18 February 2013

Picturing the Past in Colonial Asia


Old photographs, postcards, and cine film reels can be found in many public and private archives. These items form valuable source material for historical studies. Arguably nothing else brings the past more vividly to life. Looking at these representations conjures a kind of immediacy and fascination which, in many ways, surpasses that conveyed by the written word. Official documents often demand a certain type (or perhaps a more informed level) of evaluation in order to set them in their proper context and help us to interpret what they might tell us about times gone by. In other circumstances the reverse can also be true, personal letters and diaries can sometimes be far more accessible, giving us a human angle or insight which we might more easily or readily relate to, enabling us to imagine ourselves in their place for instance (particularly if we share a personal or family connection to the letter or diary writer); but, then again, these too can sometimes require a nuanced degree of interpretation, particularly if we find we need to read between the lines, or, attempt to fill in the lacunae of what isn’t said as much as what is. We may well quite reasonably assume that the veracity of images, both still and moving, are more straightforward propositions for the researcher’s analysis – after all, photographic images objectively represent only what is placed before the lens, recording a scene just as it is, and, as such, so it remains forever what it was, unchanging for all time. But this isn’t necessarily the case either. We still have to ask why the pictures may have been taken? What was the photographer or the camera operator seeking to record, portray, or illustrate? And, for what purpose? What was the intended original use of the image? 



Visual history sources present a potentially inexhaustible well of fascination for the researcher. Whether we are simply trying to learn more about the photographs or cine films created by our family forbears, or whether we are examining officially published images or news reels, there is a wealth of information to be mined from such sources.

In my own research I have worked on (and still am working through) a jumble of photos which have all been pasted higgledy-piggledy, without any annotations, into an old scrapbook. Some of the photos which have in time slipped from the page where the glue has dried out have revealed helpful notes on the back, others I have had to painstakingly assess and place in context by means of comparing them with other primary sources – travel expense records, official reports, a manuscript of an uncompleted memoir, etc. Trying to locate other images in secondary publications or other archives which might represent the same subjects or places, trying to find and match likenesses of contemporaries mentioned in the memoir with people in the pictures of the album I’m examining. If you have the patience for it, such a task can be truly fascinating, not to mention genuinely rewarding too; especially when reviewing the fruits of such a laborious and time-consuming task and realising that what was originally a blank group photo when you first came across it has at last emerged as something which you can now confidently populate by naming most of the unknown, long since departed faces it has captured.

The study of visual sources is something which some historians actually specialise in. There are a number of scholarly works which theorise about the ways in which such sources can be ‘read’ or interpreted, and these can open our minds to new ‘ways of seeing’. A picture may very well ‘paint a thousand words’, it may also place a veil over some things, or perhaps seek to guide our interpretations without us being fully aware. The invention of the first methods of photographic reproduction (e.g. – daguerreotype, calotype, glass plates, etc) happened to coincide with the high period of Western Imperial expansion, and many photographers of different nationalities took full advantage of practising these new photographic technologies in the various, disparate far flung outposts of these empires, as well as in the lofty, urban metropoles from which the colonial powers emanated. A fascinating set of articles in the International Institute for Asian Studies Newsletter (Summer 2007) looks at colonial photography in a number of different imperial arenas from the points of view of the colonised as well as the colonisers. 



Particularly in the colonial context, postcards are something which I find fascinating. Postcards can be examined on a number of different levels. First, and perhaps most obviously, there is the image itself – we can look at what the subject is, what it depicts, and wonder what was the purpose behind its having been made into an image for general sale and circulation; perhaps it was simply intended as a generic souvenir, a commemorative or memorialising image; or, perhaps it was something more, intending to express a moral or a social message, or perhaps it was deliberately designed to invite mirth or titillation. A photo of an eminent steamship may have been intended as a statement of the power of progress; or, an image of a criminal being punished by means of a wooden cangue worn about their neck, or even a fellon in the instant of being executed may have been intended to appeal towards a moralistic or even an explicitly judgemental reading – yet that reading may well now be something wholly different for present day audiences to what it once was for the original recipient. Some postcards may have been bought for the purpose of ordinary correspondence, whereas some may have been bought expressly as collectors’ items, the intended pristine destination of which was an album rather than the more utilitarian conduit of the mailbox. 



