History

Until recently I had found that the most useful book on the history of shipping in the Australian area was the two-volume work Pageant of the Pacific by Captain F. Rhodes, published in 1936. During the last few years we have had several books devoted to single companies, such as the E. & A. Line, the AUSN, Adelaide Steamship, and smaller companies, each of which showed the difficulty of condensing a lot of ships histories into one volume. To deal with all the coastal companies, some of which extended overseas, in one volume, requires ruthless editing and carries the danger of the story being stripped of its flesh, to leave us with the dry bare bones. Two years ago there appeared the very complete work by Dr John Bach, A Maritime History of Australia in nearly 500 pages. The work under review is briefer and easier to read, being about 330 pages with 115 photographs and line drawings. A strange omission in both these books is that their bibliographies give no mention to Rhodes’ great work.

Sir Samuel Griffith was chief justice of the High Court of Australia for sixteen years, from October 1903 to October 1919; but he had effectively retired in July 1919. Sir John Latham was chief justice for sixteen and a half years, from October 1935 to April 1952; but he had effectively retired in May 1951. Thus, Sir Garfield Barwick, who last month completed his sixteenth year as chief justice, has already established a record for active service in the position; if he remains in office until 24 October this year, he will have broken even Lathams formal record.

The holder of such a record term of office as chief justice would, on that ground alone, be assured of a unique place in Australian legal history; but in Barwick’s case, the years as chief justice are only a climax – perhaps even an anti-climax – to an extraordinary career.

For historians, living in a ‘A State of Excitement’ during Sesquicentenary year was exhausting and, with Skylab, occasionally dangerous.

Uranium is a word which has become so highly emotive in this country that it is embedded in the national psyche; but not one person in 10,000 who would react instinctively and dialectically to the word knows anything about the element itself apart from connotations of Doomsday … the world on fire or the seeping shroud of radiation sickness laying waste the entire earth in sterile despair.

Most of these books are Oztalgia reprints of the more respectable and desirable kind, but three are original works, two of them by senior men of letters of the kind that any country is fortunate to have a corps d’elite of: I mean of course Howard and Pearl. Cyril Pearl, in Five Men Vanished, relates in 128 pages the facts relating to the disappearance of five men at Bermagui in 1880. One was the well-connected Lamont Young, 29-years-old and a government geological surveyor. Another was Maximilian Schneider, a young German assistant to Young, whose foreign accent and facial scar appear to have been enough to make him a prime suspect. The other three were fishermen. It was their boat which was found, stove in, on a beach some nine miles north of Bermagui. The boat contained articles belonging to Young and Schneider, though there was no reason why these two should have been in the boat.

It is difficult to decide whether this well­researched book is an important addition to the media history of Australia, or whether it deserves a place among the chronicles of the country’s moral development, or even as another testament to the differences and divisions that are created by federal systems of governance. Ina Bertrand has diligently collected all the details of lust, licence and legislation that have beset the entertainment industry over the past century and a half. She painstakingly leads the reader through the reasons and ramifications behind the Acts of State and Commonwealth Parlia­ments (starting with the first Public Entertainment Act in New South Wales in 1828) by which successive attempts have been made to regulate how and what the Australian public were allowed to see.

Five years ago prominent architectural historian, George Tibbits, rated the dearth of books available to guide people’s appreciation of their historical environment as one of the major brakes on the conservation movement in Victoria. Since then a growing number of excellent publications have attempted to redress this weakness, the latest being Grant Blackman and John Larkin’s Maldon. It follows closely on the heels of Burchett’s work on East Melbourne and has a similar format and high quality of production. Blackman’s photographs in black and white and color beautifully capture the town’s flavor and are at their best with the more intimate details of verandah variances, padlocked intimate doors, details and of cemetery headstones. Some of the more panoramic plates might have been more sharply reproduced and it is unfortunate that one or two of the captions are repetitive. Well-chosen historical photographs are interspersed to complement the modern views. The Gill sketches do not portray Maldon itself and will be familiar to readers other goldfield histories. The four David Drape paintings, on the other hand are of early Maldon scenes and one regrets that they were not reproduced in colour.

Few families in Italian history have enjoyed a fame greater than the Medici whose name has become inseparably linked with the Renaissance. It is paradoxical, therefore, how little has really been known, until recently, of how Cosimo, the founder of its predominance in Florence, paved the way for the establishment of the power it was to exercise over that city. Nicolai Rubinstein, some years ago in his Government of Florence under the Medici, showed how its ascendancy was maintained through a complex system of electoral controls, but it is only now, with the appearance of Australian historian Dale Kent’s study, The Rise of the Medici, that a clear picture is beginning to emerge of the process by which the Medici first issued from the ranks of the Florentine ruling class to the position of dominance which they gradually consolidated over the six decades following Cosimo’s triumphant return from exile in 1434.