J03 2015 words Department of Defence Materials Research Laboratories Report Benzotriazoles as energetic materials 1. INTRODUCTION Polynitrodiphenylamines are sought as new dense energetic materials, and for structure/property correlations, as part of an explosives synthesis programme. Derivatives substituted with not more than three nitro groups in one aromatic ring are readily prepared by direct nitration and/or coupling reactions. However, more highly nitrated compounds are not accessible by these routes, due to the deactivating effect of nitro substituents and the lability of nitro groups flanked by two adjacent nitro groups. The strategem which has been used to synthesise highly nitrated aromatics involves mixed acid nitration of a suitable nitroaniline, often prepared by selective reduction of a polynitroaromatic, cleavage of the nitramine using sulphuric acid in anisole to produce a polynitroaniline which is finally oxidised using peroxydisulphuric acid (scheme 1). Compounds prepared by this route include hexanitrobenzene (HNE) (1) [1], pentanitrotoluene (PNT) (2) [2] and decanitrobiphenyl (DNBP) (3) [3]. This method was extended to the synthesis of other highly nitrated polynitro+aromatics, and to investigate similar reactions using diphenylamines. However, attempts at nitration of these diphenylamines led unexpectedly to benzotriazoles. This report describes the synthesis of several of these compounds and a preliminary examination of their explosive properties. FORMULAE 2. RESULTS AND DISCUSSION 2.1 Synthesis of Materials 2,4,6-Trinitrotoluene (TNT) (4) can be selectively reduced with hydrogen sulphide in dioxan to give 4-amino-2, 6-dinitrotoluene (5) [4] or by using iron powder in acetic acid to give 2-amino-4, 6-dinitrotoluene (6) [2]. Hydrogen sulphide reduction of 2,4,6-trinitrodiphenylamine (7), chosen as a model compound to develop the procedure and prepared conveniently by the reaction of aniline with picryl chloride [5], failed to yield a recoverable product but reduction using iron powder in acetic acid [6] gave 2-amino-4, 6-dinitrodiphenylamine (8) in good yield. Mixed acid nitration of (8) gave only highly coloured solutions from which no product could be isolated. However dissolution of (8) in acetic acid followed by treatment with 100% nitric acid gave a yellow solid, which was shown spectroscopically not to possess any amino groups. The 1H n.m.r. spectrum in d6-DMSO displayed only two meta coupled doublets, each one proton, at δ 9.51 and 9.07 (J ~ 2Hz) and a five proton singlet at δ 7.61. The same material was also obtained on treatment of an acetic acid solution of (8) with sodium nitrite, and the compound was identified as 1-phenyl-5, 7- dinitrobenzotriazole (9). FORMULA The formation of (9) by treatment of (8) with sodium nitrite is readily understood in terms of dehydration of an intermediate nitrosamine (10), or cyclisation of the diazonium cation (11) followed by deprotonation. Formation of (9) by action of nitric acid on (8) might result from reaction of oxides of nitrogen present in the nitric acid, or by deoxygenation of the 2-N-oxide (13) formed conceptually by dehydration of the nitramine (12). It should be noted that while benzotriazole-1-oxides [7] have been described benzotriazole-2-oxides appear to be unknown. FORMULA FORMULA (10) (11) FORMULA FORMULA (12) (13) Treatment of (8) with hot nitric acid gave a 1:2 mixture of (9) and 1-(4'-nitrophenyl)-5, 7-dinitrobenzotriazole (14). A mixture of the same products was also obtained on treatment of (8) with nitronium tetraflouroborate in sulpholane, either at ambient temperature or at 110deg;C. These latter conditions are less likely to favour the presence of oxides of nitrogen, perhaps giving greater support to the intermediacy of such species as (12) and (13). FORMULA (14) Dissolution of (9) in 54% nitric acid and heating under reflux failed to give the expected nitration to (14), and the starting material was reclaimed in quantitative yield. This suggests that the formation of (14) on nitration of (8) resulted from competitive nitration of the phenyl ring in (8) followed by cyclisation. However more vigorous reaction conditions led to smooth and selective nitration of (9) in excellent yield. Nitration in 70% nitric acid under reflux gave (14), nitration using 100% nitric acid gave 1-(2',4'-dinitrophenyl)-5, 7-dinitrobenzotriazole (15), while mixed acid nitration gave 1-(2',4',6',-trinitrophenyl)-5, 7-dinitrobenzotriazole (16). In each case the structure was assigned on the basis of i.r. (no NH absorption) and 1H n.m.r. spectra (presented in Table 1). While different nitrating mechanisms are suggested (by product characterisation) for 100% HNO3 in AcOH and hot 54% HNO3, investigations as to the nitrating species present were beyond the scope of this study. FORMULA (16) Coburn prepared (16) [8] (which he named BTX and proposed as a thermally stable explosive suitable for use in exploding bridgewire detonators [9]) by mixed acid nitration of the benzotriazole (17). We obtained the same product on mixed acid nitration of the amine (18). Among other compounds, Coburn also prepared the isomers (22) and (25) from 3,5- and 4,5-dinitro-o-phenylenediamine (19) and (23) respectively [8]. We have now prepared (22) via the amine (21), and (25) by the action of sodium nitrite on an acetic acid suspension of (26). The structures of (22) and (25) followed from l.r. and 1H n.m.r. spectra (given in Table 1). FORMULA (17) (16) (18) FORMULA FORMULA FORMULA (19) (21) (22) FORMULA (20) FORMULA FORMULA FORMULA (23) (24) (25) FORMULA FORMULA (26) (25) 2.2 Assessment of Explosive Performance 2.2.1 Density The densities of the benzotriazoles (9), (14), (15), (16), (17), (22) and (25) were measured using a gas comparison pychnometer and are presented in Table 2 together with the values estimated using Stine's procedure [10]. The latter is a simple empirical group additivity method which does not differentiate between isomers, nor does it take into consideration molecular shapes and steric interactions. Thus while the density measured for (9) is in excellent agreement with the calculated value, the more highly nitrated marerials (15) and (16) are somewhat less dense than predicted. These lower densities presumably result from reduced coplanarity of the phenyl and benzotriazole ring systems arising from steric interaction between the proximate nitro substituents at the 2' - and 6' - and 7-positions respectively. There are no such interactions in (17) and (22) and the observed densities are very close to the predicted values. Additionally interaction between the adjacent nitro groups of (25) force them out of the plane of the benzotriazole ring, and the density is lower than expected. 