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| Birth: | 1862 |
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| Death: | 1939 |
| Authority control: | Wikidata: Q125576259 WikiTree: Clare-2168 |
File:Freotopia people img clare.jpg
William Edward "Billy" Clare, the publisher of the Fremantle Advocate, was a foundation and life member of the Fremantle Fremantle Workers Club. He was thought in 1956 to have been the first President, but documents from the newspapers of 1914 do not support this piece of folklore.
He was remembered by the Workers Club in its Henry Street building (because he thought to be the founder) in the name of the Billy Clare Club Cafe, and on a memorial mirror, and there was a photo of him in the lobby.
Billy Clare was born in 1863 at St. Helen's, Lancashire, England, and came to Australia in 1888. He died Friday 5 April 1940.
Kimberly:
Photo [inscribed F.W. Niven & Co.] by Greenham & Evans.
A CERTAIN very clever writer once described a newspaper as the sounding board which made audible to its readers the voices of all the world. Then he went on to say that it was the great magician which annihilated the separating power of space, and made its readers in Australia the spectators of a battle in Central Africa, or of a shipwreck in the Mediterranean, or filled their ears with the echo of a debate in the House of Commons and the tumult of a presidential election in the United States of America.
There is no enterprise in the world so fraught with vicissitude and novel experience as newspaper management. We are all familiar with Mark Twain's inimitable sketches of journalistic experiences in America, and his Tennessee troubles have caused many people to seriously doubt, in honest scepticism, his many adventures in the newspaper world. But we have in the biography of Mr. William Edward Clare a narrative, firm in fact, unique even in journalism, and rugged in picturesque experience.
William Edward Clare is a native of St. Helens, Lancashire, and was born in 1863. Leaving school, he decided to enter the ranks of journalism, and became attached to the staff of the Birkenhead News, upon which he remained until he was twenty-one years of age, when he embarked for Australia from Tilbury Docks. On arriving at Melbourne he spent several months in holiday-making, and deciding to go to Tasmania, he cast in his lot with the North-Western Chronicle, published at Latrobe, on the north coast. He remained here about eight months, and returned to Melbourne. In 1892 he came to Western Australia, and soon after Arthur Bayley discovered the sensational Reward claim, he set out for that glorified arena. It was no popinjay's mission; rather was it one requiring nerve and resource. Taking the train as far as York, he engaged a teamster to carry his swag, while he trudged along beside the dray. It was a wearying pilgrimage of five week's duration. Round the small tents forming Coolgardie were gathered men of all grades, bent on winning fortune at almost any cost. Mr. Clare did not waste any time, for his treasury could only boast of two shillings and twopence, and he immediately set to work "dry blowing" the alluvial patches round Bayley's Reward. His returns were not commensurate with the energy expended, and he obtained an engagement on the Reward mine soon after Mr. Sylvester Browne purchased it. At about this time Hannan's—now the world-famous Kalgoorlie—was founded by Patrick Hannan. Upon a well-remembered Saturday night Hannan entered Coolgardie, and the news of his rich alluvial discovery was soon circulated among an emotional population. Mr. Clare read, during the same evening, Hannan's notice, posted up at the Warden's tent, of an application for a reward claim at a spot about thirty miles north-east of Coolgardie, and in the first peeps of the ensuing morn, arrayed in all the primitive paraphernalia of the prospector, he was heading his course for the scene of the new find. Thanks to misdirection he was "lost" in the waterless bush—a terrible experience, appreciated only by those who have been in a similar predicament. After much dispiriting groping in the desolate wilderness, he reached his destination at nine o'clock on Monday night, when he presented a woebegone appearance. But next morning he went out "specking," and for the day's work obtained fourteen pieces of gold, the largest of which weighed eleven pennyweights. Soon after this he pegged out a claim below the Maritana Hill, thus following the prevailing fashion, for all the ground around Hannan, Cassidy, and Flannagan was pegged and re-pegged a dozen tines over in the stampede-like rush which had set in. After much laborious effort Mr. Clare reached in his claim a depth o[ eleven feet, where, to his intense pleasure, he struck a two-ounce piece; but, alas, in the first stages of luck the unkindly hand of fever smote his prospects. A faintness came over him; he struggled to his unpretentious little "camp," and consciousness forsook him. When he regained his senses he was in the tent of Police Constable McCarthy, in Coolgardie, down with typhoid. He had been conveyed to Coolgardie by the large-hearted Tom Colreavy, the discoverer of Golden Valley, the pioneer field of the immense Yilgarn district, indeed of all the eastern goldfields. He then passed through those indescribable, and too common, sufferings from fever in a weary land, where physical endurance must fight its own battle without the ameliorating conditions of good nursing and comfortable quarters. Many a time Mr. Clare's life "hung in the balance," but his splendid vitality overthrew the fever, else this story would not have been written.
