Two recent dealings with Australian companies have left a sweet taste in my mouth, and a feeling that there are still some businesses that stand behind their products.
Some years ago my sister gave me a Blunt umbrella, so called because it does not have the usual sharp points at the ends of its ribs. It’s the best umbrella I have ever used, even in a strong wind—something to do with its origin in breezy New Zealand.
I was surprised when some of the ribs detached from the hub. I emailed the company to ask about getting it repaired. I told them the umbrella was outside the warranty period (two years) and I asked how much they would charge to fix it. Don’t bother returning it, they said, we’ll just send you a new one. And they did. By express post.
I bought a second-hand Røde M3 microphone but I was not happy with the quality of the recordings I made with it. I wasn’t sure if it was faulty, or if I was the problem (always a possibility). I sent it back to Røde and asked them to test it and let me know if anything was wrong with it and, if so, to quote for repair. The Røde people told me the mic was faulty, and sent me a new one. With a ten year warranty. No charge.
A look-out on Christmas eve
For a greeting card this summer solstice I have chosen this wood engraving from 1866. It may prompt us to lift our minds up from the Christmas carols, Christmas shopping, Christmas presents, Christmas drinks, Christmas pudding—to spare a thought for (ahem) Christmas Island.
Oops, sorry. I’m not supposed to talk about politics or religion at a Christmas gathering. Let’s just enjoy the picture and the text. The scene was drawn by J A Pasquier, an obscure artist. His work, and the work of the even more obscure engraver who signed with a monogram on the bottom-right, is a morally-uplifting tale of devotion to duty, suitable for warming the hearts of respectable folk at Christmas time.
I’ll let the editor of the magazine explain what the picture is about:
At this season of the year, when wrecks are frequent around our stormy coasts, the men at the different life-boat stations, and others whose duty it is to watch for vessels in distress, are more than usually vigilant; and if the sun goes down in a lowering sky, with a tempestuous wind blowing landward, a good look-out is sure to be kept at all points where help or succour is likely to be needed. Our engraving on page 609 represents one of the curious lofty structures erected by the beachmen of Great Yarmouth to overlook the Scroby Sands and watch for signals in the roadstead. These “Look-outs,” as they are called, are six in number, and are each owned by a company of twelve beachmen, commanded by a captain, who also acts as cashier, and squares up all accounts at Christmas. Each company also possesses one or more yawls and other boats, in which the hardy beachmen are ever ready to brave the dangerous surf, and they frequently risk their lives in efforts to save ships and men. The beachmen of Yarmouth are a bold and gallant body, of whom many acts of bravery and endurance are recorded. Between the different companies a notable rivalry exists, which frequently leads to deeds of great daring, and sometimes gives rise to an exciting race, the goal being some stranded vessel, with its benumbed and perishing crew straining their eager eyes to catch a glimpse of their coming deliverers. All honour to the brave hearts who are looking out for the distressed at this blessed Christmas tide! and as we give a hearty “Good-night!” to the old fellow who is ascending the ladder with a supply of Christmas cheer for himself and his mates, let us hope that their night-watch may be disturbed by no worse sounds than the roar of the sea or the howling of the bitter wind.
Who was the motorist? Solved.
I acquired this charming snapshot photo in 2007. Back then, ten years ago, I asked here whether any of my readers knew anything about it. Silence.
After peering closely at the picture I decided the car was probably a Citroen built in the early 1920s. Those disk wheels looked like Citroen wheels, but they had been put on back-to-front. The car had clearly been stripped of excess weight and equipped for a cross-country dash. My first guess that it might have been one of Francis Birtles’ cars was not right. I put the puzzle aside.
On a whim I have just done some searching in the Trove newspaper archive, and cracked the problem inside twenty minutes. My question was answered by a piece in a Darwin newspaper. It’s all become too easy. Here’s the article:
OVERLANDERS ARRIVE FOR DARWIN-MELBOURNE TRIP
“Wizard” Marshall and Morgan Commence Citroen Trip on Monday
Wizard Marshall, overlander from Melbourne, arrived in Darwin last night by train from Katherine. With his mechanic, Mr Morgan, it is Mr Marshall’s intention to establish a record for the Baby Citroen Car. The trip from Melbourne to Darwin was made in 14 days, coming due north after leaving Adelaide. The return journey will be made via Newcastle Waters, Cloncurry, Rockhampton, Brisbane, and Sydney, home to Melbourne.
