracy by the discovery of Sir James Goold, the baronet-navvy. Sir James worked as a ganger on the railway there. None of his mates knew he was the head of an ancient titled family. He never told them. Probably if he had they would not have believed him. You don't, as a rule, look for baronets working on the roads, any more than you look for diamonds in your backyard. Then suddenly, a crime committed in an odd corner of Europe tore away the veil, and the baronet was revealed, as it were, in his nakedness.

You see, newspaper men all over the world are veritable Rosa Dartles. They want to know things. And no sooner had the name of this old Cork family been mentioned incidentally in connection with the business than the wires began to hum with enquiries as to who was Sir James Goold, of Gladstone. Adelaide pressmen were just as curious. In less than two hours the humble navvy was located, and his titled secret torn from him. Sir James died in 1926.

His son, Sir Patrick, still works in the smelters at Port Pirie. He doesn't use the title. "If you call him Sir Patrick," my informant said to me, "he will punch you on the nose." I hope Sir Patrick doesn't so forcibly impress his democracy on my not-too-handsome visage. The story goes locally— I give it as I heard it— that back in the reign of James I. the original holder of the title lent his monarch £15,000. In return he got the right to put "Bart." after his name and "Sir" in front of it. It is a hateful thing to have to kill local tradition— but that story isn't true.

When you start to embroider yarns on to baronets and peers, you've got to be very careful with your facts, because a gentleman in London called Mr. Burke, has them all nicely sorted out, and dissected, and carefully labelled with their pasts and presents. Mr. Burke is above reproach, and he says that the family is at least 110 years older than that.

One of these Goolds was Mayor of Cork in the reign of Henry VII.— father of the notorious monarch with a penchant for marriage —whose mortal existence began round about 1485. What is true, however, is that the family fell upon evil days. Generation after generation crept down the financial scale until it seemed they could not descend much further without going down a mine.

It was about this time that James Stephen Goold entered the merchant service, and joined a ship which incidentally brought him to Port Adelaide. He didn't like the ship, but he did like Adelaide. He came ashore without saying as much as "By your leave" to the captain, and never went back. Instead, in 1873 he married Miss Bridget Jordan, of Adelaide. He got a job just like you or I would do, and kept the secret, of his birth securely locked away in his own mind until those ruthless fiends of journalists, who have no respect for anyone or anything, put the searchlight of publicity on the family history. I doubt very much if his wife knew she was Lady Goold. Certainly no one in Gladstone did on that memorable evening in January, 1898, when she dropped dead in the street while on her way home to the little four-roomed cottage after attending a circus.

Local Celebrities

Gladstone has, or has had, other local celebrities. One of them is C. J. Dennis. In my article on Auburn I told you the author of 'The Sentimental Bloke" was born in that town. But he more or less matured in Gladstone, where his father kept the Gladstone Hotel. One of my guides in Gladstone remembered C.J. as "a sickly looking little beggar of ten." I saw "C.J." a few weeks ago. He certainly was no sickly looking little beggar then. Ernie Jones, the greased lightning bowler of international fame, is another Gladstone product. He was an ink-streaked, touseled-haired printer's devil in the office of the "Areas Express" in the days before he discovered he could make England's greatest batsmen tremble when he took the ball between his fingers.

One of the present day celebrities is the town clerk, a veritable Pooh Bah. He is Mr. C. Budge. But he won't "budge" — in fact, so disinclined to do this is he that he has been town clerk for 37 years and district clerk for 39. A man with a unique record of that sort should change his name. He is a former mayor, returning officer for the district, clerk of the court, secre tary and pastmaster of the Masonic Lodge, and 25 years secretary of the Oddfellows. He is many other things besides — but I got tired of recording them. Next year his status as town clerk comes automatically to an end, for after the "Back to Gladstone" celebrations in March, Gladstone is to revert to a district council.

You have heard the story of the stranger who, accosting a very old man who was chopping wood, remarked, "I say, Methuselah, aren't you too old for that job? What is your age?" to which the ancient replied, "Don't know, mister; I forget. But you can ask grandpa; he's over there in the paddock breaking in the colts."

I mention it because I struck a living version of the ancient joke in Gladstone. This was Mr. T. P. Jones. The mayor had mentioned him to me several times without arousing any particular enthusiasm. At the end of a very heavy day— Mr. McNamee, Mr. Budge, and Mr. Hancock saw to it that I got full value for my money — I was taken across to see Mr. Jones. Somehow Mr. McNamee and I got temporarily separated, and during this brief interval I saw an elderly gentleman with a white beard eyeing me with suspicion. Obviously he was wondering what I was doing there.

Said I to myself, "That's my man." So I revealed myself, and stated my mission.

"Oh," he answered understandingly, "you don't want to see me, but father. He's mending harness over there in the shed!"