2.2.2 Thermal Properties The benzotriazoles (9), (14), (15), (16), (17) and (25) all melted sharply, with no sign of decomposition, at temperatures between 150° and 260°. The benzotriazole (22) did not melt below 260°. The thermal analysis results obtained by DSC are shown in Table 3. Except in the case of (22), the first event observed was melting, with no sign of decomposition, with the fusion endotherm in the range 6-10 kcal mole-1. Although the phenyl compound (9) showed no sign of exothermic reaction, compounds (14), (15) and (16) exhibited an exotherm following the fusion endotherm. The magnitude of the exotherm increased, as might be expected, with the degree of nitration. These results suggest that while certainly (16) and probably (15) may be sufficiently energetic to be useful as explosives, compounds (9) and possibly (14) are unlikely to be satisfactory. The isomeric (25) also showed a melting endotherm and a large exotherm, while (22) showed no sign of melting and a slightly smaller exotherm. Interestingly, 1-picryl benzotriazole (17) showed a much larger exotherm than either (14) or (15), suggesting that the picryl group contributes more energy to the molecule than does the dinitrobenzotriazole moiety. The benzotriazoles were also examined using the ERDE temperature of ignition test, in which 50 mg unconfined samples are heated at 5°C min-1 in a test tube. The temperature of ignition is that at which the sample ignites or (more usually) explodes [11]. While the picryl derivatives (16), (17), (22) and (25) ignited to explosion during this test, the others simply sublimed and charred. 2.2.3 Explosive Properties The velocity of detonation and detonation pressure for each of the benzotriazoles (Table 4) were estimated using the empirical method of Rothstein and Peterson [12]. This simple method has the advantage that the detonation parameters are derived solely from molecular formulae and structures, and requires no knowledge of physical, chemical or thermochemical properties. It is consequently unable to distinguish between isomers. The impact sensitivity of the benzotriazoles (9), (14), (15) and (16) was measured using the Rotter Impact Test, which monitors the response of 30 milligrams of explosive placed in a metal cup to the impact of a 5 kg weight dropped onto it. A Figure of Insensitiveness (F of I) is obtained by comparison of the 50% "explosion" height for the material with that for a standard grade of RDX to which is assigned an F of I of 80 [11]. The impact sensitivity of (22) was also measured, and although insufficient of (17) and (25) was available for complete testing, "screening" tests were carried out on these materials. Results are presented in Table 4. The expected increase in the explosive output of the benzotriazoles with the degree of nitration is again reflected in the calculated velocity of detonation and detonation pressure. The values in Table 4 would once more suggest that while the picryl derivatives (16), (22) and (25) and probably the 2,4-dinitrophenyl compound (15) are sufficiently energetic to be useful explosives the less nitrated (9), and possibly (14) and (17), are not. The increase in predicted explosive output with the degree of nitration is parallelled by an increase in the sensitivity to impact of the benzotriazoles (9), (14), (15) and (16). Thus 1-phenyl-5, 7-dinitrobenzotri+azole (9) is virtually insensitive to impact, (14) and (15) are progressively more sensitive, whereas 1-picryl-5, 7-dinitrobenzotriazole (16) shows impact sensitivity typical of intermediate or primary explosives. The 4,6-dinitro isomer (22) shows similar sensitivity, and limited screening tests indicate that the 5,6-dinitro isomer (25) and 1-picrylbenzotriazole (17) do also. It is apparent that the picryl group contributes more to impact sensitivity than does nitration in the benzotriazole ring, and it is probable that the "trigger linkage" [13] for impact initiation is associated with the picryl group. The relatively minor variation in sensitivity between the isomeric compounds (16), (22) and (25) may be accounted for in terms of steric interaction between the 7-nitro group and the picryl function in (16) and between the adjacent 5-and 6-nitro groups in (25). There is also an increase in the electrostatic sensitivity of the benzotriazoles (9), (14), (15) and (16) with the degree of nitration, but none of these compounds would be regarded as particularly sensitive to this stimulus. 3. CONCLUSION Variously nitrated 1-phenylbenzotriazoles have been examined as potential energetic materials, with reference to their densities, thermal properties, sensitiveness characteristics and explosive properties. Densities and calculated explosive properties (velocity of detonation and detonation pressure) increase with the degree of nitration, as does the energy released on thermal decomposition and sensitiveness to impact. In the case of the latter two properties, however, it is also clear that nitration of the phenyl substituent to produce a picryl derivative has more effect than does nitration in the benzotriazole ring, and it appears that the picryl group provides the "trigger linkage" for impact initiation. 4. EXPERIMENTAL Warning! Many of the polynitro compounds described herein are potentially powerful and sensitive explosives, and should be handled appropriately. 1H n.m.r. spectra were recorded using a Varian EM360L nmr spectrometer on solutions in d6-dimethylsulphoxide containing tetramethylsilane as internal standard; data for most compounds is listed in Table 1. Infrared spectra were obtained using a Perkin Elmer 683 spectrophotometer using potassium bromide discs. Melting points were measured using a Reichert Heizbank hot strip and are corrected. Densities were measured using a gas comparison pychometer (Systems Science and Software Type G 102-28). Each compound was subjected to thermal analysis using a Perkin Elmer DSC-2 Differential Scanning Calorimeter fitted with a Scanning Auto-Zero accessory and a Thermal Analysis Data Station. All samples (0.40 - 1.00 mg) were weighed accurately on a Mettler ME30 analytical balance directly into aluminium sample pans, and lids were placed (not crimped) over the samples. The sample and reference compartments of the calorimeter were purged continuously with nitrogen gas at 20-25 mL min-1 throughout the DSC scans, which were carried out at a heating rate of 20 K min-1 over a temperature range 330 - 800 K. The output was calibrated using samples of indium (m.p. 429.8 K), tin (m.p. 505.1 K), lead (m.p. 600.7 K) and zinc (m.p. 692.7 K). 