But his illness had absorbed every shilling he possessed. He returned to Bayley's Reward, and worked as a miner. Here he and his mate established a record, for one hour's work in the cut yielded them eight dishes, containing 300 ounces of gold. Many interesting experiences had Mr. Clare in the matter of gold finding on this famous claim. On another occasion, while working with Mr. Gorrie, who pegged out Bayley's No. 1 South, he came upon a beautiful pocket, which held in its treasure-chamber a piece of quartz fully charged with gold, and returning thirty ounces. Again, on the same day, while turning over some solid bodies of stone, he discovered twenty ounces of rich "flaky" gold, making fifty ounces for his day's work. Perhaps there was an element of romance in this gold digging, especially when one obtains the rewards, but the heavy manual toil was more than Mr. Clare's reduced constitution could bear. The turning point of his goldfields career came with a conversation with Captain Begelhole. Said Mr. Clare, in homely language—"I am full up of this sort of work. I'm a journalist, and am unused to it." Replied Captain Begelhole—"Why, look at the way this place is growing—a paper would pay here." It was as seed sown in volcanic soil; the idea germinated at once. Mr. Clare expressed a desire to found a newspaper, and the good-natured captain merely said—"You can 'knock off' work now and go and interview some of the storekeepers, with the object of forming a syndicate to start a paper."
Mr. Clare was only too glad to avail himself of the opportunity. He threw away his pick, and started on his errand. The old goldfields' people were not in the least negative in their virtues, and the idea of having a newspaper among them was mightily pleasing. Mr. Clare knew how to stir them up; a sub-committee was formed, and on a Sunday morning the promoter of the scheme met them in free and easy conclave, and supplied the details of the journalistic infant. It was impossible to give anything like a correct estimate of cost, for in the matter of carriage alone there were at times diurnal fluctuations in the price per ton of from ten to twenty pounds. Eventually it was agreed that Mr. Clare should go to Perth, but a serious difficulty arose; the teamsters were "out" on strike. There was nothing before him but a walk to York, and that was quite enough. Owing to the strike, food supplies in Coolgardie were very short, and our journalist stoutly began his 280 miles walk over a foodless wilderness with five pounds of flour, a two pound tin of oxhead brawn, and a water-bag containing a gallon of condensed water. After many days and nights in the depressingly dull and desolate bush, he reached Merridin in a state of exhaustion. The solitary march was relieved only by an occasional few words with some miner on the path, from whom he obtained rations from time to time. At Merridin he needs must sell his catskin rug in order to purchase "tin dog" and flour. There was here a "Shanty on the Rise," and its inmates, with that fine fellowship characteristic of lonely people in the Australian bush, were glad to give him an unlimited stock of directions as to the track, and the water holes to be found upon it. Away there in the monotonous solitudes your travellers welcome the stranger and exhibit a primitive curiosity concerning him, and, in a rugged manner, show respect and regard for those so unfortunately situated as themselves. Mr. Clare was directed to a watered track which had been used in former days, and which ran through, perhaps, the longest-wooded stretch in Western Australia—Tootalgin forest. If he had had a depressing journey before, he was destined to experience another even more abandoned. For eight successive days he tramped through the dispiriting bush, seeing no human being, and not even the proverbial "gohanna," merely meeting a few white ants, companions which count for very little, except that, like himself, they were alive. While plodding along he remembered that there was a plug of tobacco and a pipe in his pocket. He had never smoked before, but while resting in the lonely night he produced them with the idea of getting the soothing effect which my Lady Nicotine seems to possess. Poor Clare had struck a particularly ghastly brand of tobacco, but he wrestled with it most heroically. With sand as a luxuriant mattrass, with the stems and thin leaves of tenacious gum trees as bed-posts and draperies, he lay on his back and very promptly watched the "everlasting stars," thinking, the while, whether there really was anything in the poetical platitudes concerning the charm of the weed which he was so devotedly consulting. His wavering views were soon determined, and he adjourned himself sine die, and after very slight meditation came to the conclusion that the poets were all wrong, and that the man who had sold him the tobacco had designs on his life. Since that night he has not touched that particular brand of tobacco.