I went to the shed. I was not sorry I did. Mr. T. P. Jones is a wonder. Keen. Alert. I put a few questions to him about dates of local events. He is an authority on such matters. He answered them offhand. Then he "dug" a notebook out of his pocket, and confirmed them. The book itself was interesting because of the mass of lightly pencilled data it contained. He read it without glasses. I couldn't do that — and I am half his age. He has been secretary of the local Foresters' Lodge for 53 years. He is still secretary — and a very efficient one, with the old-fashioned ideas of thoroughness. From 1879 to 1883 he was clerk of the course for the Great Northern Jockey Club. When it went out of existence he held a similar position in the Laura Jockey Club, which succeeded it. With the exception of Colonel Castine, Mr. Jones is the youngest old man I have met.

Other prominent men who, though not perhaps born in Gladstone have been prominent in its development, were Alfred Catt, J. V. O'Loghlin, B. J. Karney, Senator McLachlan, Clarrie Goode, Thomas Ryan— who used to work on the railways before he attained the unique distinction of simultaneously holding a seat in the South Australian and Victorian Parliaments— W. L. Parsons, and A. P. Blesing.

Looking Backwards

What I admired about Gladstone people was their abounding faith in their own district. I was told it was the best agricultural centre in South Australia, produced the world's best wool, and grew the best lucerne. On the subject of the world's wool I ventured to remind Mr. Budge that other centres had made similar claims. He clinched the argument thus:—

"Doesn't Australia produce the best wool in the world?" I assured him that it did.

"Doesn't South Australia produce the best wool in the Commonwealth?" I thought that possible.

"Well, then, Bundaleer produces the best wool in South Australia." Mr. Budge said that with such an air of confident belief that I suspected he was secretly inviting me to tread on the tail of his coat— and I didn't have the nerve to do it.

The fact remains that the Gladstone district is specially favored. It grows big wheat crops on a small rainfall. This year it has had a wonderful season, and the crops look like breaking all records. On Booyoolie estate, on the Rocky River, about a mile out of the town, they grow splendid lucerne. This Rocky River is a meandering stream that looks as harmless as a Communist's policy — and it's just as deceptive. When it takes the fit into its head it comes down in flood miles wide. Then it is a sight worth seeing. Gladstone has had some tragic floods, which had their genesis in the watershed between the town and Caltowie.

In the early days, when town allotments were first being offered there was such an inundation. One prospective buyer, who later became a well-known member of Parliament, thought that a good time to inspect the town. He picked out the only bit of dry land he could find, and there, some time later, he established his business. In the flood of 1905, when all the creeks and rivers within miles combined to show what they could do in the matter of hydraulics, things moved in more senses than one, and two people lost their lives.

The first building which went up in Gladstone was a flourmill, erected in '71 by Washington Moorhouse. It was burned to the ground in 1886. The head miller was Seigmund Winkler, who, as the town's oldest resident when the jubilee was celebrated in 1908, unveiled the portrait of Gladstone, presented by the great statesman's son. I do not think I can close this article without referring to the splendid war memorial hall erected by the people, who subscribed £3,300 for the purpose. That is a large sum for a town of 1,100 souls. The laying of the foundation-stone was a unique ceremony. Six widows, each of whom had lost a son in the great scuffle, presided at the function, and one of their number performed the actual ceremony.

Links With Gladstone

At the rear of the corporation offices, but forming part of the main building, is the Soldiers' Memorial Hall. It is a handsome structure. Part of it is used as an institute. Here are housed a number of portraits and trophies, which, like good wine, will become more valuable with the years. Most of our institutes and corporations are doing splendid work in the preservation of old documents, old pictures, and old relics. Gladstone is no exception. Naturally pride of place is given to mementoes of the great statesman whose name the town bears. There is a fine portrait of the grand old man, presented by his son, the late Viscount Gladstone. There are views of Hawarden Castle, the famous library, and of the Gladstone family. I wonder if I might suggest to the town fathers that they make an effort while there is yet the opportunity to secure more relics of the great Gladstone, just as the Adelaide City Council are collecting relics of Queen Adelaide. Gladstone certainly has a fine building in which to house them.

Amongst the trophies I viewed in the hall was the Smith trophy for rifle shooting. This was a celebrated prize presented in the eighties by Sir Edwin Smith. Rifle clubs all over Australia competed for it. The Gladstone team won it against all comers. It was a strong combination, and had an unbeaten record for seven years, after the trophy was won it disappeared. It had been stowed away in a cellar, and only reached the corporation last year, nearly 40 years after the victory. The members of the team who shot for the prize were Sergeant R. Sampson. Color-Sergeant J. Milne, Private G. Williams, Private ? Webster, Lieutenant William Coe, Captain A. C. Catt. and Lieutenant J. King.

At the local primary school — there is a high school, too— I saw young Gladstone at work. There are a hundred and fifty or so of them, with a keen educationist in Mr. S. A. Keen at their head. We talk about the decadence of the Australian child, but I haven't found evidence of it yet. My joumeyings have brought me into touch with these small boys and girls, and everywhere I have gone my paramount impression has been that the youngsters are keen and alert. I am sure the race is not deteriorating. I saw a group of small boys climbing a telegraph post.

"Young devils," snapped my companion.

"Didn't you ever do it when you were their age?" I asked him.

"I suppose I did." he admitted. Yes. And so did I. And I wish I could do it now.

NEXT WEEK. PORT PIRIE: Wonder Town of the State.