Those that were intended to pass through the franking machines of the postal service can give us a second level of historical interest – perusing those that have survived we can become the ‘nosey-parkers’ of posterity, reading someone else’s mail, and thereby asking ourselves questions about the past life and times of both the sender and recipient. What were they communicating? How did the image on the postcard relate to the news or opinions expressed on the reverse side, or even words scrawled across the actual image itself? – Or, did the missive portion bear no perceptible relation to the postcard’s chosen image at all?

A few years ago I remember coming across a selection of old postcards on display at the Hong Kong History Museum, where I spent an hour or so absolutely engrossed. I was intrigued both by what the cards depicted as well as what was written on them. But the longer one looked I found the fascination becoming deeper and deeper. Who were they addressed to? Where had they been sent? When were they written, and when were they posted? What was the postage cost? What was illustrated in the designs of the stamps, and what variation was there in the shapes of their franking marks? 



Not that long ago I attended a conference in the Translating China series, entitled: China in Britain #4, held at the University of Westminster, where the contemporary artist, Grace Lau, spoke of her fascination for old postcards of China and how they have since inspired her own artworks (a project she titled “21st Century Types”). Most striking perhaps were the images of extreme brutality which many of these old ‘picture postcards’ depicted – ranging from images of common criminals yoked singly or together in heavy wooden cangues, or others suspended by their necks in wooden frames, their toes lifted just clear of the floor, for long and slow strangulation, to images of cheery Westerners posing on a sight-seeing trip amidst the decapitated bodies of a recent public execution. Images which are perhaps equally as unfathomable as they are disconcerting to us today. What do these images say about the time in which they were taken? Are they meant to portray the disparities between the cultures of the East and West at that time? What are the relative cultural readings and interpretations which we derive or place upon them now? Sometimes, it seems, the more we begin to ask the more questions we begin to prompt. How deep can this rabbit hole go?



Images have a kind of power. They can simultaneously bring us closer to the past whilst also paradoxically pushing that same past further away from us and our understanding. We can choose to read them superficially or to look in greater depth; and, in doing so the inferences derived from their seeming immediacy can change drastically. In this respect the moving image can manifest a completely distinct dimension of its own. The novelty and wonder may not have worn off since the first screenings of moving pictures (for instance, recall the stories of early cinema audiences panicking at the rapid approach of a steam locomotive which seemed to be heading directly out of the screen towards them, or the anecdotes of gun toting American audiences riddling the screen with bullets during early films such as, The Great Train Robbery (1903), in which a cowboy bandit draws and fires his gun directly at the camera), we are still undoubtedly fascinated by films. And those which show us an era now long since past can sometimes be disconcertingly familiar. I recently came across this early colour film of London in the 1920s, shot by Claude Friese-Green (1898-1943) as part of his series of films entitled The Open Road. 



What struck me the most was that all the familiar landmarks seem exactly the same as they are today, the most immediate and apparent difference between then and now which leapt out at me on my first watching this footage was the vehicles, the uniformity of clothing fashions, and the distinct absence of road markings! … Which perhaps says as much about my perceptions of the present as it does of my perceptions of the past. I’m sure if I diligently compared some of these scenes with contemporary, modern views taken from the same vantage points there would be countless minor differences in each of those landmarks even though they still stand today. It’s more my general impression or familiarity of place which I am reading back onto the past, a certain sort of recognition that renders a cursory look entirely superficial. In fact, there is so much more going on beneath the immediate surface which can be teased out if we really examine an image, any image. 

 


 
Yet the fascination of such historical images clearly persists. They are an undoubtedly assured way of drawing people’s interest to the subject of history. We are fascinated. Nostalgia seems to have an almost universal appeal. But we all read the past differently. It might seem needless to point out that quaint, faded images of happy and exotic outings in the days of the Raj, picnicking on the lawns of grand colonial villas or bagging elephants and tigers, will perhaps be read entirely differently by the respective descendants of the of the tightly-laced and heavily buttoned-up, pith helmet wearing Victorians and their attendant Indian servants who populate such photos. Colonial sores, as well as colonial nostalgia, and/or colonial guilt, persist more deeply in some post-colonial cultures as compared to others. Even images created today feed as much into the issues of the past and still resonate as much as those which were created long ago – vide the recent images of the British Prime Minister, David Cameron, and his fellow Government Ministers all wearing their Remembrance Day red poppies on a recent tour to China – a visual image which apparently awoke for their Chinese hosts the ever-present and still bitter memories of the Opium Wars which marked the beginning of China’s ‘century of national humiliation’ in the mid-1800s.

