No 5 Penola

If you are looking for ancient history, Penola is your happy hunting ground. You don't know it until you get there, and then the most amazing things are told you in a matter-of-fact way. Your informant is astonished to find you are interested, and all the time your journalistic mind is shrieking, "Copy — real live copy!" Who in the world would expect to rub shoulders with Royalty in Penola? Certainly not I. Yet it was there I stumbled across four stories of the present King of England, none of which, so far as I know, has ever before been published.

In a sticky-nose sort of way I was poking round the Council Chamber, trying to get up some enthusiasm over the photographs of civic giants of the past, who look down disdainfully from the walls on the council of today — I believe that unpleasant habit is chronic with giants of the past — when I unearthed a small framed letter written in a boyish hand. There were two signatures, "Edward" and "George." The date was June 23, 1881.

"What's this?" I enquired.

"A letter from the King," said the district clerk.

"I suppose you know this is valuable?"

"I suppose it is."

It was. Nowadays princes do not write letters with their own hands. They keep a staff of secretaries, a battery of typewriters, and a rubber stamp. The only fascinating thing about a letter from the Royal Family is the big crown and the printed heading, "Buckingham Palace." The letter is generally in the third person and coldly formal; something like this: — "The private secretary is commanded by his Majesty," &c., &c. That, usually, is a polite little fiction, harmless and flattering to the recipient. Actually his Majesty has given no such direction, and probably does not know anything about the matter. That is not the King's fault. He couldn't, if he tried, keep in touch with his daily mail. It takes him all his time to follow the multitudinous important questions affecting the interests of his vast Empire. It needs a huge staff to handle the correspondence of a moderately-sized departmental store; how much greater, then, to deal with the mail of the ruler of the greatest Empire the world has ever known? This is not digression. It shows that a letter in the handwriting of the ruling monarch is something to be prized.

I was still pondering on these lines as I crossed the street, when I met Mr. Temple, or rather. Mr. Temple met me. I was brought upstanding by a friendly but stentorian "Hi!"

I "hied." That is to say, I waited to see if I was the person hailed. I was.

Mr. Temple was the "tide in the affairs of man" for whom, unconsciously, I had been waiting. He was a mine of information, an overflowing reservoir of good stories. If this article interests you, you can thank Mr. Temple. Permit me to introduce him.

Mr. P. R. Temple is the history of Penola personified. He was born in Castlemaine. For fifty years he has been associated with Penola. He is an honorary magistrate, a commissioner for taking affidavits for Victoria, an old-time stock inspector, a student of local history, and a man who knows all the spots worth knowing, from the site of the first house in Penola to the most recent acre put under tobacco. Mr. Temple took me to them all. He told me that in the earliest days of Penola, sheep were taken to Geelong for shearing, and then returned to Penola. He showed me the site of the old Chinese camp of the "roaring fifties," when the celestials, trekking overland from Robe, used to make this camp a sort of halfway house on the road to the Victorian diggings. He showed me the pioneer cemetery where half the historic squattocracy of the south-east are sleeping their long sleep. He introduced me to Mr. R. Milway, head teacher of the Penola school, and entered into a successful conspiracy with me by which I was enabled to get a photograph of the school children. He showed me at Penola probably the oldest man in the world to have his birth registered. He was 71, and his birth was quite lately legally recorded by his mother. This formality was overlooked in his childhood, and certain legal requirements recently made the step necessary, hence the unique proceeding.

Tom Cawker And The King

It was to Mr. Temple that I casually mentioned my interest in the letter from the King. The reference opened the floodgates of his capacious memory. He gave me the stories of his Majesty to which I have referred. In the early eighties, before the opening of the railway between Adelaide and Melbourne, the journey had to be accomplished by coach. One of the drivers on a certain south-eastern stretch of the route was the veteran knight of the ribbons, Tom Cawker. Many old residents of Penola still remember Tom as a sort of rough diamond — a man of gruff speech but kindly heart. He was a typical Australian bushman — blunt, fearless, and independent. What Tom did not know about horses was not worth knowing.

In 1881 their Royal Highnesses, Prince Albert Victor Edward (the late Duke of Clarence) and Prince George (the present King of England) visited Australia. In the course of the journey between the South Australian and the Victorian capitals it fell to the lot of Tom Cawker to drive the royal coach. They had just changed the horses at Penola, preparatory to the stage to Casterton, when Prince George emerged from the Royal Oak Hotel, and stood for some time admiring the splendid horses. The King, as we know, always had an eye for a good steed. Tom had just taken his seat on the box, and, being himself passionately fond of the animals, noticed the Prince's absorption. His heart warmed towards his distinguished passenger, and he beamed down on him from the coach.

"Like to drive a four-in-hand, young fellow" he enquired.

The "young fellow" answered that he most certainly would.

"Then up you jump," ordered the unabashed Tom.