His provisions were now done, but meeting a native Mr. Clare magnanimously exchanged his tobacco for some kangaroo flesh, and, though it was not particularly dainty, he ate it with considerable relish. Then he struck the homestead settlement of one Flyme Martin, and when he had said that he was a wayfarer from Coolgardie, all the inmates gathered round him, whilst he told, in Goldsmith fashion, of the richness of Bayley's Reward and Hannan's. He was made an honoured guest, and when his fund of information on his travels had given out, the host told a story of "as how they knew there was gold in Coolgardie nearly seventeen years before." He then went on to tell Mr. Clare how a syndicate to go and explore the golden region was formed, "but," said he, with swelling indignation, "a crazy 'blanky' poet killed the whole affair." Mr. Clare was anxious to discover a poet's powers of syndicate annihilation, and asks, "How did he do it?" retorted the raconteur, "why, he simply went and wrote some poetry about it, and it killed our syndicate. I tell you I might have been a rich man if he hadn't written that blooming verse." "Let's hear it?" and Flyme then gave, with melodramatic effect, "the verse that ruined him."
"Let Stirling guide, and Flyme gas, and Cuttening give the figures,
But when they get to Coolgardie the ground is only fit for niggers."
Mr. Clare wondered no longer; he was satisfied that such a "verse would kill anything but the man who wrote it." He left the disgusted Flyme next morning, after being presented with a bottle of pickled radishes, which he feelingly abandoned a few miles away on the roadside. When some miles distant from York he grew hungry, and meeting a teamster he asked him for something to eat, and the jolly waggoner drew forth the gaunt remains of a ham bone, which Mr. Gaunt attacked with undisguised enthusiasm. That night he camped with the teamster on the banks of the Avon, but on the following evening he did himself the honour of sleeping in a house. On the outskirts of the town he saw a baker's shop, with a captious legendary sign, "Accommodation for Travellers." It was a pleasant Sunday night, and in meeting the proprietor, Mr. Clare pointed out that, as "a change," he would like to sleep under a roof, explaining that he had come from Coolgardie. He was ushered into a large dining-room, where he was eagerly questioned, and subjected to quite a severe scrutiny. Asked what he would like to eat, Mr. Clare, who was famished, airily offered to take "anything." The hostess put a plate of ham and eggs before him; and never was dish more welcome. But he found that sleeping under a roof may have its disadvantages; he was ushered to a bench in the bakehouse. At two o'clock a.m., after a well-deserved repose, he was rudely disturbed by the bakers coming in to knead their dough. He was roused from his couch, and shown to a corner, from which he watched, with heavy eyelids, the interesting ceremony of bread-making, occasionally relieving the tedium by telling the powdered officials impossible stories about Coolgardie. In the morning he took train for Perth, where he was compelled to remain for some time before he could obtain a printing plant. This was eventually got together, and was sent per rail to Burracoppin, where a teamster, with three horses and a dray, had agreed to meet him to carry the machinery to Coolgardie. When the carrier arrived, it was found that his dray could only accommodate a portion of the consignment. Mr. Clare decided to take the most important part first, and arranged that the rest should follow. It will be readily understood that the return journey was tedious, and it was rendered more so by the teamster, who exhibited no "distressing haste." At Burracoppin Mr. Clare met Mr. Moran, the present member for East Coolgardie, who was pursuing his political campaign for the then huge electorate of Yilgarn. He was asked to take the chair at one of the candidate's meetings held on the wayside. It was a novel election meeting, and the "chair" consisted of a tree stump. The free and independent electors of Yilgarn were represented, says Mr. Clare, by about a dozen teamsters, several "swampers," a boy, two dogs, a dusky daughter of the soil, and a couple of nondescript individuals, whose