Clio and I

However flattering, despite its memento mori implications, this editorial commission demands something more than casual anecdote and reminiscence, while allowing insufficient space for full-blown autobiography or methodological treatise. All lives can be grist to the historian’s mill, but practising historians may not be the best persons to reconstruct, let alone assess, their own life stories. Nor does self-revelation necessarily aid reputation. But having taken it on, I see little alternative than to begin at the beginning, with an account of how I became a historian, then to say something about my historical preoccupations and activities.

Becoming a historian

I became comfortable with the identity ‘historian’ only after I had variously attempted and hankered after numerous other occupations – journalist, politician, publisher, public servant, diplomat, and lawyer – indeed almost anything which did not require much maths or perfect eyesight and could be practised outside a place of higher learning. Yet most of my life has been spent teaching and writing history at the University of Adelaide, having previously grown up in the shadow of the University of Melbourne, literally and metaphorically. Indeed my historical destiny (excuse the term) was probably over-determined, likewise that most of my work would be on British or English history of the early modern period, c.1500–1800.

My parents were both born and bred in York, the ancient capital of northern England, where my father went on from a grammar school scholarship to the University of Leeds. While graduating with first-class honours in history, he also studied economics, both there and at Manchester. Following a brief stint as assistant lecturer in St Andrews (where he did not learn to play golf), Dad arrived in Melbourne as a senior lecturer in economics in 1938 with my mother, whom then Vice-Chancellor Raymond Priestley recognized as ‘a considerable asset to him for she seems to be both cheery and adaptable’.¹ The advent of war ensured that Australia would become their home.

I don’t think my parents consciously wished me to become a historian – far from it. But my evident mathematical incapacity at length persuaded them that I was not destined for a career in engineering, or indeed medicine (as mother might have preferred). At all events it was probably my father who was responsible, when I was aged perhaps 11 or 12, for a Christmas gift of Hendrik Willem van Loon’s The Story of Mankind. I devoured this book, as I had earlier relished T. H. White’s pseudo-Arthurian The Sword and the Stone, and some Puffin story about medieval life involving Richard I (‘The Lionheart’) and the crusades. Quite why I so enjoyed such utterly different worlds from the everyday realities of inner suburban Parkville, where we lived until I was nine, then the streets and beaches of Brighton, I cannot explain. It may have had something to do with my first exposure to the physical remains of those vanished times, when the whole family spent a year in England after the war, but before the end of austerity, including butter and sweet rationing.

At school there was some historical content in the secondary Social Studies curriculum, and in the Latin classes to which paternal edict subjected me for three much-resented and largely unproductive years; regrettably I had no way of knowing that one day, as an early modernist, I would really need that language. A fourth-form text, R. M. Crawford’s Ourselves and the Pacific, did not inspire me. But I can faintly recall a first venture into historiographical controversy, presumably part of a classroom exercise in public speaking, when I attempted to present a case against Ernest Scott’s claim in his Short History of Australia (which I must have come across in my father’s study) that the Eureka Stockade was predominantly the work of ‘foreign agitators’. My detailed exposition was soon interrupted by some massively unimpressed classmates, who checked me in full flight with a handwritten ‘STOP!’ notice held up from the back row.

Many things were different in Cambridge, where the family spent 1957, on my father’s next sabbatical. Here Maths, Physics and Chemistry enjoyed less prestige than English, History and Languages. This overturning of the familiar pecking-order was much to my liking, as were the teachers who presided over the ‘History Lower VIth’, especially the young Derek (L.D.G.) Baker. Newly-graduated from Merton College, Oxford, Baker operated in what I subsequently recognised as much the same mode he himself must have experienced as an undergraduate, by setting individual essay questions and a selection of secondary sources, then carefully annotating and discussing the resultant two to three pages. I may have written the occasional English essay in Melbourne, but had never experienced anything as searching or stimulating as this. Then there were the original texts of Bodin’s Six Books of the Republic and Hobbes’s Leviathan, to which we were exposed in a series of excessively over-ambitious classes on political thought taught by a Cambridge postgraduate student, after we had registered total lack of interest in his excessively detailed account of the wars of the League of Schmalkalden. The young man concerned, J. H. M. Salmon, nevertheless went on to become a noted historian of early modern France, moving from Cambridge to Australia and then the United States (on the latter occasion with Malcolm Turnbull’s mother), while Baker later lectured in history at Edinburgh.

