Written by Maximilian Reid, RAHS Volunteer‘

‘Our Don Bradman’

Australian stories flow with cricket. Perhaps none more so than Donald Bradman, whose bronze statues, street names and ubiquitous average of 99.94 are full throated in their praise. This edition of Outside Off is not. In keeping with past editions, we seek to illustrate Australian society through cricket afforded by cricket’s unique moral dimensions. One of the most complex moral dimensions of cricket and one mirrored in today’s is faith. Faith in Bradman’s heyday of the 1930s almost exclusively meant Christian, as Australia of this time was exclusive and culturally homogenous [1]. The question then and instructive for us now was, Catholic or Protestant?

Muscular Christianity is exactly how it sounds. Physical weakness was spiritual weakness and the only cure was the Gospel, self-discipline and exercise [2]. Cricket and Christianity were flexed with preening energy throughout cricket’s development and well into the 20^th century. Writing in the late Victorian era, the Revered Edward Cacroft Lefroy provided a unique snapshot into this cultural phenomenon;

The whole edifice of Christian virtues could be raised on a basis of good cricket.”

What does this mean?
Firstly, ‘good cricket’ means deference. Either to the Umpire and the Laws or to God and his Commandments, a practice of both makes them synonymous. What is not said however that it is specifically the God at the head of the Church of England in need of obeying, for Eric Midwinter so succinctly put;“If the Church of England was the Conservative Party at prayer, then cricket was the Conservative Party at play.”[3] The ubiquity by which elites of religion, government and cricket operated in both England and in Australia is difficult to overstate. Large numbers of the MCC were amateur cricketers and members, one in three Oxbridge cricketers between 1860 and 1900 took holy orders, 59 of these played county cricket and seven became bishops[4]. Whilst Australian cricket had diverged around class and a very limited degree race, it still bore many similarities to the top-heavy administration seen in the ‘Mother Country’. Cricket wasn’t Catholic.

“Ultimately, leadership is associated with authority, and the exercise of power, or the structures of power that enable such authority to exist[5].”- Jon Gemmell in Cricket’s Changing Ethos

“Don’t you worry about Don Bradman alright? Don Bradman doesn’t like people like us[6]”. Actor William McInnes, quoting his father, 2020

Despite social instability, war trauma and economic depression there was one thing the Australian public could always rely on. Bradman scoring runs. Apart from the forever controversial Bodyline series of 1932-1933, Bradman was still a run machine whose score of 452 not out for NSW in 1930 was the highest first-class score ever. Behind the understandable adulation of a public starved of hope, Bradman cut a lonely figure who did not socialise or drink with his teammates[7]. Even his iconic golf ball, stump and water tank Trinity is fundamentally an act of repetition without mentorship or community. This intense reservation got worse after retirement, creating something which biographer Christine Wallace called a ‘Japanese Emperor Effect’. Whereby the more reclusive he was, the bigger the interest grew and created the blank slate by which to project glory or to righteously condemn[8]. Wallace notes the principle charge among these was that he was anti-Catholic. Evidencing that throughout a personal correspondence with Rohan Rivett (friend and fellow Mason) which spanned decades, Bradman never hinted at any religious bigotry or otherwise[9].

This may be so. I contend that Bradman would never be as careless to put anything of the sort in writing and counter with the fact that Bradman did voice his bigotry toward Catholicism in the form of Jack Fingleton. Fingleton before opening the batting at the SCG, had his bat blessed with holy water by a Catholic priest. He was dismissed early.

“We’ll see what a dry bat will do out here” [10].- Donald Bradman to Jack Fingleton after Fingleton’s dismissal. Bradman scored a century.

This quip may seem innocuous to the ‘banter’ excesses of recent years but in context of the social structure of cricket and the 1930s such a remark becomes far more serious. Furthermore, Bill O’Reilly strongly contended that he, Fingleton and other Catholic players their careers hampered and threatened throughout first-class cricket[11].

So, who is right?

Ultimately, we look to leadership and that the power structures that allow it to exist. For Bradman as player, selector and administrator he led and prospered. It is therefore no coincidence that greatest split between Catholic and Protestant was not between players but between players and administrators, creating an exclusive cultural elite. For this elite, simple sectarianism would not be enough but rather membership of the Masonic Lodge would fully assure a place at the table[12].Though at the top, protected and untouchable, Bradman was alone. Despite his endless branding as both cultural and literal commodity, he was not the hero of the Australian story.

Just who really is the hero of the Australian story? What do they believe?

Throughout our cultural development as a centralised polity it’s clear that there are some versions more valued than others. The over saturated Aussie Larrikin, the white male between 21-35 attributable to but not limited to disrespect of authority, anti-intellectualism and misogyny. The semi-autobiographical My Brother Jack by George Johnston gives this archetype real depth and a quiet power to illustrate Melbourne suburbia of the 1930s through a fascinating duality. This duality of identity is relevant because throughout social upheaval, the chauvinist narrative of faith breaks. Put simply, people are complicated. So, whilst a carefree Jack is jealously admired by his younger brother, the narrator David, he actively rebels against his Protestant father by having a Catholic girlfriend.

 

 

“Are you out of your wits? We’re Protestants in this house. Protestants, do you understand! This is a decent Godfearing house. And I want no confounded Roman Catholics under this roof whether they’re sick or they’re not sick!”[13].

Most of the stereotypes of this novel are treated uncritically, including Jack himself[14]. Yet, in its brutal honesty of family life during the 1930s, Johnston’s Jack rather accidentally serves to demythologise his own trope by acting against a power imbalance which directly benefitted him. This is the duality, that Jack is every bit the trope but for this moment reacts as a human being. This simple want for companionship or love may illustrate a pattern that links in Bradman. His aloofness is instructive by comparing how his some of his teammates from both faiths trained in community, from Lindwall to Harvey[15]. Without falling into the pitfalls of unqualified Bradman psychoanalysis as rightly cautioned by Wallace, we can still make the following conclusions. The first, that sectarianism in cricket was reinforced from top-down and Bradman by his leadership position endorsed these views. The second, that reinforcing a social hierarchy based on oppression is dehumanising both in its enforcement and its victims.

A central theme about Outside Off is uncertainty. It’s in the name. The line of a ball that is just beyond off stump which being played at could result in dismissal for the batter or a cracking boundary. The uncertainty here is about stereotypes, in religion, our national figures and national stories. Basic logic is that to have uncertainty there must be certainty- there must be a line of off to bowl to. One conclusion from David Utting’s review of Australia’s Annual Report of 2017 is that there is a long way to go before that line of equity in race, religion and gender is met.

