9 August 1934

AN OLD-TIME ELECTION RECALLED 

Campaigning In The North Fifty Years Ago [1887]

For the next six weeks Australia will be in the throes of the Federal election campaign, and for that time, in the eyes of the candidates at least, the electors will be the most Important persons in the country. Those seeking their votes will promise them any thing they wish, if they will but return them to power, and one political party will set out to blackguard and vilify the other. No trick will be too mean and no lie too black, provided it can but wean an elector from his allegiance to one party and secure his adherence to the other. Men who drink and joke and play golf together while Parliament is sitting will accuse one another of practically every crime in the calendar while on the hustings, only to for get all they have said and to return to their former friendly footing once they are all safely back at Canberra once more. "Truly 'tis a mad world, my masters," and, as a well-known Federal member— and one of the straightest of the lot, by the way— said recently, "Politics is a dirty game, any how." 

Of all the amusing elections that have come under my notice — and there have been some humorous ones in this State — that for Newcastle about the year 1886. when Thomas Playford opposed 'Paddy'' Coglin, was easily the funniest. Patrick Boyce Coglin, known universally throughout the State as 'Paddy Coglin, the polysyllabic member for Newcastle,' from his habit of freely punctuating his speeches with long and unusual words, the meaning of which neither he nor most of his constituents understood, had represented the district for 15 years. 

He was a wealthy sporting man, who owned and ran his own horses, and was very popular, even among the more intelligent of his electors, who, however, had many a quiet laugh among themselves at his idiosyncrasies. One of his chief claims to fame was that he was the owner of a racehorse with a wooden leg. He did not race it, however, keeping it solely for stud purposes. Paddy was known in Parliament as the 'member for roads and bridges.' for he was prepared to give his constituents anything they asked for. His district embraced a large extent of country, and practically every settler in it wanted something done in his neighborhood. Paddy's plan was simple. He concentrated on the Minister in charge of the works required, and made his life a burden until he got what he wanted. He was a modern version of the 'importunate Widow' of the New Testament, and got what he asked for, not because of the justice of his claims, but because he refused to take 'no' for an answer. Newcastle in those days was very largely dominated by Port Pirie and Port Augusta, and the residents of both were easily satisfied when it came to politics.  As no one had thought of challenging him for some years, it was generally a case of 'Paddy, the next best thing,' and his election unopposed. With the building of the railway from Quorn northwards, however, there had been an influx of workers who 'knew not Joseph,' and at the election in question it was freely rumored that Paddy would be opposed. Paddy arrived at Port Augusta on a Tuesday evening and was escorted in triumph to his hotel by a crowd that confidently looked to him to 'do the right thing.' And they were not disappointed either, for it was open house and all were invited. 'Come on lads and hear Paddy, said his supporters, 'Shure he's a broth of a bhoy, an' it's himself that can sphake loike a booke. Ye're all on the committee, so come along an' drink his health.' 

The train arrived at 10 p.m., so there was but an hour in which, to 'drink up and have another.' Paddy entertained them for about 15 minutes with a speech that flowed from his lips in one unbroken spate of words, delivered in a brogue that was redolent of praties and mellowed with poteen. When he paused for a minute to get his second wind there was a wild burst of applause, and Paddy was as good as elected. There were two other candidates up to then, but they were not taken seriously. The next day was one continuous levee for Paddy. It seemed all the wharf lumpers, navvies, and station hands in the district turned up to assure him of their support and to drink to his success— at his expense. Everything was merry and bright until about midday, when a rumor spread through the town that the Hon. Thomas Playford, who had been defeated after representing East Torrens for 16 years, was going to stand for Newcastle. A telegram was received from Riverton by one of his friends in Port Augusta stating that Playford was on the train and would arrive at 10 o'clock that night. It also asked his supporters to engage the hall at the close of Coglin's meeting and hold the audience if possible. 

This news electrified the town, for it promised to give some color and excitement to what, until then, had threatened to be a very dull election. Paddy was very upset for he knew something of his new opponent's ability and bull-dog pertinacity, and he realised that Playford was a much abler man than himself. The meeting began at 8 p.m.. and the chairman was obviously on Paddy's side. He according called upon the other two candidates to address the meeting first. No one paid much attention to them or troubled to ask them any questions. Everyone was waiting for Paddy, and when his turn came he wasted no time. Electors of Newcastle and Gintlemen,' he began, but few seemed to notice the faux pas. For well over an hour a flood of words flowed from him. He recapitulated all that he had done for Newcastle in the past 15 years. Every few minutes he would refer to some jetty, bridge, or road that had been built and exclaim, 'I did that for you,' or 'I got that for you.' Then off he would so again, the torrent of words that poured from him being almost indescribable. How those who were reporting the meeting ever made sense of it I could never understand. 