The undoubted power of the image certainly remains redolent in all manner of overlapping spheres of modern influence and interpretation, be that historically, anthropologically, culturally, diplomatically, etc., etc., – but arguably the power of that influence or interpretation, just as then – so even now, remains firmly in the eye of the beholder. Visual history is not simply a question of looking, it’s also a question of seeing, interpreting, seeking to understand, and, above all, to inform.

3 February 2013

In Search of the 'Hamilla Mitchell'


Every historian has lingering amongst their files and papers intriguing half-followed-up leads. These curious notes or stray references which get jotted down may never be fully explored because they diverge too far from our main research projects or there just isn’t enough time. Occasionally though the sense of intrigue is too much and the researcher is tempted from the path – often it’s a wild goose chase which amounts to nothing, but sometimes it’s these irresistible tangents which make ‘doing history’ so interesting. And, I have to admit, I’m forever wandering off on tangents.

When buried deep in ‘research-mode’ the historian needs to keep a clear head and an open eye. Half the fun of research is following up on obscure footnotes. We lose ourselves in the library or archive pursuing our particular path, but often we hit dead ends. Developing a nose for pursuing hunches can sometimes unearth unexpected connections. Thinking laterally is essential. But sheer fluke or chance can sometimes play its part too. I had just such a chance encounter this week. I was idly perusing an old book when a familiar ship unexpectedly strayed into view – literally – because this was a ship I’d sailed upon, so to speak, in another completely unrelated book. But, like all good sea tales, if I’m to tell this one properly, I’ll need to start at the beginning.

Last summer I wrote a paper for the Journal of The Royal Asiatic Society China in Shanghai  – entitled: Books of Change: A Western Family’s Writings on China, 1855-1949. The paper looks at three generations of the Williamson-King families, each of which had a number of writers who published works on their life and times in China in the late 19th and early 20th centuries. The first writer from this line which my article examines is the Rev. Alexander Williamson (1829-1890). Williamson was a prominent Scottish missionary working in China, perhaps best known for his two volume Journeys in North China, Manchuria, and Eastern Mongolia, with some account of Corea (Smith, Elder & Co.: 1870) – an amazingly detailed account of his travels as one of the first foreigners to be permitted to travel in China after the first Opium War. The two volumes note in (sometimes stupefying) detail points of scientific and economic interest concerning the mineral and botanical resources of the provinces he travelled through, as well as descriptions of the people he met and the towns he stayed in whilst preaching and distributing Christian literature (in Chinese translation) along the way – it’s a monumental travelogue/geographical gazetteer of late Qing China.

When Williamson first travelled to China in 1855 he kept a diary of the voyage. He and his wife, travelling in company with fellow missionary Griffith John (1831-1912) and his wife, took passage on a small wooden sailing ship called the Hamilla Mitchell. Built in 1850, the 540 ton ship took four months to sail from London to Shanghai via the Cape of Good Hope. On the whole the diary (which was published in 1936 by Williamson’s son-in-law, Paul King) describes a voyage in which Williamson shows his keen interest in the workings of the natural world as well as his religious piety. There’s a glimpse of his lighter side too as he describes some of the inconvenient amusements of life on-board:

“What would you think if your seat were to take it into its head to walk away to the other side of the room without a moment’s notice while you were busily engaged at your desk? And then repenting of its evil deed to return as unceremoniously?”

It must have been a hard and tiring journey on such a small ship. And the unpleasantness only seemed to increase – the Captain’s ability to command his vessel became more and more erratic as the ship progressed further and further from home. The Captain’s fondness for the bottle appeared to grow in equal measure with the lengthening distance. But happily, after a few bumps and scrapes, the Williamsons reached Shanghai in one piece and put to shore for a new life in China.