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References:

[1] Haigh, Gideon Game For Anything. London; Aurum Press Ltd, 2012, chap 8, Kindle

[2] Bateman, Anthony Cricket, Literature and Culture: Symbolising the Nation, Destablising Empire (Ashgate Publishing Company, Burlington, 2009), 1

[3] Jon Gemmell. Cricket’s Changing Ethos; Nobles, Nationalists and the IPL, Palgrave Macmillan, 2018, 51

[4] Mike Marquesee. Anyone but England: Cricket, Race and Class. London; Bloomsbury Publishing, 2016 , Kindle, 105

[5] Jon Gemmell. Cricket’s Changing Ethos; Nobles, Nationalists and the IPL, Palgrave Macmillan, 2018,

[6] McInnes, William. “The Final Word Podcast”. Interview by Adam Collins and Geoff Lemon. The Final Word Podcast, June 24th 2020. Audio 46:49. https://finalwordcricket.com/2020/06/25/season-8-ep-15-william-mcinnes/

[7] Wallace , Christine. The Private Don: Don Bradman on cricket, investment, politics, the media, family and friends. Sydney; Allen & Unwin, 2004 225

[8] Wallace , Christine. The Private Don: Don Bradman on cricket, investment, politics, the media , family and friends. Sydney; Allen & Unwin, 2004 10

[9] Wallace , Christine. The Private Don: Don Bradman on cricket, investment, politics, the media , family and friends. Sydney; Allen & Unwin, 2004 224

[10] Derriman,Phillip. 2008 A Notorious feud, an ugly sectarian conflict. September 27. Accessed 23rd July 2020. https://www.smh.com.au/sport/a-notorious-feud-an-ugly-sectarian-conflict-20080927-gdswmk.html

[11] Fraser, David. Cricket and the Law; the Man in White is Always Right. London; Routledge, 2005 307

[12]Fraser, David. Cricket and the Law; the Man in White is Always Right. London; Routledge, 2005

[13] Johnston, George. My Brother Jack. Australia; Harper Collins Publishers, 2013. Chapter, Kindle

[14] Johnston, George. My Brother Jack. Australia; Harper Collins Publishers, 2013. Chapter, Kindle into

[15] Haigh, Gideon Game For Anything. London; Aurum Press Ltd, 2012, chap 8, Kindle

Written by RAHS volunteer Elizabeth Heffernan

On Friday, 1 July 1932, after the 8pm bells of Sydney’s General Post Office, Conrad Charlton announced to the country: “This is the Australian Broadcasting Commission.” [1]

It was the ABC’s first wireless radio broadcast after the Australian Broadcasting Commission Act 1932 was passed on 17 May. The transmission is estimated to have reached 6% of the country’s population at the time—almost 400 000 people from as far away as Perth. [2] The leaders of Australia’s three main political parties—Prime Minister Joseph Lyons, Leader of the Opposition James Scullin, and Dr Earle Page of the Country Party—each made their own address as part of the broadcast from three different capital cities. It was the beginning of a long and fruitful career for the ABC as the country’s preeminent broadcaster. Today, close to twenty million Australians tune in via television and radio every week. [3]

The Australian Broadcasting Commission, renamed the Australian Broadcasting Corporation in 1983, has become not only a source for news but for entertainment, culture, and life-saving bulletins, particularly during the bushfires this past summer. [4] Yet this was not always the case. In the 1930s the ABC was forbidden from broadcasting blasphemy, coarse language, “controversial questions concerning politics or religion”, and much more. The broadcaster began with only two radio stations per capital city: one for popular programming, the other for parliamentary broadcasts, debates, and classical music. Only in 1950 did the ABC begin to broadcast internationally, while televised broadcasts had to wait until 1956. [5]

Today, the Australian Broadcasting Corporation operates four national radio stations, 54 local stations, and five television channels. [6] It is unlikely that those involved in its very first broadcast, 88 years ago, could have foreseen the spectacular future that lay ahead. Amidst recent announcements of job and programming cuts, it is difficult to foresee what the next 88 years may bring. If the past is any indicator, however, those years will be as innovative, meaningful, and enduring as the ABC itself.

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References:

[1] Quentin Dempster, “A Short History of the ABC”, ABC Alumni, 2014, accessed 29 June 2020, <https://www.abcalumni.net/news-and-views/a-short-history-of-the-abc>.
[2] Dempster, “A Short History”; “Start of the ABC”, National Museum of Australia, last updated 22 April 2020, accessed 29 June 2020, <https://www.nma.gov.au/defining-moments/resources/start-of-the-abc>.
[3] “Start of the ABC”.
[4] Amanda Meade, “Australians say ABC saved lives during summer bushfires, royal commission told”, The Guardian, 2 June 2020, accessed 29 June 2020, <https://www.theguardian.com/media/2020/jun/02/australians-say-abc-saved-lives-during-summer-bushfires-royal-commission-told>.
[5] “Start of the ABC”; Dempster, “A Short History”.
[6] “Start of the ABC”.

 

Riot, Bets and Class

Cricket is now the prevailing amusement of the day. Let no man henceforth set up for a sporting character whose name is not enrolled among the ‘gentlemen cricketers’ of Sydney”[1] The Sydney Gazette, on the formation of a new cricket club, 1832.

Victorian gentility, civility, and sobriety. If there is ever an image to be conjured of early colonial cricket, it seems to be this one. [2] However, early colonial cricket in Sydney was coarse. Inter-colonial rivalry, gambling, drinking, and cheating were all commonplace. In retrospect, the Riot of 1879 is in keeping with Australian irreverence in being both utterly serious and farcical. February 8th, the day of the riot, underscores this perfectly. Not only are two prominent Australians directly involved in this match, no less than Edmund Barton as umpire and Banjo Patterson as rioter but it also was the same day that Ned Kelly dictated the Jerilderie Letter. In this essay, I will contextualise the Riot of 1879 and its aftermath, and through the lens of cricket challenge certainties of national and social cohesion.