Prince George climbed into the driver's seat, and was duly initiated into the mysteries of controlling the ribbons of a four-in-hand — a rather complicated piece of business for the novice. They started off, and for a while all went well. But presently the Prince changed the ribbons. The eagle eye of the outspoken Tom detected this. He was no respecter of persons as far as horses were concerned. Snatching the reins from the hands of the Prince, he bawled — "Look here, young chap, if you are going to drive this blanky coach you'll blank well do as you are told." And the Prince did. From that incident began an affection between the old coachman and the heir to the throne, which terminated only when honest Tom was laid beneath the sod. But that is another story.

In the course of their tour their Royal Highnesses were entertained at one of the show stations of the South East. The entertaining was done in great style. This included a couple of butlers, specially brought on hire from Melbourne for the occasion — one to attend to each Prince. The young Royalties were greatly impressed on finding such style observed in what was practically the heart of the Australian bush. Imagine their astonishment, however, when, on arriving at the next station, they discovered there were also two butlers awaiting them, and that they were the identical two who had served them at their previous place of call.

Near the Victorian border, on the road to Casterton, there was in those days another halfway house for changing horses. Outside the hotel was an old wheelbarrow. Glad of a chance of a little relaxation after being cooped in the coach for several hours. Prince George offered to take his brother for a ride. Prince Albert agreed, and took seat in the barrow. The present King ran his brother on the street, and unceremoniously tipped him into a heap of rubbish, while the crowd roared their "bravos."

Between Casterton and Hamilton Cawker received word that a son had been born to him, and that his wife was desperately ill. He took leave of his Royal passengers, and returned to Casterton, both princes expressing deep concern over the bad news. Prince George gave Cawker a sovereign for the child. Out of this affair arose an incident which, illustrates His Majesty's remarkable faculty of remembering his friends.

On the occasion of his second visit to Australia, Prince George sent Cawker a telegram, inviting him to visit him in Melbourne. Here is Cawker'e own version of the visit, narrated at the time:— "I waited with a crowd of guests, and became tired. I asked one of the chaps in uniform, who was calling the names, when my turn would come. He looked at me. I was only in my sac suit and slouch hat.

"'About last. I think,' he said. 'I stuck my hand into my pocket and handed him the telegraph message and told him to take it into the Prince. In a few minutes my name was called. When I went in Prince George got up, put his arms around me, and said how pleased he was again to meet me. He enquired about Mrs. Cawker and the baby.'

"'Sorry,' I said, 'the child died, but Mrs. Cawker still holds the sovereign you sent.'

"I had about the longest private interview with our future King of any one in Australia — about 20 minutes. He said if I came to England he would be pleased to give me a good time, and let me tool a four-in-hand team of his in (I think) Rotten Row or Hyde Park."

Honest Tom Cawker never got to London. Instead, a Greater King soon after this claimed his as His own.

Penola For Poets

Adam Lindsay Gordon was not the only poet associated with Penola. Mr. Temple pointed out the birthplace of John Shaw Neilson, whom he described as "Australia's classical poet," and said Will Ogilvie, as a lad, lived on Madoupe station. Penola is the oldest town in the South-East, with the exception of Robe. It was settled before Mount Gambier.

Mr. William Sharam was the first white child born in the district. Next month he will be 82. He looks more like a man in the late sixties. He is strong and alert, mentally and physically, and is full of stories of the early days. As a child Mr. Sharam was brought up by the blacks. When he was a baby the gins used to come for him every morning, take him off into the bush, suckle him, and bring him back to his mother at night. He remembers Penola when it had one slab store, and the Royal Oak Hotel was a bark shanty. Like his father before him, he had a reputation as a boxer. In spite of his four-score odd years he still knows how to use his fists.

Mr. Sharam's father, who built the first permanent house in Penola, had rather an interesting career. In turn, bootmaker, sailor, and station hand he was employed by Henty on the Glenelg River, to guard the sheep against the blacks. According to a memoir on the old gentleman prepared by the Rev. W. M. Teape, he went to Penola about 1850. He married the daughter of a station hand, and the young couple had to go to Portland, 120 miles distant, to find a clergyman. They had fifteen children — nine sons and six daughters. In these days a bootmaking business in the bush sounds rather a foolish proposition, but in the early fifties, when the settlers thought nothing of riding to Portland for their mail, it was a different affair. It was a common sight on a Sunday to see numbers of horse men outside Sharam's hut wanting to buy boots. That little place in the bush supplied footwear to the settlers over an area extending from Bordertown on one side to Wallace (Victoria) on the other. It was old Sharam who introduced horehound to Penola. He obtained the seeds from "Picaninny Yabber," a white woman on a station, who had been thus christened by the blacks on account of her exceedingly small stature and great conversational powers.

"As we look back on old Sharam's his tory," says Mr. Teape, "we see a type of life that, as the land becomes more settled, will gradually pass away. He came to Penola when there was little else than gum trees and blacks, and many a hard day and rough bed must have been his lot."

All this country that I have been passing through during the past four days is "Gordon's country." He never owned it, poor beggar, but he made his name here. As a trooper he was stationed at the picturesque old police station in Penola. Mrs. C. F. Provis, wife of the mounted constable in charge of the station, showed me Gordon's room, which is the same today as when the poet used to live, there what time he was not running down bushrangers or running-in drunks. The police cells, four substantial, barred rooms, are the same today as when it was Gordon's job to fill them.