Not only did Cambridge turn me on to history. With Baker’s encouragement I was able to sit the Victorian Matriculation exam in England on the basis of four months study, passing sufficiently well to pick up a Commonwealth Scholarship. By then, given the charms, however briefly experienced, of London and Paris, I was increasingly doubtful about returning to Australia. But in the end I accepted the seeming inevitable, arriving at Station Pier in February 1958, just in time for Orientation Week at the University of Melbourne.

While Max Crawford’s history department may have reached its peak in the years immediately after the Second World War, it was still a pretty impressive operation. In retrospect (doubtless coloured by nostalgia) the calibre of teaching and teachers, at least so far as the privileged minority Honours cohort was concerned, even went some way towards justifying Max’s purring references to the high aspirations and achievements of ‘The Melbourne School of History’. I have written elsewhere about British History I, then the largest first-year Arts Faculty subject, which Crawford and Kathleen Fitzpatrick had honed to a fine pitch over some 20 years; in 1958 they were joined by Don Kennedy (fresh from a Cambridge doctorate) and George Yule, while Anthony Clunies Ross and Sam Goldberg gave memorable guest lectures.² This galaxy of talent was not unique, as witness those teaching the History subjects I took in later years: John Mulvaney and Felix Raab (Ancient History I), Crawford, Yule and Inga Clendinnen (General History I – Renaissance and Reformation), John La Nauze, Barry Smith and Jim Main (General History II – Later British); Geoff Serle, La Nauze and Main (Australian), Alan McBriar, Norman Harper, and Austin Gough (Modern European) – plus at least some of the above for fourth-year Theory and Method.

But however much I enjoyed reading, talking and writing about history, I had resolved not to follow my father into academe. Quite why I am not sure. But apart from adolescent oedipal angst, the question of practical relevance (‘What’s the use of history?’) continued to bother me, despite a withering putdown from the recently-arrived medievalist Molly Gibbs, to the effect that ‘utility is not the sole criterion’. I was also anxious to escape from what was then commonly deprecated as Melbourne’s, indeed Australia’s, philistine provincial conservatism. The preferred exit route for our class of thirty or so fourth-year Honours students was a scholarship to study overseas, most likely in England, just possibly in North America, and quite conceivably for another undergraduate degree rather than a doctorate. So in August 1962 my classmate Ian Hancock and I found ourselves on the SS Northern Star, bound for England and Oxford University.

Oxford was not my preferred destination; I had long wanted to return to Cambridge, not least because I might there acquire a qualification in economics, which I seem to have thought of as a passport to a ‘useful’, ‘real world’ career. My father (frustratingly, but perhaps not unreasonably) refused to allow me to enrol in the department of which he was now professorial head, and there were then no other universities in Melbourne. At Oxford, however, economics was only available for study in conjunction with politics and philosophy. But since my scholarship was solely tenable at Oxford, to Oxford I must go. While I spent some time on the long voyage via the Panama Canal attempting to master the basics of economics, once in Oxford it became clear that whatever capacity for abstract thought I might once have possessed was in poor shape after four years of Melbourne history. When my first essay, supposedly addressing the reality or otherwise of Descartes’s doubt, turned into a disquisition on the scientific revolution of the seventeenth century, the philosopher Tony Quinton made it clear that I had much better tackle a history doctorate.

In typical Oxford fashion, after further discussion with Bill Williams, warden of Rhodes House, Montgomery’s former intelligence officer and fellow of Balliol College, I was referred to his Balliol College colleague Christopher Hill, the leading Marxist interpreter of the English civil wars. I recall little of our first encounter, beyond Christopher’s slight speech impediment, a cross between sniff and stutter, and his enthusiastic response to my hesitant critique of a recent monograph on the early modern English universities. That I derived from my Melbourne honours thesis, as also the notion of a possible research topic. (As I explain below, I settled on a study of the inns of court in the late Tudor and Stuart period.) Mr Hill (this being early 1960s Oxford, we did not reach first-name terms for well over a year) seemed agreeable, sending me on to a formal admission interview with Regius Professor H. R. Trevor-Roper, then the leading critic of Marxist or marxisant interpretations of the English civil war, and encouraging me to attend Lawrence Stone’s seminar, before its convenor, the target of Trevor-Roper’s most famous demolition job, left Oxford for Princeton.