‘No trifling degree of interest’

If there is one theme by which to measure colonial cricket in Sydney it is enthusiasm. Cricket was popular. The game was enjoyed by young and old and, unlike in England, it crossed broader class boundaries.[3] Yet, as the previous edition of Outside Off makes clear, despite some exceptions the game was at the apex of a British patriarchal society. The leisure by which to watch, play and earn from the game still had rigid boundaries. If it did not tightly constrain, it actively excluded those outside the ‘mainstream’. Women and people of colour were either ignored or omitted. [4] It is relevant to understand how this reflected the Australian society of the nineteenth century and how its legacy still informs our own. Societal leisure, like sport can seem removed but it is critical to understand that leisure is reflective of society and not separate to it.
Where cricket existed there was rivalry. Where there was rivalry, there were bets. The Australian of the 1830s offers an insight into this curious relationship by declaring that cricket’s ‘noble English character’ was naturally free from ‘intemperance and gambling’. [5] Yet in 1836, J.R. Hardy as editor of the Australian and prominent cricketer himself, suggested the demolition of Cricket Grounds to precisely prevent such behaviour.[6] If gambling on cricket was prominent, then so was antagonism. Animosity between sporting groups is simple to foster but in Australia there seemed to be a special enthusiasm for cheating and underhanded tactics. Illegal bowling actions, condition of the wickets, the ball and even the length of matches all characterised early inter-colonial matches.[7] One match between the Currency and Cumberland (Parramatta) Clubs in 1845, which had 10 shillings per bat as prize money, was noted for a ball so soaked in oil that it had no elasticity and a wicket that sloped so far downward it was farcical. The Cumberland men expressed profound dissatisfaction.[8]

This was the society of cricket in Sydney, egalitarian if only in its sense to cheat and gamble equally. Cricket was not rarefied in the same way by the same people. It was this society that the English touring side of 1879, gentlemen most and professionals few, took guard.

However, for the Marylebone Cricket Club, cricket was not simply respected it was revered. If these early cricket matches between the Australian colonies and England reveal anything, is that this cultural exchange was from high status to low. Because cricket was viewed by many at the time as making the bonds of empire stronger, there is little doubt as to whom is owed fealty. Jared Van Duinen, cricket writer and sports historian, certainly views the decade before the Riot as a ‘high water mark of British race Imperialism’ in Australia.[9] Thus, the ensuing worsening of relations cannot be entirely a moment of proto-nationalism simply because frequent references to ‘British character’ and ‘British race’ are all in the fallout. Yet there is one stressor to this particular cultural exchange above most, both inside and outside of cricket – Class.

Throughout the tour and its aftermath, English class distinctions were asserted rigorously. For example, the ‘players’ (those that tried to make a living from the game), were sent to Australia on second class tickets and stayed at cost effective hotels having only been selected to do the strenuous fast bowling in the Australian heat.[10] The actual cost of the tour itself was at the behest of the Melbourne Cricket Club, who ‘hosted’. A stark contrast to the Australian Tour of England in 1878 where capital was raised as a joint stock venture, all players contributing £50 each with a 16-match preliminary tour.[11] The XI selected for this touring side were overwhelmingly from the upper classes and thus enjoyed significant support from their aristocratic peers. Oxbridge graduates, missionaries and peers all emphatically followed their progress. [12] English cricket’s cultural exchange was from a fundamentally conservative framework, a high-class social function both respected and revered. Low colonial frivolity would not break Faith with the Laws of the Game.

“I was surrounded by a howling mob”
–Fourth Lord Harris in a letter to a friend 11th February 1879.

The Riot itself like most controversies on a cricket field began with a disputed umpire’s decision. The star Australian batsman, Billy Murdoch, was judged by umpire George Coulthard to have been run out for 10 in New South Wales’ second innings reply to England’s total of 267. This decision was not received well by the crowd, the majority of whom had ignored signage about the illegality of betting and heavily backed a victory for NSW.[13] The crowd may have been further incensed by what it perceived to be bias from the umpire, Coulthard. Coulthard was no ordinary umpire. He was a star player for Carlton and a rising cricket talent for his home colony, Victoria. He further ‘endeared’ himself to the hearts of NSW by failing to give out to his employer, Lord Harris, who was caught behind during England’s first innings.[14] For giving Murdoch out and thus NSW’s only chance of saving the match, the pitch was invaded.
Here follows much dispute about what happened next. Either Coulthard or Lord Harris were struck by rioters unknown. What is certain however is that an England player, Albert ‘Monkey’ Hornby had his shirt ripped whilst accosting a pitch invader.[15] Notably, umpire Barton agreed with his counterpart in both decisions.
Play was halted. When play resumed on Monday, NSW eventually lost by an innings and 41 runs.

The aftermath was fierce. Letters, accusations, rebuttals filled newspaper columns. Some from the crowd accused the England players of calling them ‘sons of low convicts’.[16] In response to this accusation and others, Lord Harris penned a letter. In this letter, he vociferously denied all suspicions that umpire Coulthard had bet on the match, that any of his team had behaved poorly and lay blame squarely on the crowd, for illegal betting. [17] This was not received well in NSW. The response is best evidenced by the New South Wales Cricket Association. A letter, appearing in The Argus, the Sydney Echo and the Mercury was unequivocal.

“The country upon which such reproach could be fastened would be unworthy of a place among civilized communities, and in the imputation is especially odious to Australians who claim to have maintained the manly, generous and hospitable characteristics of the British race.” [18]

Insults to perceived ‘British racial characteristics’ may invite parallels to American revolutionary language around ‘British rights’ but direct comparison distorts the unique Australian context. This war of words about cricket demonstrates a nuance of an ‘Australian’ identity masked by the very things so intolerable to the class lens of English society. Cricket through its own eccentricities is self-defeating. Fundamentally a conservative construct, to nurture hegemonies ensures precisely the opposite; idiosyncrasy, agency, and character. The Riot of 1879 is one moment among many that illuminates this.

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References:

Jack Pollard, The Complete Illustrated History of Australian Cricket (Ringwood, Victoria: Viking, 1992).

Jared Van Duinen, The British World and an Australian National Identity; Anglo-Australian Cricket, 1860-1901 (London: Palgrave Macmillan, 2018).

Phillip Derriman and Pat Mullins, Bat & Pad: Writings on Australian Cricket 1804-2001 (Marrickville: Australian Consumers Association, 2001).

Anthony Bateman, Cricket, Literature and Culture: Symbolising the Nation, Destabilising Empire (Burlington: Ashgate Publishing Company, 2009).