2,4,6-Trinitrodiphenylamine (7). This compound was prepared as an orange solid (72%) m.p. 180° (lit. m.p. 179-80°) by the method of Davis and Ashdown [5]. J04 2038 words Ausralian Journal of Chemistry Cyanogen-bromide and methyl-chloroformate-mediated synthesis of some [3]benzazonino[8,7,6-abc]carbazole, [3]benzazecino[9,8,7-abc]carbazole, naphth[1,8,7-def]azonine and naphth[1,8,7-def]azecine derivatives By John B Bremner and Kevin N Winzenberg Abstract Reaction of 7,8-dimethoxy-1,4,5,9,13c,13d-hexahydro-2 H-indolo[3',2':4,5]indolo[1,7,6-aji]iso+quinoline(4a) and 8,9-dimethoxy-1,2,3,5,6,10,14c,14d-octahydro-indolo[3',2':3,4]naphtho[2,1,8-ija] quinolizine(4b) with cyanogen bromide in the presence of potassium carbonate afforded the elimination products 7,8-dimethoxy-1,2,3,4,5,9-hexahydro[3] benzazonino[8,7,6-abc]carbazole-3-carbonitrile (5a) and 8,9-dimethoxy-2,3,4,5,6,10-hexahydro-1 H-[3]benzazecino[9,8,7-abc]carbazole- 4-carbonitrile (5b) in 4% and 88% yield respectively; 7-(2-bromo)ethyl-1,2-dimethoxy-4,5,6,6a,7,12-hexahydroisoquino[8,1-ab]carbazole- 6-carbonitrile (6a) was also isolated in 20% yield from the former reaction. Products of analogous structure were also obtained from (4a,b) when methyl chloroformate was used in place of cyanogen bromide. Reaction of (4b) with cyanogen bromide in the presence of water and magnesium oxide afforded the solvolysis product 14d-hydroxy-8,9-dimethoxy-2,3,4,5,6,10,14c,14d-octahydro-1 H-[3]benzazecino[9,8,7-abc]carbazole-4-carbonitrile (8b) together with (5b). Similarly application of this reaction to 8,9-dimethoxy-2,3,5,6,11a,11b- hexahydro-1 H-naphtho[2,1,8-ija]quinolizine (1b) afforded both the corresponding solvolysis and elimination products; (4a) and 7,8-dimethoxy-1,2,4,5,10a,10b-hexahydronaphtho[1,8,7-ghi]indolizine (1a), however, gave only solvolysis products. Solvolysis and elimination products were also isolated when (1b) and 4(b) were subjected to cyanogen-bromide-mediated methanolysis reactions. Acid-catalysed elimination reactions of the alcohol solvolysis products are described along with reaction of some of the elimination products with lithium tetrahydroaluminate. Central to recent interest in bridged-aromatic compounds (for recent review see) has been the remarkable deformation induced in the aromatic ring by the addition of aliphatic bridges of suitably small lengths. Also of interest is the influence of nonplanarity of the aromatic moiety, and of transannular interactions between the aromatic ring and the proximate aliphatic bridge, on the physical and chemical properties of these compounds. Recently we reported the synthesis of the aromatic-ring distorted 1,7-bridged naphthalene derivatives (2a-e): crucial to our synthetic strategy was the cyanogen-bromide- and chloroformate-ester-mediated (cf.) rupture of the central carbon-nitrogen bond of (1a,b) (Scheme 1). We now wish to report the application of this strategy to the synthesis of related indole-annelated derivatives, and to outline some further aspects of the key ring-destruction reactions and of the chemistry of some of the bridged heterocyclic derivatives. Results and Discussion The indole-annelated substrates (4a,b) required for the ring-destruction reactions were prepared in good yield from boron-trifluoride-mediated Fischer indolization reactions of the amino ketones (3a,b) (Scheme 2). Structural assignment of (4a) and (4b), which are derivatives of new heterocyclic ring systems, was made on analytical and spectroscopic grounds. In the infra-red spectra of (4a) and (4b) the appearance of an absorption band at 3460 cm-1 and 3465 cm-1 respectively was consistent with the presence of an indolic NH group. In the 1H n.m.r. spectra a one-proton singlet at δ 9.38 in (4a) and at δ 9.37 in (4b) was assigned to this secondary amino group in each case. A one-proton doublet at δ 4.41 (J 8.1 Hz) in (4a) and at δ 4.39 (J 6.4 Hz) in (4b) were assigned to H 13d and H 14d respectively. In the proton off-resonance decoupled carbon-13 n.m.r. spectra of these compounds the methine carbon atoms of (4a), C 13d and C 13c, and of (4b), C 14d and C 14c, appeared as doublets at 59.8, 34.9, 57.5 and 33.4 ppm respectively. Reaction of (4a) and (4b) with cyanogen bromide in ethanol-free chloroform, in the presence of potassium carbonate, gave the hexahydro benzazonino [8,7,6-abc]carbazole-3-carbonitrile (5a) and the hexahydro-1 H-bezazecino [9,8,7-abc]carbazole-4-carbonitrile (5b) in 4% and 88% yield respectively (Scheme 2). The related urethanes (5c) and (5d) were also obtained in 14% and 82% yield respectively when methyl chloroformate was used in place of cyanogen bromide. Structural assignment of these compounds rests on spectroscopic evidence, and also analytical evidence in the case of (5b) and (5d); the elemental composition of compounds (5a) and (5c), which were obtained as unstable gums, was established from high-resolution mass spectroscopy. By way of illustration, a detailed account of the structural assignment of (5a) and (5b) only is presented. In the infrared spectra of these compounds a characteristically sharp band for the cyanamide group was present [at 2200 cm-1 for (5a) and 2220 cm-1 for (5b)] together with bands [at 3420 cm-1 for (5a) and 3390 cm-1 and 3310 cm-1 for (5b)] ascribable to the NH group. In the 100-MHz H n.m.r. spectrum of (5a) a downfield singlet at δ 9.78 (1H) and two other singlets at δ 7.58 (1H) and 6.83 (1H) were assigned to H9, H 13d and H6 respectively, while a doublet at δ 8.12 (J 8 Hz,1H) was assigned to H13; the chemical shift of this latter proton was similar to that reported for H4 and H5 in carbazole. In the 300-MHz H n.m.r. spectrum of (5b) the corresponding protons H 10, H 14d, H 7 and H 14 appeared at δ 10.00(singlet), 7.62(singlet), 7.03(singlet) and 8.13(doublet,J 8 Hz). The remaining aromatic protons in (5b), H 11,H 12 and H 13, were assigned to signals at δ 7.67 (broad doublet, J 8 Hz), 7.46; (ddd, J 8,7,1 Hz) and 7.31 (ddd,J 8,7,1 Hz) respectively; the corresponding protons H 10, H 11 and H 12 in (5a) appeared as an unresolved multiplet between δ 7.70 and 7.05. In the case of the reaction of (4a) with cyanogen bromide and methyl chloroformate the ring-opened derivatives (6a) and (6b) were also obtained in 20% and 42% yield respectively. The bromide (6a) was obtained as a gum and decomposed rapidly on storage; however, this compound, together with (6b), was adequately characterized. Products of analogous structure to (6a) and (6b) were also reported from the reaction of (1a) with cyanogen bromide and methyl chloroformate. Indeed the preparative usefulness of these reactions of (1a) and (4a) is clearly limited by the formation of halogen-containing side products. Accordingly, attention was directed to cyanogen bromide-mediated solvolysis reactions of (1a,b) and (4a,b) with the aim of developing