Oxford was then primarily geared to undergraduates and dons; postgrads (at least doctoral students in the humanities) were left to sink or swim, with little formal teaching, apart from occasional desultory seminars. I recall giving only two papers during my candidacy, one at the very start, when I had little or no idea of what I was on about, the other written over a frantic 24 hours on a different albeit distantly related topic. Christopher’s responses to the draft chapters I submitted each term took the form of a few pencilled question marks and summary annotation: e.g. ‘Interesting. You must decide to spell “Stow” with or without an “e”. I look forward to your next.’ While not indifferent to my topic and its ramifications for understanding the causes of the English civil war, the major interpretative issue of the time, I had determined to finish the thesis as quickly as possible, then find a non-academic job. This I did, as a trainee with the publisher Longman, thanks again to the good offices of Bill Williams.

Within a few months it became clear that I was more interested in writing books myself than commissioning others to write them, and that the time had come to return to a job in Australia. Having answered a Times Literary Supplement advertisement for a lectureship in history at Adelaide, I received a friendly handwritten letter of acceptance from Hugh Stretton the following week or so. But within a few days two more cabled job offers arrived, from Melbourne and the newly-established Monash. Faced with this embarrassment of choice, Christopher strongly recommended Adelaide, where Hugh, his own former pupil, had built a very lively department – as I had already gathered from other sources, including my former Melbourne teacher, the kindly and erudite Alan McBriar soon to join John Legge and A. G. L. Shaw at Monash, as well as two of Hugh’s star appointments Israel Getzler and George Rudé. Thus, somewhat faute de mieux, I became an academic historian.

Being an (early modern English) historian

The 1960s and early '70s were famously a golden age for academics, as the postwar baby boomers reached student age; worldwide expansion of higher education created an unprecedented shortage of teaching staff, and glittering prospects for even the most minimally qualified would-be lecturers. This was also a great time for early modern British history, especially historians who studied the causes, course and consequences of the mid-seventeenth century civil wars. These events Marxists conceptualised as the first bourgeois revolution, liberal democrats celebrated as a crucial stage in the transition to parliamentary government, and conservatives decried as a pointlessly destructive populist rebellion. With the cold war still very much alive, ideological competition between East and West meant that debates around such major issues of historical interpretation assumed some international significance. That became especially apparent in the massive and protracted historiographical controversy which a celebrated 1958 article by the American historian J. H. Hexter dubbed the ‘Storm over the Gentry’. This increasingly heated debate was conducted at first in the pages of the Economic History Review, and then also (following Hexter’s Intervention) the journalEncounter, later revealed to be financed by the CIA. It centred around the role of, crudely, class conflict in fomenting the constitutional and political tensions whichprecipitated the outbreak of hostilities between king and parliament in 1642, the victory of the parliamentarian army, the overthrow of monarchy and House of Lords, and the establishment in 1649 of a short-lived British republic. Widely regarded asatest case for the validity of rival general theories of historical change, the gentry controversy also involved significant questions about the role of ideology, in this case religion: was the radical protestantism or puritanism closely associated with the parliamentarian cause a wholly autonomous motivating force, a mere dependent variable reflecting economic and other material interests, or something between these two extremes?

Fiercely contested at the time and ever since, debate over the nature and reasons for the breakdown of political stability in the seventeenth-century British Isles has generated a very rich literature of primary and secondary sources, the former presented in the resonant and vivid language of Shakespeare, Donne, Milton, Dryden and their contemporaries. In the late 1950s and early ’60s many of the issues canvassed by contemporaries still seemed to speak to our own experiences, as the conservative political and social consensus which had dominated Western societies since the end of the Second World War gradually broke down. Thus the debates of 1647 and 1649 between the officers of the victorious parliamentary army led by Oliver Cromwell, and elected representatives (termed ‘agitators’) of the rank-and-file troops under their command, taken down in shorthand at the time and (as published in the 1930s by the Canadian scholar A. S. P. Woodhouse), the centrepiece of Melbourne’s first-year British History Honours course, canvassed the inherent conflict between individual liberties, and the interests of the majority or the state or any presumed higher good for which these latter purported to act. In the succeeding era of civil rights, free speech, anti-Vietnam war and student democracy movements, these remained matters of considerable interest, as was attested by buoyant student enrolments in the course on ‘The English Revolution’ which Frank McGregor and I taught at Adelaide throughout the 1970s and ’80s.