“Lord Harris and the Sydney Disturbance”. The Mercury, 12^th June 1879. https://trove.nla.gov.au/newspaper/article/8977850

Stephen Wagg, ed., Cricket and National Identity in the postcolonial age; Following On (London UK, Routledge, 2005).

Jas Scott, edited by Richard Cashman & Stephen Gibbs, Early Cricket in Sydney 1803-1856 (Sydney: New South Wales Cricket Association, 1991).

New South Wales Cricket Association, “Lord Harris and the Sydney Cricketers” The Argus, 9^th June 1879. https://trove.nla.gov.au/newspaper/article/5946279

[1] Derriman and Mullins, Bat & Pad, p. 13.

[2] Bateman, Cricket, Literature and Culture, p. 1.

[3] Scott, Cashman and Gibbs, Early Cricket in Sydney 1803-1856, pp. xii-xiii.

[4] Wagg, Cricket and National Identity in the postcolonial age, p. 9.

[5] Scott, Cashman and Gibbs, Early Cricket in Sydney 1803-1856, p. 34.

[6] Scott, Cashman and Gibbs, Early Cricket in Sydney 1803-1856, p. 53.

[7] Pollard, The Complete Illustrated History of Australian Cricket, pp. 4-5.

[8] Scott, Cashman and Gibbs, Early Cricket in Sydney 1803-1856, p. 117.

[9] Van Duinen, The British World and an Australian National Identity, p. 21.

[10] Pollard, The Complete Illustrated History of Australian Cricket, p. 52.

[11] Van Duinen, The British World and an Australian National Identity, p. 31.

[12] Pollard, The Complete Illustrated History of Australian Cricket, p. 53.

[13] Pollard, The Complete Illustrated History of Australian Cricket, p. 55.

[14] Pollard, The Complete Illustrated History of Australian Cricket, p. 55.

[15] Pollard, The Complete Illustrated History of Australian Cricket, p. 55.

[16] Van Duinen, The British World and an Australian National Identity, p. 33.

[17] ‘Lord Harris and the Sydney Disturbance’. The Mercury  12^th January 1879. https://trove.nla.gov.au/newspaper/article/8977850

[18] New South Wales Cricket Association, “Lord Harris and the Sydney Cricketers” The Argus, 9^th June 1879. https://trove.nla.gov.au/newspaper/article/5946279

Written by Elizabeth Heffernan, RAHS volunteer

The twice-a-day Amiens train rattles into Villers-Bretonneux station, dead autumn leaves swept to the sides of the platform and rusted overpass looming above the tracks. The small, French village is silent, cobbled streets empty in the early morning gloom. Google Maps points the way past the houses and into the fields beyond; the path laid out before us is slippery with mud and wet cut grass. Fresh rain promises.

It is three kilometres from the village to the memorial, says Google. In reality it is longer, accounting for pauses in the walk to photograph tilled fields and birds along a telephone wire, until at last: journey’s end. We wipe mud off the bottoms and sides of our shoes, taking shelter beneath concrete overhangs as the rain finally gusts down with the wind. There is no one else here. It feels, all at once, both haven and fortress.

On 25 April 1918, Australian troops of the 13th and 15th Brigades led the recapture of Villers-Bretonneux from the Germans during the First World War. Today we commemorate Anzac Day as the anniversary of the Gallipoli landings, but for the citizens of Villers-Bretonneux, both past and present, Anzac Day means liberation.

Last November, I had the pleasure and privilege of visiting Villers-Bretonneux and the Australian National Memorial for fallen soldiers on the Western Front built just outside town limits. The walking track from the village to the memorial is like a step back in time – turn your head from the houses behind and the monument ahead and the farmland that stretches between seems as though it could be the very same farmland from 1918, mud and trampled grass and all.

The memorial itself is breathtaking. Unveiled in 1938 just shy of the Second World War – and indeed enduring significant damage from the fighting – it consists of a military cemetery, tower, and Cross of Sacrifice that is present in all Commonwealth war cemeteries with forty or more graves. The sixty hornbeam trees originally planted in 1928 to line the cemetery were replaced in 2009 in preparation for the centenary commemorations of 2018. The new, state-of-the-art Sir John Monash Centre museum resides half-buried behind the main memorial, facing the rising sun, and was opened in April 2018. It hosts an interactive, multimedia exhibit that tells the story of Australia on the Western Front in the words of those who served. It is the largest Australian cultural institution outside the country. [1]

Both the town of Villers-Bretonneux and the memorial and museum are highlights on the Australian Remembrance Trail along the Western Front. The trail stretches for two hundred kilometres through France and Belgium; among its other destinations include Amiens and Pozières to the south, Ypres and Messines to the north, with Arras, Fromelles, and Bullecourt between. Villers-Bretonneux is one of the better-known sites on the trail, not only for the actions of the Australian soldiers who fought and died there, but for the unique remembrance of the village itself.

After the war destroyed the town’s school for boys, Australian soldiers along with the Victorian Department for Education raised the funds to build a new school in its place, renamed École Victoria (Victoria College) and inaugurated in 1927. The words ‘Do not forget Australia’ adorn the outdoor playground shelter, and are repeated in French – ‘N’oublions jamais l’Australie’ – inside every classroom. In 1975, the Franco-Australian Museum was opened on the first floor of the school, funded in part by the Australian Government with a collection exclusively formed by donated material that continues to be received today. Even a bar named Le Melbourne, located on the main street Rue de Melbourne, stands as a testament to the shared history, respect, and compassion between Australia and a tiny French township half a world away. [2]

That compassion endures, one hundred years on. On 2 February this year, the Villers-Bretonneux community organised a walk from the town to the memorial to raise funds and awareness for the horrific bushfires of last summer. The Australian Ambassador to France, Brendan Berne, was in attendance along with seven hundred concerned citizens. The walk, and the online fundraiser also initiated by the townspeople of Villers-Bretonneux, raised more than $37 000 for the bushfire cause. Some of the funds went directly to the firefighters of Robinvale, Victoria, the sister town of Villers-Bretonneux since the war, while the rest was donated to the Bega Valley Shire devastated by the fires. Villers-Bretonneux children, beneficiaries of the school rebuilt by Australian soldiers after the war, drew pictures and wrote letters that were sent to fire brigades across the country. [3]

In the light of the COVID-19 epidemic, Villers-Bretonneux has cancelled their 2020 Anzac Day commemorations, as has every town, city, and state in Australia. But cancellation does not mean forgetting, and indeed, solidarity with our friends worldwide is needed now more than ever. One hundred and two years have passed since Australian soldiers liberated Villers-Bretonneux and helped turn the tide against the German Spring Offensive of 1918. That’s one hundred and two years of healing, of rebuilding, of innovating, of moving forward. The town of Villers-Bretonneux today stands as a testament to the men who fought and died for it – who are buried there, or whose names are inscribed on the list of more than 10 700 combatants who have no known graves.