chief accomplishment was an infinite capacity for drinking. The meeting was at first noisy, but eventually peace prevailed, and Mr. Clare and the teamster were able to get on their way. The teamster often showed eccentric behaviour, and camped in the most ridiculous places on sand plains without water for the horses. Mr. Clare frequently expostulated with him, and urged him to proceed more expeditiously. At Boorabbin the waggoner was still more eccentric, and finally threatened to kill Mr. Clare, and chased him with a huge piece of iron, which was successfully warded off. At Woolgangie the man exhibited unmistakable signs of insanity. He was taken in charge, and removed to the Fremantle Asylum, where he died some months after—a raving lunatic. Mr. Glare now took charge of the horses and dray, and slowly approached Coolgardie, on one occasion being almost lost in the bush while endeavouring to find water.
When his strange travels were ended, Mr. Clare exhibited his printing plant to the populace, who evinced a lively interest in it. The physical travail ended only to give place to the mental. After two months all the plant arrived, and was expeditiously set in order. Then there was "hurrying in hot haste," and when Mr. Glare said he would produce the first number of the paper, appropriately christened the Coolgardie Miner, on the following Saturday, many laughed at the idea, for it was only on the Tuesday that all the machinery came to hand. The experiences of pressmen on American fields were repeated, and the new printing shanty was a hub of excitement. Inside, a couple of compositors worked with their noses in the space-box, sundry people were writing up copy, and Mr. Clare hurried hither and thither in the circumscribed space of the "office." He had difficulty in getting copy; several people volunteered to write up "something," and—did not keep their promises, and it seemed as if the "Long Felt Want" would not appear on the date announced. A couple of Hebraic gentlemen "opened a book" on the event, and several wagers were made in different directions. On Friday night Mr. Clare went round the "town" searching for some one who could set type. Finally he enrolled the services of the local captain of the Salvation Army, a trooper, a chemist, and the manager of a business place in Bayley Street. The assistance of the explorer, David Lindsay, was invoked to produce an article, and he turned it out in two columns. The matter was obtained, but on Saturday morning no Coolgardie Miner appeared. In accordance with the wagers, the paper had to make its journalistic débût by one o'clock. It was 12.25 and still no paper, but at 12.30 an exultant shout heralded the first issue, which sold faster than the machine could print the copies; the "Aching Void" in the district had been filled.
Mr. Clare's troubles did not end with the publication of the paper—on the contrary, they only began. The employees had the educated thirsts peculiar to newspaper offices, and they followed the pernicious habit of getting hilariously intoxicated at intervals, especially on auspicious occasions. Then there was a strike on the part of the compositors, and sundry other annoyances tended to break the monotony of existence. Of the first number of the Coolgardie Miner, 1,200 copies were printed and sold at sixpence each, many of them fetching as much as half-a-crown, and five shillings in the "out back" districts. The succeeding story needs no telling here. Born in tribulation, like the jarrah forest, the Miner became a sturdy giant, opposed to parasitic nuisances. It became the champion of the goldfields' interests, and, perhaps, the strongest newspaper in Western Australia. It evolved into a bi-weekly, and then a daily, with a circulation extending over thousands of miles of local territory, and even into the other colonies and to Great Britain. It has been the nursery of goldfields journalists. From it sprang the Pioneer, a weekly production, without a peer in the colony. Happily, Mr. Clare has had an experience which, probably, no newspaper proprietor in the world can lay claim to; in three years he cleared a comfortable fortune. In company with others, he is about to launch the Westralian Star, a new evening journal, at Kalgoorlie.