Having written and submitted my paper I thought no more of the Hamilla Mitchell until to my amazement she seemed to hove into view once again, like a long lost ghost of the past emerging from the mist, this time on the pages of another venerable old tome. The book in question – which has nothing to do with my China researches – (bought on a mere whim for a couple of quid from a second-hand bookshop I happened to stray into during a lunchtime stroll earlier this week) is titled The Wonders of Salvage (The Bodley Head: 1924) by David Masters. Masters, who was previously unknown to me, appears to have been a fairly prolific writer of books concerned with deep sea diving – the lead boots and copper helmet with air hose kind of diving (you can read more about him and his books here and here). The Wonders of Salvage tells various stories of deep sea diving quests for sunken treasure, salvaging bullion from wrecks thought lost by their underwriters, or valiant tales of raising ships torpedoed during the Great War. To my astonishment I found that several pages of the book are devoted to the Hamilla Mitchell.  

Here is Masters’ highly engaging account of the salvaging of the Hamilla Mitchell in full:

Thrilling as were these treasure-hunts, the most romantic story of all is that of the ‘Hamilla Mitchell.’ Here we have treasure and pirates and a desperate chase all mixed up in the most approved adventure-story style. Only, unlike a work of fiction, this story happens to be true.
            The ‘Hamilla Mitchell’ came to grief on the Leuconna Rock, near Shanghai, and carried down with her £50,000 of specie. She was a total loss, and the underwriters, after paying the insurance, considered the question of trying to salve the treasure. They instructed an expert to visit the scene and report on the case. The expert in due course considered that the case was hopeless, that the specie was lost for all time, and that the wreck had gone down in such deep water in so exposed a position that it was much too dangerous for divers to work there – not a very cheerful report for the underwriters to receive.
            There, for a time, the matter rested. Then upon the scene came a Captain Lodge with an offer to do his best to recover the treasure. The underwriters, unwilling to allow the specie of which they were the owners to remain at the bottom of the sea, agreed gladly to the proposal that was placed before them. Captain Lodge considered the problem most profoundly. He knew that what was lost would not be won back easily, that the odds were, indeed, very much against a single ounce of the precious metal ever again seeing the light of day. This did not dismay him. Securing the services of two clever divers, named Ridyard and Penk, he made the trip to Shanghai, taking out with him some special diving apparatus – the finest and most powerful equipment to be found in the world.
            He wandered about Shanghai looking for a vessel that would suit his purpose, and, coming across a small sailing craft, chartered her and proceeded on his quest for the wreck. Small as was the salvage vessel, she was yet too large to take in-shore among the high rocks, and so the divers had to prosecute their search from the small boat which they towed behind. They searched here, they searched there, dropping over the side of the boat in their cumbersome dress, facing all the unknown perils of the unknown depths. Now they were carefully exploring a ledge perhaps only 20 feet deep, and a little later they would be slipping down the face of a chasm that plunged sheer into the sea for another 100 feet or more. They did not spare themselves in that search, for at times they penetrated to a depth of 160 feet.
            They were investigating a ledge one day when a dark mass loomed up at one end. They approached it, to find the wreck at last, noting with satisfaction that it was in a comparatively shallow depth which made the prospect of salvage fairly easy. Their jubilation was cut short, however, as they drew nigh. It was the stern that held the treasure, and the stern was missing!
            Fate had once more been up to her tricks. The ‘Hamilla Mitchell’ had settled with her stern over-hanging deep water. Not for long did she remain intact, for the gales soon broke off the unsupported after end, which slipped off the ledge into the abyss, where the divers managed to locate it in 156 feet of water.