In all my experience I have never at tended a meeting like it. Paddy's supporters were there in force, and in 'good spirits'— largely at his expense— and they applauded heartily whenever he paused for breath. Many of the audience, however, saw the funny side of it, and like myself were almost convulsed with laughter. Paddy concluded his dissertation amid rounds of applause, and then questions were asked. That gave him another chance, and once again he started to recapitulate what he had done for the district. He had just finished a recital of his good deeds, concluding with, 'Look at that now. That's what I've done for you,' when he stopped short storing at the door as if he had seen a ghost. 

We all turned to look, too, and there was the giant form of 'Honest Tom' Playford striding up the aisle to the platform. In the excitement that followed Paddy, seized his hat and overcoat and faded quietly away through the back door. Amid a storm of cheering such as I have never heard before or since Playford mounted the platform and took his seat. Although well known to most of those present politically, the majority now saw him for the first time. He was a striking personality, standing about 6 ft. 3 in. in height and weighing at least 17 stone. If he had deliberately staged a more dramatic entry he could not have achieved one.

As soon as the applause died down he started his speech: — 'Electors of Newcastle,' he began, and his resonant voice rang through the whole building. 'When I was turned down for my old constituency of East Torrens, which I had served for 16 years. I made up my mind to quit politics and go back to my garden in the hills.' He paused and took from his pocket a roll of papers. 'These,' he continued, 'are telegrams from my friends and sympathisers all over the colony asking me not to do so, some of which came from here. I was feeling very tired and dispirited, when I received a wire from my old friend and colleague Charley Kingston, which read, 'Playford, go for Newcastle and you are bound to win, and here I am. Even if the electors of East Torrens don't want me. I may be able to do something for you.' From that moment Playford's election was assured. At the close of the meeting, which began as a screaming farce and ended so dramatically and enthusiastically, a strong committee was formed, and when the election was held he was returned at the head of the poll.

[See also 'Paddy's' Open House Did Not Deter 'Honest Tom' 19 Aug 1937]

Ghosts At Yanyarrie

The rumor was current many years ago that a ghost used to walk at the old wayside eating house near the Yanyarrie station homestead. The tale was loudly derided by the Gourlay sisters, who. with a girl or two as companions, planned to go and call the ghost out. Arriving at the haunt, they walked round, calling, 'Ghost! Ghost! There is no ghost!' 'Who said there was not?' came the reply in realistic sepulchral tones. The girls did not stop to argue, but left hurriedly, and the ghost, their brother, who had overheard the plot, took a short cut home to enjoy the sisters' story later. — 'Brumby.'

Saved From Drowning By A Pony

One summer's day some years ago my brother and I left home to go rabbiting. I was then 14 years of age, and my brother nine. 

We both rode the same pony, and, after hunting for several hours, came upon a swamp. The water looked tempting to our young eyes, although we had been previously warned not to go near the water when on these trips. 

After some discussion we decided to have a bathe. My brother was unable to swim, so paddled on the shallow edge, while I, with the confidence of youth, although not a strong swimmer, swam to a stump about 50 yards out. The return swim, however, proved too much for me, and while still in water seven or eight feet deep I became hopelessly exhausted. In spite of vigorous efforts to keep afloat I sank. 

My brother, who had been watching the struggle, became alarmed, but with great presence of mind rushed out of the water and mounted our faithful pony, and headed him into the water. By the time he had reached me I was almost exhausted, and was feeling faint. 

It was with a feeling of relief that I grasped the pony's tail and was towed ashore. I will never forget that day, and consider that my young brother's prompt action was the means of averting a tragedy. Our parents never heard of this escapade, but I think we appreciated their warnings more afterwards. — 'Old Salt,' Naracoorte.

Revenge Is Sweet

It is a well-known fact that many animals, courageous to a fault in their native state, lose that courage and be come arrant cowards when in captivity. The sparrow-hawk, naturally a brave and most pugnacious little marauder, the terror of the smaller birds, when kept in captivity has been known to become so spiritless as to allow itself to be bullied by its former victims— the common hedge sparrows.

That this peculiarity is not confined to birds was recently demonstrated in a hills township not ten miles from Adelaide. A neighbor of mine had a pet fox on a collar and chain, whose home was in a barrel. Reynard lived like any dog in his kennel. 

The fowls, which were loose, showed no fear of him. On the contrary, the rooster, a handsome Rhode Island Red, bullied him unmercifully. 

It was an amusing sight, and a daily one, to see this proud and haughty sultan of the barnyard, having driven his enemy into his kennel and eaten his food, mount to the top of the barrel, flap his wings, and crow arrogantly. 

Unknown to anyone, however, there was a weak link in the fox's chain, and one day he broke it and sneaked away. That night he returned and ate the rooster. 

From then on he became the terror of the fowl-yards in the district, visiting them all in turn, and invariably selecting the roosters as his victims. After some months he was shot and recognised by the leather dog collar still on his neck, and the poultry keepers heaved a sigh of relief. 

That foxes do not always select cock birds for their supper was abundantly proved here only last week, when an Italian workman reported to his employer. 'Say, boss, the wolfers came my place last night. They took all the hens and left the crow.'— 'Logopoios.'