Mr Marshall anticipates making a record trip from Katherine to Melbourne, The bush fires prevent the journey commencing from Darwin. On their arrival within a few miles of Pine Creek they were turned back by fires, having then run as much risk as even an overlander should, with the 25 gallons of petrol they carried.
On arrival at Pine Creek it was agreed that Mr Marshall should come on by train, while Mr. Morgan stayed with the car and awaited his return. The wonderful condition of the tracks occasioned them a good deal of surprise. The pronounced hospitality with which they were treated by everyone throughout the trip was also a feature they wished to emphasise.
The Baby Citroen is a standard sports model. It arrived at Katherine in excellent condition, and nothing needs attention for the return trip. Mr Marshall is of opinion that reversing the wheels, and thereby widening their track, added considerably to the success of the trip. Having a good clearance, fitted with Michelin tyres, and an engine of 7 h.p. capable of 11; the car has already proved it is eminently suitable for overland journeys. The Plume spirit used gave every satisfaction throughout the trip, which averaged 55 miles to the gallon, some stages of the journey averaging 63 miles.
Mr Marshall, who looks very fit for the task he had undertaken, leaves for Katherine tomorrow and on Monday will commence the trip to Melbourne.
—Northern Territory Times and Gazette, 29 April 1927.
George Verney turns professional
My search for knowledge about my great-great-grand-uncle Daniel Marquis has boosted my interest in the other photographers who were at work in Brisbane in the 1860s and ’70s.
Daniel Marquis set up his photographic studio in Brisbane around 1866, in George Street, opposite St John’s Pro-Cathedral. He was already a competent operator, with ten years’ experience in Scotland, and he found a ready market for his work in Brisbane. By 1868 he was advertising his position as photographer by appointment to His Excellency Colonel Blackall, the Governor of Queensland. A vice-regal appointment was a mark of competence and respectability.
Governor Blackall lived in Government House at the smarter end of George Street, several blocks southeast from Daniel’s studio, past the upmarket Harris Terrace, the Bellevue Hotel, the Botanical Gardens and the Houses of Parliament.
Blackall’s aide-de-camp was an army officer, Lieutenant George Verney—an amateur photographer. Photography in the wet-plate era was technically difficult, expensive, and mostly the province of professionals.
As an amateur Verney photographed Government House, its residents and visitors. Some of his photographs have survived in an album, now in the National Library of Australia, that give an intimate and personal picture of life in the house. He and Daniel Marquis must have known one another, and I like to imagine them discussing the art and craft of photography.
Governor Blackall stood on the top rung of the social ladder in colonial Queensland. The rank of the principal members of his staff, including George Verney, was elevated by their connection with the person and functions of the governor.
In the 1860s and 1870s the British journal of photography was published weekly. The BJP and its associated annual British journal photographic almanac and photograper’s daily companion were read by professional photographers, and by gentlemen amateurs. George Verney contributed several articles to the Almanac, including the one in the 1877 edition that I quote below. Perhaps he polished and rehearsed this story more than once, as he told it to his fellows in the officers’ mess and in the drawing room at Government House, before he wrote it out and sent it to the editor:
THE AMATEUR AS A PROFESSIONAL
By Capt. George Verney
SOME few years ago I was photographing on the banks of the Mary River, in Queensland, and as assistant I had borrowed the services of the carpenter of the steamer in which I had arrived at Maryborough in attendance on His Excellency, the Governor, as one of his personal staff. I had replaced my uniform by an attire more suitable to the heat of the climate and to my photographic work, and with sleeves rolled up was busy washing a plate when from a neighbouring small house a stout, florid individual stepped out.
Photographers are rare birds in those parts, and, no doubt, it struck my friend that this was a capital opportunity for permanently recording the natural beauty of himself and family—the latter entirely colonial products—and, at the same time, of patronising a vagrant artist. After a few remarks from my friend—who I may call Mr Bounce—delivered in that lofty, patronising tone so suitable to a gentleman of his exalted sphere (though I that evening discovered that he held a very subordinate position in the government service), he condescended to inquire whether I would do a group of himself and family. I replied that I was no portrait artist, but I would try to please him if I could. Mr Bounce intimated that his family should be summoned, but requested me to have everything quite ready, as he could not guarantee his children remaining still long, and in this I soon found out that he spoke the truth.