My own doctoral thesis on the inns of court in the half-century before the civil wars (the period 1590–1640, dubbed by my supervisor ‘Tawney’s half-century’ in honour of the great historian whose 1940 article began the gentry controversy), like its Melbourne precursor on the influence of Cambridge University during the same period, had attempted to explore the role of culture, education, material interests and ideas in the formation of political attitudes and alignments. In the later sixteenth and early seventeenth centuries the four London inns of court, medieval societies of practising lawyers and law students, also functioned as residential academies for the sons of the landed gentry, who formed England’s future political and ruling élite. Indeed Renaissance England experienced something of an education boom, which naturally caught the attention of historians who were themselves living through another ‘educational revolution’ three and a half centuries later. So my Oxford thesis was topical in its subject matter, while 1960s Oxford was an almost ideal location to pursue it. Despite catalogues idiosyncratic in both form and content, the Bodleian Library’s huge manuscript and printed book collections were readily accessible in the picturesque Tudor setting of Duke Humfrey’s library, with its painted ceiling panels and beams, original book presses and reading desks overlooking the Exeter College garden on one side and Christopher Wren’s Sheldonian Theatre on the other. The human resources were no less impressive; quite apart from the fact that most principal participants in the gentry controversy were connected with the university in one way or another, a common interest in the field and its central questions was shared by a large body of graduate students and junior college fellows, Keith Thomas not least among the latter. My only real problem lay in the fact that my main archival sources were all in London, some 80 km from Oxford. Getting sufficient time to work there, whether in the libraries of the inns of court, the Public Record Office, then still in Chancery Lane, the British Museum and the adjacent Institute of Historical Research, was not easy, even for an increasingly adept hitch-hiker. But I managed to complete the thesis in under three years, and then to survive a testing viva, made the more so by my earlier injudicious suggestion that an established scholar, whose work on the early Tudor inns of court I had mildly criticised, would make a suitable external examiner.

My DPhil thesis was conceived as a work of general history. Legal history was then largely the preserve of lawyers interested in tracing doctrinal genealogies, and (like their patron saint, Frederic William Maitland) rarely venturing beyond the middle ages. While I did gain some help from Oxford’s few legal historians, most notably Brian Simpson, in seeking to understand aspects of the inns’ educational system, their concerns and mine were very different. But a growing interest in social history – very much the coming thing in the mid-1960s – influenced the book which eventually followed the thesis, even more so after my two years at Johns Hopkins. There, as generally in American academic life, the Germanic model of fully professionalised scholarship, introduced to the US by Daniel Coit Gilman at Hopkins in the 1870s, placed a greater premium on keeping up to date with the latest intellectual fashions than did the English gentleman-scholar ideal. Had I stayed at Hopkins, notwithstanding its Baltimore location, I could have expected a steady flow of able graduate students, even if few would have been as brilliant as the sadly-missed Chris Brooks, my one and only American graduate student; but the university’s internal problems, plus family and quality of life considerations, were sufficient to bring us back to Adelaide in 1971.

Whether or not reacting against the arid elitism of much traditional political history, social historians like Peter Laslett, author of the bestseller The World We Have Lost, denied that they were merely doing what another Cambridge historian G. M. Trevelyan notoriously termed ‘history with the politics left out’. The prime aim was rather to broaden both the scope and subject matter of historical analysis, borrowing perspectives and techniques from the neighbouring social sciences, including anthropology, demography, economics and statistics, and applying these to areas of human activity previously disregarded by historians, especially the private realms of childhood, family, sex and marriage, as distinct from the public world of diplomacy, government, politics and war. Needless to say, this agenda was entirely compatible with that of the women’s movement, which also gathered pace from the mid-1960s, although the gender balance of the academic historical profession showed little change for some time to come.