an alternative and more viable route to the cyanamides (2a) and (5a). A further incentive for exploring a solvolytic route to (5a) was forthcoming from a comparison of the ultraviolet spectra of (5c) and (5d); a significant red-shift, consistent with aromatic-ring distortion, was observed in that of (5c), and it was therefore of interest to attempt to obtain larger amounts of the related compound (5a) for more detailed structural studies. Reaction of (1a,b) and (4a,b) with cyanogen bromide in the presence of water, and also in the presence of methanol in the case of (1b) and (4b), afforded the alcohols (7a,b) and (8a,b), and the ethers (7c) and (8c) (Schemes 2 and 3) (Table 1). The carbonitriles (2b) and (5b) were also obtained from the reactions of (1b) and (4b). Structural assignments for these solvolysis products were supported by spectroscopic data, and molecular compositions were established by high-resolution mass spectra. The infrared spectra of all these compounds showed a strong absorption band with frequency values ranging from 2200 to 2220 cm-1 for the cyanamide group, while, additionally, those of (7a,b) and (8a,b) had a broad band centred at 3420, 3440, 3290 and 3410 cm-1 respectively which confirmed the incorporation of a hydroxy group. Likewise in the H n.m.r. spectra of (7c) and (8c) the presence of a three-proton singlet at δ 3.15 and δ 3.14 respectively confirmed the incorporation of an aliphatic methoxy group; a downfield one-proton singlet at δ 4.58 and one-proton doublet (J 3 Hz) at δ 4.88 respectively were assigned to the methine proton attached to the carbon bearing the methoxy group. In the H n.m.r. spectra of the alcohols (7a,b) and (8a,b) the corresponding methine proton appeared as a downfield one-proton signal at chemical shifts ranging from δ 4.94 to 5.67. Acid-catalysed elimination of the hydroxy groups of (7b) and (8b) was expected to be facile and, in the event, brief treatment of these compounds with hydrochloric acid afforded the more highly aromatized derivatives (2b) and (5b) in excellent yield. On the other hand the alcohols (7a) and (8a) were inert under identical reaction conditions; this reflects the increased strain which must be accommodated in the conversion of C 8a and C 10c in (7a) and C 13c and C 13d in (8a) from tetrahedral to trigonal geometry. The elimination of water from these compounds was, however, effected by reaction with p-toluenesulfonic acid in refluxing toluene. The isomeric 4 H-naphth[1,8,7-*1def]azonine-6-carbonitrile and 1 H-naphth[1,8-de] azocine-3-carbonitrile derivatives (2a) and (9) were obtained in 47% and 29% yield respectively from (7a) whereas the [3]benzazocino[7,6-a,b]carbazole- 6-carbonitrile (10) was obtained in 51% yield from (8a). In the H n.m.r. spectrum of (9) a downfield doublet of doublets at δ 8.17 (1H,J 8.6, 1.4 Hz) was assigned to H 9. Two other signals with the same multiplicities at δ 7.37 (1 H,J 8.6, 6.9 Hz) and at δ 7.16 (1H, J 6.9, 1.4Hz) were assigned to H 10 and H 11 respectively. A singlet at δ 7.07 (1H) was ascribed to H 6. Significantly the ultraviolet absorption spectrum of (9) showed a significant blue shift compared with that of (2b), consistent with the reduction of naphthalene ring distortion in (9), expected from an inspection of Dreiding molecular models of these molecules; it is noteworthy that, apart from (9), the only other reported representative of the naphth[1,8-de]azocine ring system is an amide prepared from the photocyclization of 2-chloro-N-[2-(naphthalen-1-yl)]ethylacetamide. In the 1H n.m.r. spectrum of the pentacyclic derivative (10) a broad singlet downfield at δ 10.19 (1H) was ascribed to H 14. Two other singlets at δ 7.86 (1H) and 7.07 (1H) were assigned to H9 and H3 respectively, whereas doublets at δ 8.07 (1H, J 7.5 Hz) and 7.60 (1H, J 8.2 Hz) were assigned in turn to H 10 and H 13. The remaining aromatic protons H 12 and H 11 appeared as multiplets. The mechanistic pathway for these elimination reactions of (7a,b) and (8a,b) has not been rigorously delineated; however, it was shown in another experiment that heating (2a) in refluxing toluene in the presence of p-toluenesulfonic acid did not afford (9), although (2a) was slowly consumed. The formation of (9) and (10) is consistent with the intermediacy of carbonium ions derived from acid-promoted heterolysis of the benzylic carbon-oxygen bond of (7a) and (8a); the reduction of strain energy which should follow from a 1,2-alkyl shift would provide a strong driving force for the formation of these rearranged products. Reaction of the cyanamide (5b) and of the urethane (5d) with lithium tetrahydroaluminate was expected to afford the amine derivatives (5e) and (5f) respectively; in the event only mixtures of intractable polar products were formed. Reaction of (2b) with lithium tetrahydroaluminate likewise took an unexpected course, and the amine (11) was isolated in 86% yield (Scheme 1); the structural assignment of (11) was confirmed from an alternative synthesis by palladium-mediated oxidation of (1b). Reduction of the urethane (2d) with lithium tetrahydroaluminate afforded (2f) in 95% yield. In the 1H n.m.r. spectrum and proton off-resonance decoupled C n.m.r. spectrum of this compound a singlet at δ 2.46 (3H) and a quartet at 43.2 ppm respectively confirmed the presence of the aminomethyl group. The chemical shifts of H 3, H 10 and H 11 in the 1H n.m.r. spectra of (2d) and (2f) were very similar: δ 6.89 (s), 7.19 (dd,J 10, 2 Hz), 7.88 (d, J 10 Hz) compared with δ 6.89 (s), 7.24 (broad d, J 8.4 Hz), and 7.90 (d, J 8,4 Hz). However, H 11c was dramatically deshielded from δ 7.94 in (2d) to 9.33 in (2f), presumably due to a transannular deshielding effect of the amino group; the fact that the nitrogen in the bridging chain may indeed be proximate to H 11c is supported by the single-crystal X-ray data on the related urethane derivative (2e). Experimental Microanalyses were carried out by the Australian Microanalytical Service, Melbourne, and by the Microanalytical Service of the Australian National University, Canberra, on samples which had been dried in a vacuum over phosphorus pentoxide, at a temperature of 65°, unless indicated otherwise. Melting points were determined on a Yanagimoto Seisakusho micro-melting point apparatus and are uncorrected. Mass spectra were determined on a VG MM 7070F mass spectrometer operating at 70 eV with a source temperature of 200° (direct insertion); peak intensities (in brackets) are expressed as a percentage of the base peak. 1H nuclear magnetic resonance spectra were recorded on a Jeol JNM-4H-100 (100 MHz), a Jeol FX-200 (200 MHz), a Bruker HX-270 (270 MHz), or a Bruker CXP-300 (300 MHz) spectrometer, tetramethylsilane being