Visiting the memorial at Villers-Bretonneux, I was struck, more than anything, by the quiet. It is hard to imagine one war being fought here, let alone two. Yet history remembers, even if the earth forgets. As one soldier so aptly phrased it, three days after the landings at Gallipoli:

I wonder what this valley will be like when there is no longer noise of fighting, no longer the hurried tread of combating forces—when the raw earth of the trenches is o’erspread with verdant grass … in the clear sky overhead, instead of the bursting shrapnel, little fleecy clouds—the scream of shrapnel, the Hell noise of the firing, giving place to an unbroken stillness save for the chirping of a bird or the soft buzzing of the bee! I wonder would it be thus!

Ellis Silas, 28 April 1915, in diary August 1914–26 June 1916, revised transcript of original, Mitchell Library, State Library of New South Wales, MLMSS 1840.

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References:

[1] Elizabeth Mismes, ‘Guided Tour: In Memory of Australian Soldiers’, in Centre Sir John Monash: Villers-Bretonneux, ed. Claude Pommereau (Paris: Beaux Arts & Cie, 2018), p. 26.

[2] ‘Southern Region – Villers-Bretonneux’, in Australian Remembrance Trail along the Western Front: A Traveller’s Guide (Canberra: Department of Veterans Affairs, 2018), p. 22.

[3] ‘French raise money for bushfires’, Department of Veterans Affairs, 4 March 2020, accessed 22 April 2020, <https://www.dva.gov.au/newsroom/latest-news-veterans/french-raise-money-bushfires>.

Written by RAHS Volunteer and Copywriter Christina King

This blog post is part of a series entitled ‘The Convict Experience: Love, Life and Liberty Beyond the Chains’. Each month we will explore a different – and often rather unusual – type of primary evidence historians can use to hear convict voices telling their own stories.

Previous editions on Convict Tattoos and Love Tokens are still available to read online.

What was flash language and who used it?

Originating in the criminal underworld of Britain, flash language developed as a means of communication amongst the convicts of the new colony.[1] In fact, flash terms and phrases were so incomprehensible to the authorities, that ‘in the early days of colonisation a court-appointed interpreter was often required to translate the depositions of the witnesses and the accused.’[2]

‘Flash’ was the informal description for the language; the term used in more formal contexts was ‘cant’ language.[3] It is difficult to ascertain whether all convicts would have been familiar with the vocabulary of flash language. Certainly though, enough of them utilised it to have earned themselves the title of “flash men”.

Who were these people though? One surviving primary source provides a clue into individual “flash men” and their stories. The source is entitled simply the Registry of Flash Men and is a compilation of ‘persons of interest’ to the police. Accumulated between 1841 and 1846, not only does the registry list the convicts’ names, but also details including known aliases and associates, appearance, occupation, temperament, and even detail on whether they arrived in NSW as a convict or a free settler. Written mostly in the hand of Commissioner of Police William Augustus Miles, the work seems to have been one of a few registers. Sadly, only this volume has survived. [4]

Why did flash language develop?

Simon Barnard explains that ‘communicating in slang provided criminals with the means to deceive and confuse the authorities.’ [5] In fact, flash language proved to be a highly effective ‘form of subversion of authority’ on the part of the convicts in a world where they had little voice, freedom, or control over their lives. [6]

Perhaps inevitably, the literate aristocracy has been largely responsible for the recorded usage of criminal slang. One important exception, however, is the work entitled A New and Comprehensive Vocabulary of the Flash Language published in 1819 and compiled by convict James Hardy Vaux. Despite being raised as a gentleman from a respectable family, Hardy Vaux rejected the expectations of aristocratic life and instead found himself convicted and transported to NSW three times in 1801, 1810, and again in 1831. [7]

How was flash language received in the colony?

British marine officer Captain-Lieutenant Watkin Tench was so opposed to the use of flash language amongst prisoners that he believed its very usage to be a barrier to convicts reforming their behaviour. He advocated ‘an abolition of this unnatural jargon [to] open the path to reformation… [and] a return to honest pursuits and habits of industry’. [8]

In addition, many writers and journalists of the day either omitted or edited flash slang from their writing, ‘fearing that slang would normalise and perpetuate criminal behaviour.’ [9]

Interestingly though, Simon Barnard outlines that James Hardy Vaux’s dictionary, upon its release in Australia, was so in demand that it ‘appears to have sold out.’ Various accounts of lawyers being in urgent need of a copy of the dictionary in Van Diemen’s Land also suggest that members of the free settler class saw some value in the work, if only to be able to better understand the convict language. [10]

Examples of flash language

James Hardy Vaux’s original dictionary was an addition to his larger work Memoirs of James Hardy Vaux. The glossary of convict slang was originally dedicated (whether tongue-in-cheek is difficult to ascertain) to ‘Thomas SkoTTowe, Esq., of His Majesty’s 73d Regiment, Commandant of Newcastle, in the Colony of New South Wales, and one of His Majesty’s Justices of the Peace for that Territory… With the utmost deference and respect’. [11] Dedicating the dictionary to the commandant of the Newcastle Penal Station, where Hardy Vaux was imprisoned at the time of his writing it, perhaps gives historians an insight into the personality of a particularly interesting colonial character.

Although a secondary source, Simon Barnard’s recently published work on James Hardy Vaux’s compilation of criminal slang provides an alphabetised – and hilariously illustrated – list of flash terms from Hardy Vaux’s original memoir.

The dictionary is a fascinating read, including words from ‘unthimble’ (a verb, meaning to rob a man of his watch, since a ‘thimble’ was also a flash term for ‘watch’), through to a ‘lag ship’ (a term for the ships used to transport convicts to NSW) and particularly colourful terms like a ‘bum-trap’ (a bailiff or sheriff’s officer, a highly unpopular position in the colony). [12]

What does flash language imply about the convict experience?