While my first book was generally well received, its focus on the gentlemen students of the inns of court left their lawyer members in the dark. Yet lawyers, especially the barristers who comprised the English legal profession’s ‘upper branch’, had long been recognised as prominent players in early Stuart parliaments, local government and provincial communities. So it seemed clear that my next research project should be a social history of the early modern English bar, which would attempt to reconstruct the lineaments of legal practice and lawyers’ dealings with their clients, together with a mass biographical study of the social origins and life (including political) trajectories of the barristers themselves. This proved a far more ambitious agenda than I had expected, and the results were not published in book form until 14 years after my first monograph appeared. In the meantime I had edited for Croom Helm (not everyone’s publisher of choice, but very good to deal with, thanks to the cheerful offices of the late Christopher Helm) a book of collected essays on Lawyers in Early Modern Europe and America, which brought together the work of various friends and former Hopkins students. I was evidently drifting in the direction of legal history, at least according to Marc Bloch’s radical speculation, that ‘the history of law has no separate existence except as a history of jurists’.³

It was indeed increasingly difficult to dismiss legal history as of interest only to antiquarian-minded lawyers. After reading one of J. H. Baker’s articles on the emergence of barristers and solicitors, I had managed to meet their author in London in 1970; five years later, during my first study leave at Oxford’s All Souls College (an experience in itself), I drove over with Chris Brooks and his new supervisor, my former internal examiner John Cooper, to the second British Legal History Conference in Cambridge, encountering there several historians who would become life-long friends and intellectual colleagues. Otherwise, when not trekking around county record offices in search of barristers’ papers, I tried to understand the heterodox millenarian proto-Zionist Henry Finch (1558–1625), whose efforts to systematise the common law for didactic purposes contributed to a tradition that culminated only with William Blackstone’s Commentaries on the Laws of England (1765–9). By the time some fruits of this investigation appeared, in the Cambridge Law Journal no less, early modern English/British history was entering a major revisionist phase. The revisionists insisted, not entirely unreasonably, that great events, like the outbreak of civil war in 1642, do not necessarily result from large, impersonal, or long-term causes. But their emphasis on the contingent, personal, short-term, and small-scale, indeed the wholly unrevolutionary nature of the ‘English Revolution’, tended to deaden interest in that subject and to stifle all but the most narrowly-focused archival research.

Although my own earlier work provided some support for the revisionist cause, I found myself increasingly resisting such conclusions, both in several papers and The Rise of the Barristers, which inaugurated a social history series edited by Keith Thomas, with a title consciously echoing Tawney’s seminal article. Somewhat earlier, during a residential seminar led by Lawrence Stone at Princeton’s Shelby Cullom Davis Center, I became convinced that the history of the professions had been foreshortened by over-emphasis on the transformative impact of industrialisation, a revisionist conclusion of my own which regrettably brought me into unprofitable conflict with Harold Perkin. My interests, besides focusing more exclusively on law, lawyers and legal institutions, were now moving forward chronologically into the later seventeenth and eighteenth centuries, to see ‘what became of it at last’. This helped me to accept Tony Morris’s commission for a textbook, published as Albion Ascendant 1660–1815, and – at Michael Lobban’s invitation, possibly inspired by some remarks of my own – to prepare a memoir of William Blackstone for what was then known as the New Dictionary of National Biography. One thing led to another, including a marvellous year at the National Center for the Humanities in North Carolina, closely followed by another with Princeton’s Law and Public Affairs program. Then in 2002 I began a full-scale Blackstone biography. Despite doubts that this task could sustain my interest over the full five years of an Australian Research Council (ARC) fellowship, more than a decade and several books later, I am still preoccupied with Blackstone, most recently as general editor of a new variorum edition of the Commentaries, scheduled for publication in mid-2016. After that I hope to resume work, with my Adelaide colleague Dave Lemmings and Oxford’s Mike Macnair, on the 1689–1760 volume of the Oxford History of the Laws of England, a project we aim to complete in the year 2020.

Adelaide history and history in Adelaide

Adelaide’s History Department did indeed turn out to be a lively place, thanks largely to Hugh Stretton, whose influence continued to be felt long after 1967, when he famously resigned his professorship in order (as he claimed) to have more time to read and write.⁴ Besides shaming us all with his subsequent output of books and much else, Hugh set a laudable example of involvement in public affairs, local, state, national and global. When he did eventually reach the then mandatory retirement age of 65, he moved to a fellowship in the Economics Department, a precedent which had some bearing on my own decision to transfer to the Law School from History in 2003, although I have been fortunate enough to maintain various connections to my former department.