            The never-ending lines of bubbles from their outlet valves flowed upward to the surface as they slowly explored the stern and prepared for their assault on the treasure-room. It was a most dangerous as well as a most difficult task to work in that treacherous chasm. The currents were strong, the rocks were sharp, and the possibilities of air lines being cut or fatally fouled were not pleasant to dwell upon. Nevertheless, they stuck to their task and eventually Ridyard managed to break a way into the strong room.
            The sight which met his eyes as he gazed through the windows of his copper helmet was like a scene from some fairy tale. The light, filtering through to that great depth, enveloped the hold in a sort of twilight gloom, all over the place he dimly saw heaps of dollars scattered about. He stooped down to the treasure chests, to find woodboring worms had eaten many of them quite away and the contents of the boxes were spilled in all directions. He walked about on a floor of solid gold; golden coins slipped about under his leaden soles.
             Anything more romantic would not be easy to find, yet the romance did not appeal to Ridyard. He was working against time, knowing that he would not be able to stand the pressure for long. Every movement was slow and difficult. The water was striving to crush him; he was being saved from this terrible fate solely by the continual flow of air coming down the rubber pipe to his helmet.
            Four times Ridyard underwent that ordeal of getting into the treasure-room and working under the enormous pressure until he was quite exhausted. On the last occasion he surpassed his previous feats of endurance and struggled doggedly on, loading up the treasure and watching it disappear towards the surface until he had sent up the contents of sixty-four boxes.
            Strong and fit as he was, he became thoroughly worn out with the toil, so he signalled to those above and made his way slowly to the surface. They dragged him to the deck of the salvage craft and unscrewed his helmet. His face was lined, his eyes were very tired, and his body clamoured for moisture, although he had been immersed in it for a long time. Not a glance did he give to the treasure lying about, the fortune at his feet did not interest him.
            “Give me a drink,” he said. “I’m dying for a drink of water.”
            Penk nipped up a bucket and made his way to a spring at the top of the island under which they were working. Putting down his bucket to fill, he scanned the horizon, as sailormen will. A sudden amazement came over him. The sea was dotted with sails, all making in the direction of the island.
            Wasting no time, he picked up his precious pail of water and ran down to the ship.
            “What’s up?” asked Captain Lodge, as Ridyard took his much-wanted drink.
            “The sea’s full of junks, hundreds of them,” Penk replied.
            Taking his glasses, Captain Lodge quickly identified the oncoming ships as the junks of Chinese pirates who were making their way towards the island from the farther side to avoid being seen. There was no doubt in his mind what they were after. There was but one thing in that quarter worth having, and that was the treasure stored in the salvage craft. It was obvious that the pirates had been watching operations carefully. They had undoubtedly planned to allow the divers to recover the treasure, then they purposed stealing down upon the expedition unawares, wiping it out and looting the gold.
            The pirates were in overwhelming numbers, and Captain Lodge realized instantly that the only thing to do was to run for it. Slipping the anchor to save the time required to haul it up, the salvors hoisted sail. Gradually they gathered way and stole from under the cover of the island. Directly the salvage craft appeared in the open, the junks altered course and started to pursue her.
            Pity the poor salvors! The wind had practically failed them, yet they could see some of the junks bending to a lucky breeze and overhauling them. In desperation they put out the big sweeps and toiled like galley-slaves to force their craft through the water. Ridyard, tired as he was, took his turn at the oars to try to save the treasure he had salved at such risk. So the salvage boat crept along, with the pirates slowly gaining.



            More exciting grew the chase. With anxious eyes the salvors watched the distance between their own craft and the Chinese junks growing gradually less. Harder than ever they strained at the oars, dipping them into the sea, throwing all their weight upon them, pulling until the muscles of their arms ached and their backs were nearly breaking.
            It looked as though the salvors would lose their lives as well as their treasure when the sails, which had been flapping idly, began to swell. A puff of wind stirred their flag, and a steady breeze began to blow. It was none too soon. The salvage craft started to gather way again and forge through the water. Still the junks hung on. They were not going to relinquish their prize without an effort.
            The pirates continued to chase the salvage craft right until sundown, when a friendly darkness hid pursued from pursuers and enabled Captain Lodge to shake off and lose the bloodthirsty Chinese pirates. In the end he managed to make Shanghai in safety with the rich treasure of £40,000 aboard, thus bringing to a happy ending one of the most exciting treasure-hunts ever known.
            If Ridyard had not worked quite so hard and grown quite so thirsty, and if Penk had not gone to fetch that pail of water, the salvors would have remained in ignorance of the approaching pirates and would have met a tragic death at their hands.
            That lucky drink of water saved a fortune of £40,000.”

… Perhaps this also means there’s £10,000 of bullion (or whatever today’s equivalent value would be) still out there somewhere beneath the waves?

The co-incidence of my stumbling across the deep-water demise and amazing after-story of the Hamilla Mitchell following on from my previous research seemed remarkable. I couldn’t help wondering if the Williamsons had perhaps seen reports of the ship’s loss and the subsequent adventure of its salvaging in the Shanghai newspapers. My interest was piqued and so I decided to see if I could find anything more on the story. Masters was writing some fifty-five years after the event and I wondered what other, more contemporary, sources there might be. It turns out that there are quite a few. Two of the most detailed (and readily available) being The Brisbane Courier (November 12th 1870) and The Capricornian (June 11th 1898), from which I learnt that the Hamilla Mitchell was lost in August 1869, and the subsequent salvage operation was undertaken in March 1870 by Messrs R. Ridyard and W. Penk of Liverpool, using state-of-the-art diving equipment procured from a specialist company called Siebe & Gorman, Submarine Engineers and Sole Contractors to the Royal Navy, based at Denmark Street, London, and established in 1820. (An account which mirrors quite closely the re-telling given in Masters’ book was published in The San Francisco Call, December 26th 1910).