the internal standard. The 13C n.m.r. spectra were recorded on one of the last three spectrometers; chemical shifts, in ppm, were measured relative to tetramethylsilane, and the spectrometer used is implied by the frequency noted for the corresponding proton spectra in each case. J05 2103 words The Australian Physicist Photoionisation and auger electron emission from the lithium molecule: calculations using multicentre numerical continuum functions By F.P. Larkins and J.A. Richards Abstract A numerical method has been used for the generation of molecular continuum wavefunctions at the relaxed Hartree-Fock level associated with the photoionisation of the lithium molecule. Exchange between the continuum electron and the ion core is included, but L coupling is neglected. Cross sections for core and valence shell photoionisation have been calculated from threshold to 6.0 a.u. The results differ significantly in detail from previous multiple scattering calculations. Continuum phase shifts and the asymmetry parameters for the various processes are also reported. The molecular cross section values are compared with atomic cross sections calculated at the relaxed Hartree-Fock level. The Li2 molecular Auger transition rates are also calculated from first principles using the appropriate two-centre continuum functions. The results provide a basis for the reinterpretation of recent experimental findings of photoemission data for the lithium vapour system. 1. Introduction A major challenge in the calculation of molecular photoionisation cross sections and the associated angular distribution parameters is to describe adequately the final continuum state involving the ejected photoelectron. A range of methods has been proposed to address this problem. Many are approximate in nature and do not require the explicit evaluation of continuum wavefunctions. Such methods do not provide a basis for a theoretical description of photoelectron angular distributions, or of Auger electron emission. A fully numerical method of evaluating molecular continuum functions has been reported recently (Richards and Larkins 1984, 1986). It has been previously applied to calculate photoionisation phenomena associated with the hydrogen molecule and the hydrogen molecule ion. In this paper the numerical method has been used to calculate continuum functions for the determination of photoionisation cross sections, angular distribution parameters and Auger transition probabilities associated with the lithium molecule. The photoionisation findings are compared with atomic cross sections. The work provides a basis for the reinterpretation of the photoemission data of Krummacher et al. (1982) and Gerard (1984). Photoionisation of the lithium dimer Li2 is of fundamental importance. Theoretically Li2 is the electronically simplest stable homonuclear diatomic molecule after H2. It has a large internuclear equilibrium separation of 5.052 a.u. The ground state electronic structure &formula; contains both core and valence electrons. Previous investigations of the electronic properties of Li2 have tended to concentrate on bound state calculations of ground and excited Li2, and valence hole states of Li2+, due to the interest in Li2 for laser use (Harris 1980; Hyman and Mani 1977). The most important theoretical contribution has been the series of multiconfiguration self-consistent field (MCSCF) studies by Konowalow and coworkers (Konowalow and Fish 1984; and references therein). Reviews of this area are given by Schmidt-Mink et al. (1985) and Hessel and Vidal (1979). The present work on Li2 continuum processes complements the existing bound state work. There has been only one previous calculation of either core or valence photoionisation in Li2 namely, the multiple scattering calculation of Davenport et al. (1983). The corresponding photoionisation of atomic Li has been studied more extensively. Both core (Amusia et al. 1976; Larkins et al. 1981, 1986; de Alti et al. 1983) and valence (McDowell and Chang 1969; Chang and Poe 1975; Bhatia et al. 1975; Tiwari et al. 1977; Sukumar and Kulander 1978) studies have been reported. The Li2 molecule is also the simplest diatomic molecule in which Auger emission processes are significant. Although little is known experimentally or theoretically about the Li2 Auger processes, Li2 is a convenient system on which to test the two-dimensional numerical continuum method. Calculations of the Auger transition rates are presented herein. 2. Theory (a) Photoionisation cross section The cross section for photoionisation of a system in initial state `i' by an unpolarised photon beam of energy hv, ejecting a photoelectron of energy ε, leaving the system in final state `f' is given by&formula; (1) where α is the fine-structure constant, &symbol; is the Bohr radius and &symbol; is the statistical weight of the initial discrete state. The ionisation energy &symbol; and the photoelectron energy ε are in atomic units, and σ is in units of Mb (&formula;). Within the dipole approximation the transition moment &symbol; is given by &formula; (2) where &symbol; and &symbol; are the total initial- and final-state functions, respectively, for the N-electron system and &symbol; is the one-electron dipole operator. If the wavefunctions &symbol; and &symbol; are exact, there are two equivalent forms of the dipole operator: &formula; (length form) and (&formula;) (velocity form). When non-exact wavefunctions are used in practice, the forms are no longer formally equivalent. For diagram photoionisation processes, especially those involving the lowest member of a state manifold, it can be shown (Manson 1976; Richards and Larkins 1983) that generally no one form is to be preferred. In practice, both forms should be evaluated, since the agreement between the forms provides one measure of the quality of the calculation. In a Hartree-Fock treatment the initial state is represented by a single-configuration state function (CSF) &symbol; (N) and the final state by the CSF, &symbol; (N), where &formula; (3) Here &symbol; (N) is the antisymmetrised product of the final ion CSF &symbol; (N - 1) with the continuum function &symbol;, which is normalised to unit outgoing energy. (b) Photoionisation angular distribution Photoionisation by an electric dipole interaction between linearly polarised radiation and randomly oriented target molecules (Yang 1948; Cooper and Zare 1969) gives rise to a differential cross section of the form &formula; (4) where &symbol; is the angle-integrated total cross section, θ is the ejection angle of the photoelectron relative to the polarisation vector of the incident radiation, and &formula;. The angular distribution is determined completely