Mr. Clare's generosity and kindliness of heart are known all over the fields, and many an impoverished person in Coolgardie has to thank him for his liberality. He can fairly lay claim to being a pioneer of one of the greatest goldfields in the world, and before his visit to England in December, 1895, he was banqueted by one of the most representative gatherings of colonial pioneers that ever assembled to pay parting respects to a friend. Mr. Clare is interested in a large number of Westralian mines, and has his name on the directorate of several. He was the prime mover and instigator of the memorial fund to Arthur Bayley, the pioneer, and organised entertainments on behalf of the fund. He is possessed of splendid commercial abilities, and Coolgardie and Perth people will testify to his social qualities. He and his paper have ever fought the fight of right, and both personally, and through his bright journals, he has been a tower of strength in Western Australia. To his endurance and daring enterprise Coolgardie owes the birth of a powerful journal. And when one glances retrospectively on the many vicissitudes that he encountered in his struggle to gain his end, encomiums for his pluck should be strongly couched. His experiences of the early days of Coolgardie, if recorded, would form an interesting volume, and act as a valuable contribution to the historical sequence of the goldfields. His name is indissolubly linked with journalism in Western Australia.
There is a bio of WE Clare here, by Warren Bert Kimberly, from his History of West Australia, Niven, Melbourne, 1897; as pdf here.
WE ClareMEN I REMEMBER
Billy Clare and His Colorful Career
(BY ALFRED CHANDLER.)
THE romance of the "Coolgardie Miner" I have already touched upon in one of my sketches, but the story as told by its founder is aa colorful as anything In Australian Journalism. One day In June, 1893, a young Englishman employed in the famous Bayley's Reward mine was counting his fortnightly pay just received when the manager, Captain Beaglehole, asked him if he was not a printer, and getting an affirmative reply, went on— "Well, why not start a paper In Coolgardie?" "No cash." "Then call a meeting of the Progress Association and form a syndicate or a company." That young fellow was "Billy" Clare, and possessing quick perception he jumped at the idea. Off he went and the muster was held in the Exchange Hotel, built by Evan Wisdom (afterwards Brigadier-General Wisdom, who served through the Great War and was subsequently appointed Administrator of German New Guinea at Rabaul). The urgency of a local newspaper was admitted but the prospectors had a queer idea of the financial equation they wanted Billy to do all the pro- ducing while they divided the profits. Nothing doing! Then the genial Wil- liam retired to bis camp and reviewed the proposition and the prospects. Finally he decided to go to Perth and see if he could
SCRAPE TOGETHER ENOUGH TYPE
and an old press to turn out a weekly news sheet. Money was limited, he could not afford a seat on the coach, so there was nothing for it but to do the 800 miles per boot. Think of lt, you chaps who ride in trains, or motor buses, or trains, or "streamline" models of 1937. Would you tackle 300 miles there and 300 miles back on your corns? Well, Billy Clare did, and his great hike was a veritable odyssey. On a Sunday morning he took the track with 7lb. of flour and a 2lb. tin of beef. The tramp to Southern Cross was not lonely. How could it be with hundreds of excited "swampers" hurrying to the land of golden promise and singing to the welkin in anticipation. He reached Southern Cross, 114 miles, at the end of the fourth day. and I believe he had a refresher, probably two refreshers, in spite of the shortage of silver. Then he rolled himself In his good old rug and camped under the "fly" of the warden's tent. With daylight he was up again, enjoyed a rasher of bacon, replenished his commissariat and off again on his
MARATHON JAUNT.