In those days Penola was an important town, and the police building, standing back in a paddock — it still does — was its centre. It included a courthouse in which at one time the Supreme Court used to sit. Many notable cases were tried there. Mr. Sharam told me he carted the stone to build it. He told me two or three good stories of Gordon. He knew him well. On one occasion the mail was stuck up by bushrangers near Wellington.

One of the offenders was captured, and Gordon was instructed to take him to Adelaide. On the way the prisoner kept bragging to Gordon of what he could do to him if only he had the handcuffs off. Finally, in exasperation, Gordon took off the irons, and gave the boaster such a trouncing that he cried for mercy. There was no more trouble with him.

On another occasion there was an argument between Gordon and the noted old-time jockey, Johnnie Brewer, over the merits of certain horses. They settled it by an epic race over the fences round Penola. Gordon won.

Mr. Sharam remembers that the first policemen at Penola were two men named Saxon and Scott. The bark hotel of those days had a skittle ally which was very popular. It was also the scene of many wild fistic struggles. The counter was five feet nigh, and above it was a heavy shutter. As soon as a fight developed the shutter was pulled down, and the bar shut completely off from the rest of the room. The fighters were then left to settle their argument as they chose. Battles were always fought to a finish.

During the eighties, when the Kellys were out, there was a great scare at Penola. Word went round that the gang had crossed the border into South Australia. It was the story of the Tantanoola tiger over again. Reports came from everywhere in the district that the bushrangers had been seen, and everybody believed them. Finally word came that the gang were in a certain room at the Royal Oak Hotel. The local policeman of the day crept up to the window very fearfully, and opened fire. There was no one there, and least of all bushrangers. The policeman's life was a misery for ever more. No one allowed him to forget the famous fight he put up with the Kellys.

Sisters Of St. Joseph

Penola people will tell you that the famous religious order of the Sisters of St. Joseph, now spread the Commonwealth, was founded In Penola by Father Julien Woods, who in the early days was the priest in charge of the district. Father Woods was a remarkable man. His father, J. D. Woods, was a barrister of the Inner Temple, who gave up law for journalism, and for many years was one of the sub-editors of "The Times."

The future priest was born in London in 1832. Because of his conversion to Roman Catholicism in his student days, he did not graduate at Oxford, Instead he studied theology in the South of France, and on being ordained was sent to Australia about 1857 as a travelling missionary. That a man so highly gifted should have chosen to bury himself in the Australian bush was amazing, for the south-east of that period was wild, dangerous, and practically unsettled. Yet here was a man of high scientific attainments — a geologist, historian, journalist, theologian, and bush medical practitioner — working in country where the whites were few and the blacks numerous.

Father Woods subsequently became Vicar General of the diocese of Adelaide, and widely known as a contributor to scientific journals. It was he who baptised Mr. Sharam, although the infant was never a member of his church. Clergymen were rare in the wilds, and Mr. Sharam's father was a man of deep religious feeling. There being no minister of his own denomination available, he asked the priest to baptise his firstborn, rather than have the child miss the sacrament.

Why Gordon Resigned

Here is another story of Gordon. It gives a new version of his reason for leaving the police force, and is said to be the correct one. I give it as I heard it. The magistrate of the time was Mr. J. B. Scout, who also filled the post of police inspector. Mr. Scott was a very dark man. On one occasion Scott was walking along the street, when he saw a drunken woman lying in the gutter. He ordered her to get up, and told her what he thought of her.

"Get out," she retorted, "another dip and you'd have been a black."

The irate magistrate ordered Gordon to arrest her.

"But I can't move her, sir, without hurting her," Gordon answered. "Then get a wheelbarrow," was the reply.

Gordon got the barrow, wheeled the woman to the gaol, and wrote out his resignation. The generally accepted version is that the poet resigned because he was ordered to clean his superior's boots. Whichever version is correct, it was after this resignation that Gordon was elected to Parliament.

Penola For Tobacco

Today Penola is riding on a wave of optimism. The cause is tobacco. Acres upon acres are being grown in various parts of the district. It is only a year or two since an experimental plot was put down. It was shown that the sandy loam country, of which there are many square miles available, was ideal for the plant. Today 200 acres are under crop, and each acre will yield an average of 800 lb. of dried leaf. This season it is expected the growers will receive £10,000 for their trouble. In succeeding years they should make more. Everybody talks tobacco. I motored out some ten miles towards the border, on the road from Penola to Casterton. There Tobacco Producers (S.A.), Limited, have an extensive crop. Harvesting and curing were in progress. There were five drying kilns. A small army of girls were binding the leaves on hangers, and carrying them to the kilns. They were on piecework, and were going faster than I have ever before seen Australians work. The girls are taken out from Penola by motor each morning, and brought back each night. Mr. H. Ridley is the expert in charge. He has been in Penola for 16 months. Prior to that he had been growing tobacco in the Grampians for 10 years or more. I tried one of the kilns with the door open. The temperature was 140 deg. It was the nearest thing to Hades I have experienced.

NEXT WEEK Naracoorte: The Object Lesson of the South-East.