Over the past half-century ever-cheaper jet flights, plus microfilm, photocopiers and digital technology, have radically expanded the research options available to historians in this country. It is no longer the case that original historical research and writing based on primary source material is possible in Australian history alone, while those who wish to contribute to scholarship on non-Australian topics must live in close physical proximity to their archival and library resources. Over the same period, Australian history has become a major growth industry, with a commensurate increase in the breadth and depth of its literature, and a correspondingly more assertive attitude on the part of an expanding body of practitioners. Yet even those of us whose main scholarly interests lie further afield are likely to feel drawn at times to connect more closely with the past of the communities in which we spend our everyday lives. We may also regret that our main body of work speaks more directly to an international audience than it does to our fellow-citizens.

Hence, in my own case, several ventures into South Australian history, including the first historical encyclopaedia for any Australian state, drawing on some 220 individual contributors and completed in a very short timeframe to comply with Centenary of Federation funding conditions.⁵ Less successful was a pioneering ARC Linkage grant which sought to assess the tangible benefits of ‘history and heritage’ to specific South Australian rural communities, although it did help the research officer who undertook the (still-unpublished) fieldwork win an academic job. Before bureaucratic blunders and obstructionism put an end to the experiment, somewhat better results were achieved by the Applied Historical Studies postgraduate coursework program which I introduced in 1995, partly with the hope of creating an additional revenue stream for the History Department, but also aiming to provide systematic training for South Australian public or ‘professional’ historians, along the lines Graeme Davison had developed at Monash. Applied Historical Studies also helped blaze a trail for subsequent postgraduate coursework suites in Gastronomy (a larger, if only slightly longer-lived enterprise) and Art History, now a Faculty of Arts department in its own right. This latter development was facilitated by my ties with the neighbouring Art Gallery of South Australia, having been surprisingly appointed to chair the board by Don Dunstan in 1978. Among other benefits of this association, which continued well beyond my formal six-year term, was a joint Gallery-University research project on first Thai, then south-east Asian ceramics, an inter-institutional Centre for British Studies (which also involved Flinders University), and the beginnings of a long association with John Bannon.

From his government’s election in 1982 John had held the joint portfolios of premier, treasurer and minister of the arts, the latter appropriately enough for an artist’s son; but this joint BA/LLB graduate recently told me he was about to sign up for Honours History with my colleague Trevor Wilson as thesis supervisor, before the chance of an industrial advocate’s position in Melbourne provided the springboard for his entry into politics. Well after his retirement John served as president of the History Council of South Australia, a position for which he agreed to let his name go forward at my request, on condition that I continue as vice-president, and to which I reluctantly succeeded in 2010. Although a member of the inaugural executive of the newly-formed Australian Historical Association, and later the equivalent bodies of the History Teachers’ Association of South Australia and the History Alliance which preceded the History Council, I had previously managed to avoid anything remotely resembling a leadership role in these organisations, as also with the loosely-structured national early modernist and legal history equivalents (now the Australian and New Zealand Association for Medieval and Early Modern Studies, or ANZAMEMS, and the Australian and New Zealand Law and History Society, otherwise known as ANZLHS). But in a small city-state it is difficult to escape such responsibilities indefinitely.

Although my life in history continues, some recent sad losses are a reminder that I have no time to waste. For in the end it is the human contacts and personal friendships that history has brought which matter most to me. So while I may initially have sought to avoid Clio's embrace, I am glad that, eventually, I succumbed.

Disclosure statement

No potential conflict of interest was reported by the author.

Notes

1 Raymond Priestley, The Diary of A Vice-Chancellor University of Melbourne 1935–1938, ed. R. Ridley (Carlton South: Melbourne University Press, 2002), 430.

2 Wilfrid Prest, ‘British History,’ in The Life of the Past: the Discipline of History at the University of Melbourne, ed. Fay Anderson and Stuart Macintyre (Melbourne: Department of History, University of Melbourne, University of Melbourne History Monographs 32, 2006), 240–43.

3 Marc Bloch, The Historian’s Craft (Manchester: Manchester University Press, 1954), 149.

4 See Wilfrid Prest, ed., Pasts Present: History at Australia’s Third University (Kent Town: Wakefield Press, 2014), esp. ch. 1, and ‘History’, in A History of the Faculty of Arts at the University of Adelaide 1876–2012: Celebrating 125 Years of the Faculty of Arts, ed. Nick Harvey, Jean Fornasiero, Greg McCarthy, Clem Macintyre and Carl Crossin (Adelaide: University of Adelaide Press, 2012), 248–57.

5 Wilfrid Prest, Kerrie Round and Carol Fort, eds, The Wakefield Companion to South Australian History (Kent Town: Wakefield Press, 2001).