At the Merredin Rock he left the beaten track and traversed the Tootalgin Forest, now a great wheat field, but then without habitation, until he struck Mr. Luke, an Englishman, who had started a sheep station with a few hundred Jumbucks. He was a cultured man and entertained his unusual guest. After a further stretch of lonely migration Billy reached another isolated settler, Martin by name, who insisted on calling the new goldfield Goolgardie. "Why, man," he said, "we knowed there was gold there 20 years ago and we'd a-had lt only a pote wrote a pome about us and bust up our syndicate." York was now within coo-ee, and from there he boarded a train and steamed into Perth. It took weeks to rake together scraps of printing material, including a lot of "pied" type and an ancient lever press, the Government Printer, the "West Australian" and Horace Stirling contributing. Eventually the "plant" was sorted out and packed, the conundrum being how lt was to be transported to the vicinity of Fly Flat. The railway from Northam to Southern Cross had been started and the contractor, Joe McDowell,
FRANKED BILLY AND HIS OUTFIT
to the head of the construction works. Finally, he landed in Coolgardie with some of his plant, but the remainder was missing. However, Harry Gregory, then running a galvanised iron tank factory, volunteered to go down the track and rescue the lost press and type. He found lt and never lost sight of it till he landed it in Coolgardie. That was a Tuesday and Billy and his "comp.", Dick Stone, red-headed and fiery as a red bullant, determined to issue the first newspaper on the following Saturday. Jack Drake, a New Zealand journalist, took charge as editor and reeled off reams of lively copy, assisted by "Dryblower" Ted Murphy, and a Salvation Army officer and other volunteers working night and day. On Saturday the "Coolgardie Miner" appeared, the whole issue going off like hot cakes. It was a financial success from the jump and in a very short period an up-to-date press and new type was ordered from the East, and it was while Billy Clare was down in Perth taking delivery that he
MET F. C. B. VOSPER
and made him editor on the spot. In the meantime there had been quick changes in the "chair." Jack Drake had the gold fever and struck out into the mulga. "Smiler" Hales took charge and made things lively — who does not remember his description of the first wedding In Coolgardie? It was a classic. Jack Underwood was another recruit, who later struck out for Klondyke, and he was for years editor of a big daily In Seattle. Jack Cameron, a fine journalist, also steered the "Miner," but wanderlust led him to America and to the Riviera, where he ran a paper and joined the British consular service. All these men were out of the common and rose to eminence, and they all loved Billy Clare. After Billy's high flight in London he returned to Perth and again launched into journalism. His first venture was the "Sunday Chronicle," published on Saturday nights. But it did not catch on and he passed it over to Joe Charles. Next he started "Clare's Weekly," with Jack Cameron as editor, and it did take on. He
SECURED BEN STRANGE
as a cartoonist; and a Mr. Symons, a Melbourne stockbroker and trenchant publicist, who had figured as "Attlcus" in the Melbourne "Leader" (the "Age" weekly), while Mrs. Cameron (Jack's mother), an accomplished pen-woman, took charge of the social section. Meanwhile Billy, of all men, built a brewery at the behest of Tom Aitken, a scion of the malt-and-hops Aitkens, of Melbourne. But the two alien interests did not assimilate, and the brewery dropped into the hands of Messrs. Horgan, Pennyfather and Vansetti. As a brewery, however, lt was unique in its rapid succession of unmitigated failures, till finally the late Henry Seligson, financier, had lt converted into a dwelling for his family. As Billy put it to me: "It was but a small concern, but lt housed a world of trouble (and broad comedy) which I relish in memory to this day." The fate of "Clare's Weekly" was more tragic. It looked a sure winner till a fire broke out in the printing works and the whole place was gutted, a model plant and machinery being destroyed. Arson was suspected, provoked by a thirst for revenge, yet the coroner deprecated inquiry and refused to take action! "Clare's Weekly" faded, the
COPYRIGHT WAS SOLD BY AUCTION
and knocked down to A. C. Morgans for £500. The name was then altered to "The Argonaut " and Hal Colebatch (now A.G. in London) took charge, but somehow it failed to prosper, notwithstanding that it was a well-written Journal. Billy then went in search of an auriferous bonanza in the goldfields outback, having as mate Bill Lockhart, one of the keenest prospectors and finest bushmen In Australia. But Golcondas were elusive and Billy came back to journalism. He had 3000 shares (one-third) in Vesper's "Sunday Times," which he sold when the "People's Tribune" passed out. A flutter with the "Bunbury Herald" followed, but the meddling of the local syndicate was fatal. Hic Jacet! Later Billy ran the "Fremantle Herald" and the "Fremantle Advocate," the story of which would be a best seller. Of late, W. B. Clare, the hero of many ventures in W.A. goldfields and metropolis - has been feeling the weight ot years, and compelled to retire from the arena. But he still retains his memory of stirring days and can interest one with his reminiscences.