by the asymmetry parameter β, the value of which is physically confined to the range &formula;. The analysis by Tully et al. (1968) gives the vibrationally and rotationally unresolved differential cross section of a linear molecule as &formula; (5) &formula; (6) and hence &formula; (7) The quantum numbers L and λ asymptotically characterise the final state continuum angular momentum states; &symbol; and &symbol; are the magnetic quantum numbers of the initial state and the final ion core state respectively, &formula; are Clebsch-Gordan coefficients, and &formula; is the incident photon energy. The asymmetry parameter for a given system is then determined by the continuum phase shifts &symbol; and dipole transition moments &symbol; for each of the allowed final state continuum channels. The phase shifts are fixed by the asymptotic radial form of the continuum wavefunction, which is the Coulomb function (Abramowitz 1972) with argument &formula; (8) where &symbol; is the photoelectron momentum and &symbol; is the net charge on the final state molecular core. The transition moments are given by &formula; (9) In the present work expressions for &symbol; and &symbol; are required for photoionisation from a &symbol; or &symbol; initial state orbital. Expressions for the &symbol; case are given elsewhere (Richards and Larkins 1986). By writing the interaction term as &formula;, and including terms up to L = 5, the expressions for &symbol; in the &symbol; case with &formula; are &formula; (10) &formula; (11) (c) Li2 continuum wavefunction evaluation The details of the two-dimensional numerical treatment of molecular continuum wavefunctions have been outlined previously (Richards and Larkins 1984, 1986). At the Hartree-Fock level the equation to describe a continuum electron of energy ε in the field of a bound-state molecular core comprising (N - 1) electrons, abbreviated &symbol;, is &formula;, (12) where &formula;, (13) &formula;, (14) &formula;, (15) Here the subscript μ refers to atomic nuclei (of charge + &symbol;) in the molecule, and the subscript j refers to the bound-state orbitals; &symbol; represents the molecular Coulomb potential and &symbol; represents the molecular exchange potential, and the coefficients &symbol; and &symbol; are characterised by the symmetry of the total N-electron state (Roothaan 1960). The numerical treatment consists of performing a conventional algebraic basis set calculation on the initial and final ionic core bound states and then solving for the photoelectron continuum wavefunction numerically, in the relaxed Hartree-Fock ion core potential derived from the bound state calculation. In the present work an (11s,6p) uncontracted gaussian set from Huzinaga and coworkers was used for the Hartree-Fock initial and final ion core bound state calculations (11s from Huzinaga et al. 1971; 6p from Huzinaga 1965). The cross section and angular distribution results reported here correspond to the use of the relaxed Hartree-Fock model. (d) Auger transition rates The Auger process involves a radiationless transition between a highly excited initial (N - 1) -electron state &symbol;, and a final state &symbol; consisting of an (N - 2)-electron bound state and a free Auger electron of energy &symbol;, &formula;. (16) The many-electron Hamiltonian of a system undergoing a radiationless transition is given by &formula;, (17) where &formula; is the Coulomb interaction between electron pairs, &formula; is the remainder of the nonrelativistic Hamiltonian, and &symbol; is the relativistic spin-orbit interaction. The transition probability for an Auger transition from &symbol; to &symbol; is given from first order perturbation theory (Wentzel 1927) by &formula;, (18) where &symbol; is the energy density of states about the final state energy. The Auger transition can be treated in various coupling schemes, either Russell-Saunders, jj, or intermediate coupling (Asaad and Burhop 1958). For the molecules of interest in the present work consisting of low Z nuclei, Russell-Saunders coupling applies, that is &caplambda; and S are conserved in the transition for linear molecules, and a nonrelativistic treatment is appropriate. In the nonrelativistic limit the perturbation in the transition operator (18) reduces to the Coulomb interaction between the electrons participating in the transition. In the Hartree-Fock approximation, single configuration state functions are used to represent &symbol; and &symbol;: &formula;, (19) &formula;. (20) If different orbital sets are used to construct the bound states &symbol; and &symbol; the transition probability expression (18) becomes complex to evaluate, although the appropriate formalism exists (Howat et al.1978). If, however, a frozen core approximation is made, in which the final state is constructed from the initial state orbital set, the transition probability reduces to an expression in terms of the Coulomb and exchange integrals (Siegbahn et al. 1975) &formula;, &formula;, (21) involving the continuum orbital &symbol;, the final state orbital &symbol; in which a vacancy is present in the initial state ion, and the initial state orbitals &symbol; and &symbol; which correspond to the vacancies produced in the final state by the ejection of the Auger electron and the filling of the existing initial state vacancy. Expressions for the transition probability are given by Agren (1981) for both initially closed and open shell molecules. 3. Results (a) Li2 cross sections Photoionisation cross sections and angular distributions were calculated for the core ionisation processes &formula;, (22) &formula;, (23) and for the valence ionisation process &formula; (24) The ground state equilibrium geometry of R = 5.052 a.u. (Huber and Herzberg 1979) was used in all calculations. The bound state SCF wavefunctions were evaluated using an uncontracted (11s, 6p) gaussian basis set, as mentioned previously. The final core state was described in a relaxed orbital approach. Calculations were performed using the UIBMOL SCF program package (Faegri and Manne 1976). The total SCF energies for the molecular states are given in Table 1. While lower total energies result from multiconfiguration calculations which include correlation (Schwarz et al. 1978; Bacskay et al. 1986) the SCF approach was considered adequate to generate the N - 1 electron potential required for the determination of molecular continuum functions. The calculated &capdelta; SCF ionisation energies for photoemission from 1 &symbol;, 1 &symbol; and 2 &symbol; orbitals are 64.68, 64.63 and 4.38 eV respectively. These theoretical values have been used for specifying ionisation thresholds required for the transition moment calculations. The