Yet – on closer inspection – the connection isn’t quite as neatly clear-cut as it might at first seem. An entry in The Illustrated London News published in the month after the Hamilla Mitchell was lost doesn’t quite tally to the ship described in the Introduction of Voyaging to China (Heath Cranton: 1936), the book in which Williamson’s travel diary was published. The Illustrated London News (September 25th 1869) states:

“The British ship 'Hamilla Mitchell', belonging to Glasgow, outward bound from London to Shanghai, has been wrecked on the Leuconna Rock, within 130 miles of her destination, with a cargo valued at £150,000 and specie to the amount of £50,000. The 'Hamilla Mitchell' was a first-class iron ship, of nearly 1000 tons, owned by Thomas Mitchell, of Glasgow, and was commanded by Captain Branscombe. Lloyd's register describes her as having been built in Dundee in 1864, under special survey. She sailed from Gravesend on April 5th. The date of her loss is not mentioned, only the spot where it occurred, known as Leuconna Hammocks, a cluster of rocks in lat. 30.25 N., long. 122.33 E., in the fairway to the entrance to the river Yang-Tse-Kiang, and about 130 miles from Shanghai. The crew appeared to have saved themselves by the ship's boats and reached the port in safety.”

Voyaging to China (1936) gives quite a different description of the ship as detailed in the Lloyd’s Register for 1855:

“Wooden Ship, ‘Hamilla Mitchell’; 540 tons; Master, H. Bradley; built by Lunnan & Robertson at Peterhead in 1850; Owners, Thomson & Co.; Port of Registry, London; Voyage, London to China; Class, 13AI.”

So, it appears there were two ships (of different type and size) named Hamilla Mitchell serving the same shipping routes at around the same time. A further hunt through contemporary newspapers indicates that as well as the London-China route, the two ships also served as emigrant ships to Australia and New Zealand. But if the younger, larger iron-hulled Hamilla Mitchell was the one lost near Shanghai, whose salvage story sounds like something straight out of the pages of a Boy’s Own adventure magazine – what was the fate of the older, smaller wooden ship named Hamilla Mitchell which had brought the Williamsons to Shanghai some fifteen years earlier?

Well, as always, there are hints and echoes out there. A general sounding of the internet has also turned up the suggestion of a third Hamilla Mitchell – one pre-dating our particular vessel – of 145 tons that sank off the coast of South Africa in 1844, as well as a few tantalising hints as to the possible end of our Hamilla Mitchell. Her demise was possibly just as dramatic – and indeed more gruesome and unhappy – than that of the ship of the same name wrecked on the Leuconna Rock. Two separate leads seem to indicate that our ship was lost around 1859 (see here and here). A recent, fleeting mention in The Korean Times (November 14th 2012) speculates that a ship of the name Hamilla Mitchell was lost somewhere off the coast of the Korean peninsula sometime before 1869, where its luckless surviving crew were then brutally murdered.

Yet hearsay isn’t the kind of source material to satisfy a historian. There are probably historical records out there which might definitively answer the question (which now niggles to be answered). A proper ranging quest through the lists of the Lloyd’s Register may well reveal the fate of the Hamilla Mitchell of the Williamson’s journey of 1855. And so, like a loose thread waiting to be tied off, until I get the time to salve the appropriate archives in greater depth – my research file remains far from closed. Sometimes, these tangents to our main research aims can become full fledged projects in themselves – and that’s often the real joy of historical research. The past is a vast and fascinating book full of obscure and forgotten footnotes just waiting to be plumbed!


Permission to reproduce the colour print of Messrs Ridyard and Penk salvaging the treasure of the  ‘Hamilla Mitchell’ (dated 1870) was very kindly given by Kevin F. Casey of Sub Aqua  History Prints. Please click on the Siebe & Gorman advertisements to see the original sources for these images (credited with thanks respectively to The National Library of New Zealand and Grace's Guide)