The Sunday Times, 24 October 1937
Funeral
THE LATE 'BILLY' CLARE
The funeral of the late Mr. William Edward ('Billy') Clare, of 31 Ocean road, Cottesloe, who died on Friday last, took place in the Church of England portion of the Karrakatta Cemetery on Monday morning. The rector of St. John's Church, Frmnantle, the Rev. Canon E. M. Collick, conducted the service at the graveside, in the presence of a large and representative gathering. Canon Collick, in the course of an address, referred in very feeling terms to the wonderfully good and useful life of Mr. Clare, whom he had known since they were both young men on the goldfields. The canon said that Mr. Clare was always an inspiration to meet, jovial, cheery, always a bright soul, fearless in his convictions, but absolutely just and fair. His attractive personality was imposing. He (the canon) had journeyed back from England with him on one occasion and during that trip was in very close touch with him and he could truthfully say that Mr. Clare was one who was not only very highly respected, but really affectionately regarded by all. His passing would be greatly felt, as he was one of the State's real pioneers and one who had assisted in no small measure in its progress. On behalf of himself and those present the canon expressed sincere sympathy with the bereaved relatives. Mr. Clare, who was born at St. Helen's, Lancashire, England, came to Australia in 1888. He arrived in Western Australia at the commencement of the gold rush in 1893 and took a printing plant to Coolgardie by team from York. This was in 1894, and on the goldfields his staff included 'Smiler' Hales, the late F. O. Vosper, the late 'Dryblower' Murphy, the late John Drayton and Messrs. J. H. Armstrong and William Robertson, the two last-named being still resident in Perth. Mr. Clare held interests in many newspapers from time to time and was one of the very few remaining citizens who had a first-hand and intimate knowledge of the very early goldfields days. He was of a quiet and unostentatious disposition, but his versatile knowledge of general topics and his extensive travel experience made him a most interesting conversationalist, and he was held in very high esteem in the community. He leaves a wife, two sons, two grandsons, two granddaughters and two great-grandchildren to mourn their loss.
The Kalgoorlie Miner, Thursday 11 April 1940
Passing of Billy Clare
A dear friend of "The Sunday Times" and of thousands of old goldfielders and of Western Australians generally passed away on Friday in the person of Mr. W. E. Clare at the age of 78.
Billy Clare, as he was fondly known in and outside the profession, came to Coolgardie in the roaring days, founded the first daily paper and led many a stirring fight for goldfields' interests in the years that followed.
Later he figured in journalism in Bunbury and Fremantle, and his virile pen was always at the service of the suffering and oppressed.
He was one of the old-time newspaper men who fought for what he thought was right, and declined to fashion his doctrines to the varying hour, and his generous heart was always ready to respond to the needs of his fellows.
Many will miss him and many will treasure rich memories of their association with his charming and cultured personality.
He was a good journalist, a fine citizen and a dear, friendly soul who drew to him friends from every section of the community.
Peace to him!
The Sunday Times [Perth], Sunday 7 April 1940: 1
BILLY CLARE ABROAD
A Returned Man Reminisces
The almost unbelievable changes that have been wrought In England, industrially, socially, architecturally and generally, cannot be better explained and exemplified than with a chat with the just-returned Billy Clare.
Always of a keen, observant nature, during his last stay in England he travelled extensively all over the country, seeing with a mind broadened by long travel and experiences in other countries, the kaleidoscope ot the Mother Country as few others would be able to do.