only ionisation energy known experimentally with reasonable confidence is the 2 &symbol; adiabatic ionisation potential of 5.14 eV (Eisel et al.1983; Bernheim et al. 1983) which is not directly comparable with the Franck-Condon value. TABLE The photoionisation properties for continuum angular momentum states to L = 5 for u symmetry and to L = 4 for g symmetry at photoelectron energies up to 6.0 a.u. have been determined. As in previous work L coupling between the exit channels has been neglected. The Li2 ground state equilibrium bond length of over 5 a.u. is one of the largest of the first row diatomics. It is significantly longer than for the diatomic molecules &formula;) and &formula;) which we have considered previously using the numerical method. From the physical point of view it is of interest to assess the extent to which the ionisation process retains atomic-like character at this large internuclear separation. From the numerical point of view, however, the large bond length is troublesome. It means that a finer grid spacing is needed and, since the molecular potential approaches its asymptotic form more slowly, the grid must extend further. Moreover, the larger bond length causes the influence of L coupling in the continuum wavefunction to be larger. The overall result is that for numerical calculations of a given size, lower numerical accuracy is obtained for Li2 cross sections than for H2 or H2+. Various numerical (r, θ) grid arrangements were used, with grid spacings h + 0.051-0.084 a.u. and &formula;, and boundary values &formula;. The Li2 exchange potential calculation converged more slowly than the H2 calculation, and 5-15 iterations were generally necessary compared with 3-10 for the H2 molecule. J06 2215 words The Australian Physicist - September 1986 Spectroscopy of molecular clusters By K.G.H. Baldwin Introduction The simultaneous development of two powerful experimental techniques since the mid 1960's has brought about a revolution in the study of molecules and molecular systems. These techniques, tunable laser spectroscopy and molecular beam devices, have been combined with a concurrent expansion in the theoretical simulation of molecular systems. The result of this productive marriage between theory and experiment has been a greater understanding of the physics of how molecules interact, with important consequences for the chemistry of molecular reactions. Some of the major advances that have been made in this area using the molecular beam facility at the Research School of Physical Sciences, ANU, under Dr. R.O. Watts, are described in this article. Molecular Beams The development of the supersonic jet source (Anderson et al., 1965) has enabled the production of high intensity, monoenergetic molecular beams. In this device, a gas at very high pressure (some tens of atmospheres) is forced through a very small nozzle (some tens of microns in diameter) into an evacuated chamber, producing a supersonic expansion of the gas through the nozzle. The result is a well collimated beam travelling in excess of one kilometre per second, but with very low temperatures (a few degrees K) for the internal molecular degrees of freedom (rotation and vibration). The supersonic jet has a number of important properties that make this source an extremely useful device for the study of molecular systems: •The extreme cooling by the supersonic expansion greatly simplifies the spectroscopy of the molecules because of the small number of excited states. •The conversion of random kinetic motion into a unidirectional beam with very little transverse kinetic motion results in the molecules being totally isolated from one another once they have travelled several nozzle diameters downstream of the expansion. •The low transverse energy allows aggregation of the molecules as they pass through the nozzle to form weakly bound van der Waals clusters, which can survive almost indefinitely once they reach the free molecular flow region. •The expansion into a vacuum allows the study of isolated molecular systems with no effects due to external perturbations. The ANU Molecular beam system is shown in Figure 1. A nozzle is situated in each of the primary and secondary chambers, which are pumped to a pressure of around 10-4 torr during operation of the beam. The two chambers are isolated from the main chamber by a conical skimmer some several hundred microns in diameter, which further collimates the beam to a few milliradians. The low pressure in the main chamber (10-6 torr) ensures that the beam remains unperturbed in its transit to the detectors. Two types of detector are used (the beam can be rotated to either): a quadrupole mass spectrometer, and a more sensitive, cryogenically cooled, bolometer which responds to very small changes in the total energy of the incoming beam. The molecule to be studied is usually seeded in a light carrier gas (hydrogen or helium) prior to the nozzle. Not only does this increase the expansion velocity (up to 2km/sec) and hence improve the cooling, but it also allows control of the aggregation of molecules into clusters. Higher concentrations and greater cooling (due to higher nozzle pressures) will increase the size of the clusters formed. Most of the experiments that have been performed at ANU have studied the spectroscopy of molecular clusters. For this work tunable infra-red F-centre lasers (2-3.5 &symbol; M) and CO2 lasers (10 &symbol; m) have been used. The reason for the avoidance of visible and UV spectroscopy in the ANU cluster studies is that these transitions involve alteration of the electronic structure of the cluster. Studies of the infra-red rotational and vibrational transitions, on the other hand, leave the basic structure of the cluster unaltered, and this simplifies the interpretation of the experimental data. The lasers enter the beam chamber through windows at the top, and can either be single passed perpendicularly to the beam (yielding Doppler widths of a few MHz), or multipassed to increase the laser-induced signal on the detector. The laser beam (or the molecular beam in the case of the scattering experiments) can be chopped to enable phase sensitive detection to be used. The signal detected by the bolometer can be of two types. If the photon energy is absorbed by the cluster and the cluster remains intact during its submillisecond transit time to the bolometer, then the bolometer will register an increase in energy, because the radiative lifetime of typical infra-red ro-vibrational transitions is of the order of milliseconds or longer. However, if the cluster dissociates soon after absorbing the infra-red photon (whose energy is usually many times greater than a typical van der Waals