Such a hullaballoo then ensued ! Such a calling for mother, and Sally, and Tommy, and Harry, and half a dozen more! Such a putting on of coats and hats, of odd boots, of ill-adjusted neckties and pinafores! Such attempts to wash dirty faces clean—the hands were impossible to get clean! Such exercise of parental authority, first from father then from mother, then from both together, distinguished by thumps and smacks, and then by a fiendish howl from the unlucky brat that the plate I had ready in the bath was quite useless! I had to prepare another, while my friend the carpenter was on guard to prevent the children from licking the collodion, and from developing or intensfying themselves all over, or from fixing themselves both in this world and in the next.
When all was ready then came the difficulty of puttmg the children together. I found that the elder children were all anxious to be as far from their parents’ reach as possible, knowing, no doubt, the full weight of parental authority when applied to themselves; while it was equally necessary for the younger ones to be pulling either their father’s beard or their mother’s hair, or disputing which should hold the father’s watch for the baby to listen to the tick, in the hope that this infantile amusement would keep baby still. When intimated that I really could wait no longer the father settled himself with a benign smile on his countenance (which afterwards came out as a diabolical grin), and I hoped that my experience as a professional artist was drawing to a close. But the mother suddenly recollected that baby was not holding the plated mug its grandmother had sent it from England, and as grandmamma was to have a copy of the picture it was absolutely necessary that the mug should be in the baby’s hand. The mother had to go for the mug, leaving the baby in the father’s lap, squalling and kicking as babies will do when their mothers leave them, and suggestmg to my mind how quieting and soporific a dose of cyanide of potassium would be! On returning with the mug baby would not hold it, but dashed it on to the ground, breaking a small bottle of silver I had, which entirely spoiled the appearance of the mug ever after, as before I left It was black all over. However, as baby would not hold the mug, an elder child was deputed to hold it over his head, which was done with such graceful evolutions that it came out in the picture like an indistinct teapot with several handles, or what a pot of beer looks like to an inebriate who sees double.
My patience was now quite exhausted, and with a caution I exposed the plate. Having bribed the children to depart by promising to show them the picture afterwards, I developed and fixed, and really found the result not as bad as might be expected. A few arms and legs and even heads were missing; but as the portrait of Mr Bounce was perfect he was delighted, and in the fulness of his heart he condescended for the first time to allude to payment; but his gratitude was but short-lived for on my informing him that my fee was £10 10s and £1 1s for each copy (not a bad price for an 8½ x 6½) he turned so pale and red by turns that I feared apoplexy was to be his end then and there. However at last he managed to gasp out an invective, which allowed the torrent to flow, and his unparliamentary language cannot be recorded here. Threats on my side of a summons were retaliated by him with threats of prosecution for extortion, and hints of magisterial interference on my behalf led to hints of the lock-up on his. I could scarcely keep my countenence at Mr Bounce’s rage, while my assistant, the carpenter, had disappeared into my tent to hide his explosive guffaws. After repeated refusals from Mr Bounce to pay my modest demands I said it did not matter and just slipped the negative out my hand, when it was shivered on the stones at our feet. On th1s Mr Bounce claimed the negative as his property, and I assured him he might have it all if he liked to pick up the pieces. I soon packed up, and left Mr Bounce cuffing a brat over the head for cutting his finger with the broken glass.
In the evening a banquet was given to the Governor, and some distance down the table I spied my frieud Mr Bounce. Our eyes met, and he was suddenly taken ill and retired, and not even the attractions of a subsequent ball, or his loyalty to attend the Governor’s levee, would induce him to come face to face with the vagrant artist. As we steamed down the river I saw him peeping out of his verandah, and I waved him a farewell with my cap, at which he dissappeared, never to be forgotten by the vagrant artist.
There were other professional portrait photographers working in the Maryborough district at this time, including Christopher Moore who evidently travelled away from his studio to make portraits at people’s homes. I doubt he would have asked ten guineas for a sitting or one guinea for a whole-plate print.
Governor Blackall’s visit to Maryborough in 1869 was described in a series of articles in the Maryborough chronicle, Wide Bay and Burnett advertiser published on 28 August, 31 August, 4 September, 9 September.