One of the first and most prominent thoughts expressed by him is the fact that Australia, and particularly Western Australia, has good cause and reasons to be proud of its newspapers. England, once the home of the sober and solid newspaper of the type of 30 years ago, the London 'Times,' the 'Manchester Guardian,' the 'Daily Telegraph.' 'Post,' 'Standard' and a dozen others that stood four-square for high ideals In journalism and politics, has few remaining that have not descended to the Yellow or, Screaming Press. The exceptions are, of course, the 'Times' and a few others, but a visitor to London especially is appalled by the cheap and shoddy ways and means of boosting circulation in ways that a few decades ago would have been laughed off the streets and newspaper stands. Does Bradman get out cheaply, a flock of news-gulls inkily scream lt from the steeples. Does favorite race moke fail to win the 'Two Thirty' or some other country cum suburban flutter, a score of printed sheets flame it from kerb and placard, from board to poster and from blazing sky-sign to captive balloon. Trifles such as would have been the tit-bit of puny kerbstone rags a few years ago. are sent smoking hot off the presses of papers owned by millionaires, and while tennis results wipe European politics off the journalistic map, the scandal of someiIneffable Hollywood hero and vaudeville doll shout down the real reliable news of its soberer rivals. Even the good old reliable murders of aforetime are second to jazz-andcocktail corroborees and football finishes, the space alloted when Australia ls ahead in a Test being equal to that one time given to a poodle show.
The city, i.e., the Stock Exchange, Throgmorton-avenue, the Bank and Mansion House, are now thronged with hordes of pale youths, clamoring for the latest from Goodwood. Newmarket, Elstree and the Wimbledon courts. Where of old staid stockbrokers met and discussed British bonds, big company issues, thousands speak and seem to think of nothing but the raids on night clubs, s.p. joints, stage divorces and ballet-girl elopements. Somewhere in dull-looking, quiet banks, offices, and clearing houses, staid and sober men. bankers, merchants, finance experts and political chiefs care for the welfare of the nation. The rest seems tinsel and effervescences. Hundreds of society women carry one or more poodle.
Away out in the far suburbs and country, strong, healthy women still bear children.
The Sunday Times [Perth] 15 July 1934
BILLY CLARE AND MARK TWAIN
That grand old newspaperman, Billy Clare who died last night, was once mistaken for Mark Twain.
There was a striking likeness to Mark Twain and once he was cheered when he attended a smoke social at the Savage Club, at which the famous author was also due.
When Mark Twain was introduced to Mr. Clair [sic], he remarked: 'That old saying, 'Never the twain shall meet.' is all wrong.
The Mirror [Perth] Saturday 6 April 1940: 8
MISTAKEN IDENTITY
Billy Clare's Experience
Mr. "Billy" Clare, the well-known newspaper proprietor, who returned from a holiday tour last week, relates an incident which occurred when he visited a town tn North Wales. In stature and appearance Mr. Clare is not unlike Mr. Lloyd George, and at the Welsh town he was accosted by an aggressive-looking stranger, who inquired if he was the "little Welshman." When he (Billy C.) gave an assurance that he was not that famous personality, the stranger told him it was just as well, as he would not have been alive from that moment.
The Sunday Times [Perth] 15 October 1933
References
Kimberly, Warren Bert 1897, bio of W.E. Clare, History of West Australia, Niven, Melbourne.
This page incorporates material from Garry Gillard's Freotopia website, that he started in 2014 and the contents of which he donated to Wikimedia Australia in 2024. The content was originally created on 13 December, 2015 and hosted at freotopia.org/people/clare.html (it was last updated on 25 January, 2024), and has been edited since it was imported here (see page history). The donated data is also preserved in the Internet Archive's collection.
This page incorporates material from Garry Gillard's Freotopia website, that he started in 2014 and the contents of which he donated to Wikimedia Australia in 2024. The content was originally hosted at freotopia.org/clubs/freoworkers/Clare.html, and has been edited since it was imported here (see page history). The donated data is also preserved in the Internet Archive's collection.