Certainly, the use of cant or flash slang amongst convicts outlines another interesting form of subversion of authority in a world where colonial prisoners had very little freedom. The incomprehensible nature of the language – seen in the popularity of Hardy Vaux’s dictionary as well as the necessity for interpreters in court proceedings – really provided convicts with a secret means of communication and therefore, a tiny form of freedom of speech, at least amongst themselves.

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References:

[1] Amanda Laugesen, Convict Words: Language in Early Colonial Australia (South Melbourne: Oxford University Press, 2002), viii.

[2] Simon Barnard, James Hardy Vaux’s 1819 Dictionary of Criminal Slang, and other impolite terms as used by the Convicts of the British Colonies of Australia (Melbourne: Text Publishing, 2019), v.

[3] Barnard, Vaux’s 1819 Dictionary, v.

[4] NSW State Archives & Records, Series NRS-3406, Registry of Flash Men, (Accessed 9 September 2019).

[5] Simon Barnard, ‘“Is that bum trap missing a flesh-bag?” A guide to Australia’s convict slang’, The Guardian, published 20 August 2019, (Accessed 4 September 2019).

[6] Laugesen, Convict Words, viii.

[7] Barnard, Vaux’s 1819 Dictionary, vi.

[8] Watkin Tench, Sydney’s First Four Years, being a reprint of A Narrative of the Expedition to Botany Bay and A Complete Account of the Settlement at Port Jackson (Angus Robertson, Sydney, 1961), quoted in Laugesen, Convict Words, ix.

[9] Barnard, Vaux’s 1819 Dictionary, vi.

[10] Barnard, Vaux’s 1819 Dictionary, v.

[11] James Hardy Vaux, Memoirs of James Hardy Vaux in Two Volumes, Volume 1, (London: W. Clowes, 1819).

[12] Barnard, Vaux’s 1819 Dictionary, 29, 138, 292.

Written by RAHS Volunteer and Copywriter, Christina King

This blog post is part of a series entitled ‘The Convict Experience: Love, Life and Liberty Beyond the Chains’. Each month we will explore a different – and often rather unusual – type of primary evidence historians can use to hear convict voices telling their own stories.

Movingly known as ‘leaden hearts’[1] and ‘likened to portable graffiti’[2], convict love tokens have been described as ‘a unique chance to see the convicts as they saw themselves, with their hearts on their sleeves’[3].

Happily for historians, they are another earpiece for listening to the convicts recounting their own experiences of conviction, transportation, love and loss.

A love token was, essentially, a coin which had been smoothed down. To this flattened surface was added a message, often accompanied by an image, either through engraving or stippling—markings made using tiny pin pricks.

Commonly used coins included pennies, halfpennies, twopence and sixpence[4].

Made in England, the tokens were sent or given to loved ones by a prisoner upon their conviction prior to their transportation as a means to keep their own memory alive after their departure.

It seems in fact that many of the tokens were produced from inside the actual prisons themselves or even from the hulks (decommissioned war ships repurposed into temporary floating prisons) whilst inmates awaited transportation. In his 1877 book The Chronicles of Newgate, Sir Arthur Griffiths describes the process almost as a way to pass the time: ‘The more peaceably disposed found some occupation in making Newgate tokens, leaden hearts…’[5].

The manufacturers of the tokens were not necessarily all professional craftsmen, although some of the keepsakes certainly demonstrate a level of professional skill. Amateurs would have made others, evident through the less accomplished techniques used[6].

Either way, tokens would include some or all of the following: the convict’s name, the name of their loved one, the length of their sentence, and a common phrase or expression relating to the two being separated[7]. A particularly common but no less poignant phrase engraved on many love tokens was, ‘When this you see, remember me’.

A date was sometimes included in the inscription too, as was the prisoner’s crime and an engraved image; common motifs comprised love hearts, “jail birds” and sailing ships.

As historical evidence with such a level of detail recorded on them, these love tokens unquestionably allow one small aspect of the convict experience to speak for itself, ‘entreating the recipient to keep alive the memory of the giver.’[8]

But what of the individual convict voices and stories? In order to hear these, specific examples of these keepsakes must be examined.

One example of a love token commissioned by Thomas Tilley, transported on the First Fleet, describes a crime of fraud rather than his actual crime, which was theft with force. His fraud is described on the love token as simply ‘signing a note’[9].

Certainly, love tokens were a way for the transported convicts to be remembered; sometimes though, it seems they wanted to be remembered in a better light than their crime may have allowed as in Tilley’s case.

The reverse of Tilley’s token shows an image of a bird, chained by the neck to the ground. An affecting picture of a “jail bird”—and perhaps also of how Tilley felt about his own situation. His token records him being sent to the hulks on 24 January 1786 but he was not transported to Botany Bay until some time in 1787 [10]; at least twelve months spent in the squalid conditions of the hulks would surely have reinforced his sense of imprisonment.

Notably, these ‘leaden hearts’ were not always made and intended for a romantic lover. Some were sent by a prisoner to a family member to ensure his or her memory remained alive amongst kin. For instance, Figure 1 shows the front of a token from 1832 inscribed with the message ‘A Token of Love from your Unfortunate Nephew J. Riley’. The reverse of the same coin (Figure 2) implores its owner, ‘Forget me not J. Riley 1832’.

Paul Donnelly describes these love tokens as ‘evoking desperate sentiment’ but also as objects which suggest ‘the desire to remember, and the need to be remembered.’[11]

Certainly, there is a degree of desperation in the messages left on the coins. But there is also an irrefutable desire inherent in these historical objects to not be forgotten, and to ensure that their voices were heard years—perhaps many, many years—later.

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References:

[1] National Museum of Australia, Convict Love Tokens, http://love-tokens.nma.gov.au/, accessed 7 May 2019.
[2] Paul Donnelly, ‘“A bracelet of bright haire”: Memory and tokens of love’, in Michele Field & Timothy Millett (eds.), in Convict Love Tokens: The leaden hearts the convicts left behind, Kent Town: Wakefield Press, 1998, p.58.
[3] Michele Field, ‘Introduction’, in Convict Love Tokens, p.1.
[4] Rebecca Nason, ‘A little piece of my heart…The Convict Love Token collection of the National Museum of Australia’, Journal of the Numismatic Association of Australia20, 2009, p.36.
[5] Sir Arthur Griffiths, “The Chronicles of Newgate” (1877) quoted in Timothy Millet, ‘Leaden hearts’, in Convict Love Tokens,p.9.
[6] Millet, ‘Leaden hearts’, pp.17-20.
[7] NMA, Convict Love Tokens, http://love-tokens.nma.gov.au/.
[8] Nason, ‘A little piece of my heart’, p.36.
[9] Museum of Applied Arts and Sciences, Convict love token engraved by Thomas Tilley. https://collection.maas.museum/object/73510#&gid=1&pid=5, accessed 12 May 2019.
[10] Royal Australian Mint, Convict Love Tokens, https://www.ramint.gov.au/news-media/news/convict-love-tokens, accessed 13 May 2019.
[11] Donnelly, ‘“A bracelet of bright haire”’, p.56.

 

Written by RAHS Volunteer and Copywriter, Christina King

This blog post is part of a series entitled ‘The Convict Experience: Love, Life and Liberty Beyond the Chains’. Each month we will explore a different – and often rather unusual – type of primary evidence historians can use to hear convict voices telling their own stories.

Revisionist history has done a significant job redefining convict history as more than simply an account of troublesome prisoners shipped to a foreign land. Primary sources in the form of official colonial communications and records, as well as letters and journal entries, have assisted in this redefinition. But much of this evidence was written by those overseeing the colony.

What records did the convicts themselves leave behind? Literacy levels amongst transported prisoners were not as low as often assumed—many were actually quite educated and, as a result, considered even more dangerous by colonial authorities than those who were illiterate [1]. But, while written records would be helpful, many convicts left none. So what can we use to better understand the convict experience of transportation? Does evidence exist for us hear about their individual hopes for a future, their links to the past, their hearts missing another, and their passive—but dogged—defiance of authority?

Convict tattoos and markings go some way to providing a whisper of these.

A nineteenth century phrenological view of tattooing suggested that only soldiers, criminals and prostitutes bore such markings and reflected a tendency amongst these groups to revert to a more primitive nature, a phenomenon known as ‘atavism’[2]. Simon Barnard challenges this archaic and unfounded theory by describing convict tattooing, not as a result of a predisposed criminal tendency but rather as ‘a response to dehumanisation’[3].

Although a primary numerical record of the incidence of convict tattooing does not exist, we do know that, upon arrival in Australia, at least thirty-seven percent of males and fifteen percent of female convicts sported a tattoo [4]. And, in fact, historians have remarkably detailed examples of varied designs tattooed on to the bodies of convicts, both male and female. This detail is thanks to the colonial indents which became increasingly comprehensive as the 1820s progressed [5]. In the absence of photography, colonial clerks crafted highly detailed physical descriptions of each convict upon their arrival. In fact, tattoos made these clerks’ jobs easier as they provided a unique characteristic which would set the prisoner apart in the indent’s description [6].

The designs and combinations of tattoos often served to tell a story unique to the bearer as well. Hope was often embodied by an image of an anchor, while salvation was symbolised by a crucifix [7]. Stars in various numbers and patterns could also represent particular hopes or affiliations. Common also were initials and mermaids, such as those mentioned in Figure 1.

The chest was a common place for tattoos to be put; the space over the heart was often marked by designs or words associated with affection or by those holding particular significance for their wearer. For example, the record in Figure 2 mentions that convict Thomas Mead’s chest bore the word “free”.

It is difficult to determine the intended meaning behind many tattoos, since they were recorded empirically in the convict indents, without any description of their context. As a result, a degree of guesswork is required in using them to better understand the convict experience on an individual level.

But, in a world of colonial authority and uniformity, tattoos probably provided a small means for convicts to assert their individuality [8]. And they often served as a link to the past. Many modern accounts of individual convict lives portray a solitary person with a fervent desire to remain in the new colony, making a contribution and building a new life for themselves away from the poverty of England and Ireland.

However, it would be inaccurate to assume all convicts wanted to remain after their sentences ended and to forget the links to their past. We know some did return home. Some couldn’t even wait that long, attempting to escape before achieving freedom; for instance, the Sydney Gazette for 21 October 1824 lists at least 100 prisoners who had absented themselves, some bearing ‘false certificates’ [9].This evidence fits with a study of convict tattoos since the latter demonstrate an ardent desire amongst many convicts to remember. To remember family and friends, to recall lovers and experiences, wins and losses. And, ultimately, to maintain their own identity and to remember who they were themselves, beyond their chains.

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References:

[1] Stephen Nicholas, Peter R. Shergold “A Labour Aristocracy in Chains” in Steve Nicholas, ed; Studies in Australian History: Convict Workers: Reinterpreting Australia’s Past (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1989), pp 98-108
[2] Cesare Lombroso, Criminal Man. Translated by Mary Gibson and Nicole Hahn Rafter. (Durham and London (Duke University Press, 2006) p.61.
[3] Simon Barnard, Convict Tattoos; Marked Men and Women of Australia, (Melbourne: The Text Publishing Company, 2016) p.12.
[4] Ibid p.12.
[5] Deborah Oxley, Convict Indents (Ship and Arrival Registers) 1788-1868, https://www.digitalpanopticon.org/Convict_Indents_(Ship_and_Arrival_Registers)_1788-1868, accessed 25 April 2019
[6] Barnard. Convict Tattoos, p.4.
[7] Ibid. p.20.
[8] Ibid. p.6.

 

Written by Elizabeth Heffernan, RAHS Volunteer

On Valentine’s Day in 1900, two schoolgirls and their maths teacher went missing from a picnic at Hanging Rock and were never seen again – or so author Joan Lindsay led her readers to believe in the classic Australian novel Picnic at Hanging Rock, first published in 1967. A short note from the author prefaces the story: “Whether Picnic at Hanging Rock is fact or fiction, my readers must decide for themselves. As the fateful picnic took place in the year nineteen hundred, and all the characters who appear in this book are long since dead, it hardly seems important.” [1]

The ambiguity of the story’s basis in reality sparked intense discussion and curiosity across the country that was only exacerbated by Peter Weir’s 1975 film adaption and the subsequent reprint of the novel. “Picnic tragedy: true or false?” asked a headline in the Canberra Times that year. [2] Six years later, the question still remained: “Please settle a school argument by telling me whether or not Picnic At Hanging Rock was a true story,” one student wrote into the Australian Women’s Weekly in 1981. [3] With the fiftieth anniversary of the novel in 2017 and the release of a television adaption last year, a new wave of readers once again posed the question: “Did it really happen?” [4] Yet perhaps a more pertinent question would be: Does it really matter?

The Hanging Rock itself and the featured town of Woodend in the novel are real, located in the Victorian Macedon Ranges on the land of the Wurundjeri, Taungurong, and Dja Dja Wurrung people of the Kulin nation. [5] Appleyard College was likely based on the school Lindsay attended as a young girl. Yet Lindsay’s school was in East St. Kilda, and did not relocate to the Macedon region until 1919. Valentine’s Day in 1900 did not fall on a Saturday, as the novel claims, but midweek. Local newspapers never reported such a mysterious incident in their pages. [6] An unreleased chapter of the novel scrapped by Lindsay before publication suggested that the girls disappeared into another dimension. Clearly, Picnic is a work of fiction. Its fictitious nature, however, does not deprive the novel of meaning. Indeed, fictional or not, Picnic at Hanging Rock has become a work of historical importance in its own right. The novel was one of the first Australian works to join the Gothic literary genre. Weir’s film adaption became Australia’s greatest international success at the time and today remains a cult classic as an early example of Australian New Wave cinema.

Fifty-two years of theories, controversies, and anniversary reprints have ensured the novel remains relevant to a twenty-first century audience. Though the story may indeed be a product of Lindsay’s imagination, it remains a vibrant part of Australia’s cultural history – so this Valentine’s Day, why not find yourself a copy, rent Weir’s film, and be drawn into the mystery from the very first line: “Everyone agreed that the day was just right for the picnic to Hanging Rock.” [7]

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References:

[1] Lindsay Joan, Picnic at Hanging Rock, (Sydney: Penguin Books, 1975).
[2] ‘Picnic tragedy: true or false?’, The Canberra Times, 17 November 1975.
[3] ‘You wanted to know with Kevin Schluter’, The Australian Women’s Weekly, 15 July 1981.
[4] Chris Conti, ‘Did it Really Happen? Picnic at Hanging Rock‘, Sydney Review of Books , 29 September 2017, <https://sydneyreviewofbooks.com/essays/did-it-really-happen-picnic-at-hanging-rock>, viewed 21 October 2024.
[5] Amy Spiers, ‘What really happened at Hanging Rock’ Vice, 3 February 2017, <https://www.vice.com/en_au/article/qkzzzv/what-really-happened-at-hanging-rock>, viewed 14 February 2019.
[6] ‘Picnic tragedy’, The Canberra Times.
[7] Lindsay, Picnic at Hanging Rock.

Written by RAHS volunteer, Elizabeth Heffernan

In 1878, Scottish-born Australian composer Peter Dodds McCormick wrote the music and lyrics to a new patriotic song, ‘Advance Australia Fair’. One hundred and six years later, on 19 April 1984, his song – amended to suit a more modern audience – was adopted as the new Australian national anthem, replacing ‘God Save the Queen’.

Today, ‘Advance Australia Fair’ is unquestionably played at local, national, and international political, cultural, and sporting events. Its lyrics are both uplifting and confusing, with children and adults alike still wondering what “girt by sea” really means. (1) The popularity and prevalence of ‘Advance Australia Fair’ makes its complex and contentious history all the more astonishing. Indeed, many younger Australians may not be aware of it at all.

In 1972, the Whitlam government was elected on a platform of social and political change. Their campaign slogan, ‘It’s Time’, was inspired by the Australian public’s growing nationalist sentiment, which emerged most obviously in a desire for a national anthem, to quote Gough Whitlam, “of our own”. (2)

A competition for a new anthem was held by the Australia Council for the Arts and received more than 1400 entries for lyrics and 1200 entries for music. (3) The judges, however, felt that the submissions did not meet the standards set by such Australian classics as ‘Waltzing Matilda’, Caroline Carleton’s ‘Song for Australia’, and McCormick’s ‘Advance Australia Fair’, which had enjoyed popularity as the ABC news bulletin fanfare until 1952. (4) The Council therefore recommended that the new anthem be selected from those three songs.

A plebiscite was conducted in 1974 asking Australia to decide. Controversially, the Whitlam government chose not to include ‘God Save the Queen’ as an option for the vote, prompting criticisms that Labor was “taking for granted” the notion that Australians wanted a new anthem in the first place. (5) Despite these problems, ‘Advance Australia Fair’ won by an overwhelming majority of 51.4%, and was adopted later that year as the new national anthem. Opposition to this decision was widespread, particularly from those who argued that the new lyrics celebrated the same old idea of empire as ‘God Save the Queen’. In 1976, responding to this outcry, the Fraser government reinstated ‘God Save the Queen’. (6)

Another poll was conducted in 1977, this time with a fourth option of ‘God Save the Queen’. Despite Malcolm Fraser’s own preference for ‘Waltzing Matilda’, the same result was returned: the Australian people wanted ‘Advance Australia Fair’ as our new national anthem.

It was only in 1984 that a decision on the result of this second plebiscite was made by the Hawke government, pressured by the upcoming Los Angeles Olympics for which many desired an authentically Australian anthem to play in the medal ceremonies. ‘Advance Australia Fair’ was finally and officially adopted as the new national anthem with a number of significant and modernising alterations to the original text, including removing three out of the five verses and changing the opening words from “Australia’s sons” to “Australians all”. (7) Many still had issues with the song, however, notably those who pointed out its failure to acknowledge First Nations people. As eminent historian Manning Clark stated, “you could hardly call the Aborigines ‘young and free’”. (8)

These important issues are yet to be resolved today. As history has shown, that process will not be an easy one. Yet it was only thirty-five years ago that ‘Advance Australia Fair’ became our national anthem – who knows where the next thirty-five will leave us?

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References:

(1) David Campbell, “Time girt went down the gurgler”, Herald Sun, 22 April 2008.
(2) James Curran and Stuart Ward, The Unknown Nation: Australia After Empire (Melbourne: Melbourne University Press, 2010), p. 164.
(3) “Australian National Anthem”, Department of the Prime Minister and Cabinet, <https://www.pmc.gov.au/government/australian-national-anthem>, accessed 18 April 2019.
(4) “Sounds of Australia – Media Resources”, National Film and Sound Archive, <https://web.archive.org/web/20071018045853/http://screensound.gov.au/services/soa-media/index.html>, accessed 18 April 2019.
(5) Curran and Ward, The Unknown Nation, p. 169.
(6) “Australian National Anthem”.
(7) Curran and Ward, The Unknown Nation, p. 189.
(8) Ibid, p. 189.

Published online: 19 April 2019