binding energy), then a decrease in the beam energy is registered after the cluster explodes into fragments which fly apart and miss the detector. Molecular Clusters - Theory The ANU group has developed novel methods for calculating the vibrational frequencies of molecules forming the clusters. Quantum simulation, in which an analogy between the time dependent Schrodinger equation and a diffusion equation with source/sink terms is exploited, to give a numerically exact ground state wavefunction for the cluster. This many body wavefunction is used to define a reference configuration for subsequent variational calculations of the vibrational eigenvalues of the cluster. The success of this theory, particularly when compared with more traditional normal mode and local mode calculations, is clearly evident in the results for the water dimer shown in Figure 2. In the case where a large number of cluster configurations contribute to the infrared band shape, the group has developed powerful semi-classical theories of inhomogeneous line broadening. Classical trajectory methods taken from liquid state theory (Watts and McGee, 1976) are used to generate a Boltzmann distribution of cluster configurations. Full quantum vibrational eigenvalue calculations for these configurations are used to determine the inhomogeneous band spectrum. Both the quantum simulation and the semi-classical method require accurate intermolecular potential func+tions. These are found using semi-empirical models which are consistent with a wide range of data taken from the gas, liquid and solid phases (Watts and McGee,1976). Experimental Results (i) Scattering and intermolecular potentials. Differential scattering cross section measurements provide a very accurate probe of intermolecular potential surfaces. Quantum scattering theory predicts that several types of interference phenomena should be observed in low energy scattering experiments. If the quantum interferences can be resolved, then they can be used to give detailed information on such matters as the relative sizes of molecules and the strengths of their interactions. The ANU group has developed a crossed molecular beam apparatus that is able to resolve the interference structure, particularly rainbow and Fraunhofer diffraction. An excellent example of this work is the differential scattering cross section measured for hydrogen molecules scattered from N2 and HF at collision energies near 100meV (Figure 3 - Miller, Vohralik and Watts, 1986). The experimental data shows clearly resolved quantum interference structure corresponding to Fraunhofer diffraction. Theoretical predictions of the scattering cross section obtained using isotropic potentials agree with the H2/N2 data, but give a poor representation of the H2/HF data. Multichannel quantum scattering calculations based on a strongly anisotropic pair potential since developed (but not shown in Figure 3) give much improved agreement with the H2/HF experiments. The ANU group has reported similar measurements for the collision partners He/HF (Boughton, Miller, Vohralik and Watts, 1986), CH4/CH4 (Boughton, Miller and Watts, 1985), and Ar/HF (Miller, Vohralik and Watts, to be published). By combining this type of measurement with coupled states calculations and other scattering theories, they have determined accurate interaction potentials for these systems. (ii) Changes of state One of the most remarkable results of the molecular beam work at ANU has been the measurement of molecular spectra under conditions in which the state of the molecules has been varied (by altering the nozzle pressure) in a continuous fashion from the gaseous to the solid state. In no other field of spectroscopy can spectral properties be measured as the state of matter is varied continuously. An example of the spectra obtained by this method is shown in Figure 4(a) (Miller, Watts and Ding, 1984), where the composition of a mixture of nitrous oxide in helium is varied to yield conditions of increasing cluster size. The position of the dissociation spectrum shifts from the gaseous frequency to the solid crystal frequency as the cluster size is increased. The simultaneous presence of peaks at the gaseous and solid frequencies indicates that in the intermediate regions, both small and large clusters exist in the beam. This result is born out by the mass spectrometer studies. Even more remarkable is the similarity between the theoretical predictions for the dissociation spectra of N2O and the experimental results. Figure 4(b) shows the simulated N2O spectrum obtained using the semi-classical theory outlined above for (a) N2O dimers, (b) clusters with 55 molecules and (c) molecules arranged in the solid lattice configuration (Miller, Watts and Ding, 1984). The synthetic spectra reproduce exactly the same shift in the spectrum from the gaseous to the solid frequency as is exhibited in the experimental results. (iii) Excitation and dissociation dynamics While the position of the spectra yield important information on the structure of complex molecular systems, the detailed shape of the spectra provides information on the dynamics of the dissociation of these systems following excitation. The dynamic behaviour is particularly important for understanding molecular interactions, because the cluster dissociation process can be viewed as a sort of half collision, where the molecules start already together and then fly apart. Very recently, results from the molecular beams laboratory at ANU have helped answer important questions as to what happens when excited clusters dissociate. Two competing models have been used to describe this process. The first states that the absorbed photon is localised at a particular molecule in the cluster, and the photon energy is then passed around between the cluster vibrational modes before the cluster ultimately dissociates. This is called the Intermolecular Vibrational Relaxation (IVR) model. The second model asserts that any absorption must occur into an eigenstate of the cluster as a whole, and that the time taken to dissociate is simply related to the probability amplitude of the eigenstate wavefunction at the van der Waals bond. The decay rate is then determined in a statistical process by the number of available decay channels, which increase with the complexity of the molecule and with the number of final states available to the fragment products. This is the direct dissociation model. Until recently there had been some evidence for the direct model from the fine structure present on some of the cluster spectra measured in different dimer systems (CO2 and N2O - Miller and Watts, 1984, C2H2 and C3H4 - Fischer, Miller, Vohralik and Watts, 1985), This fine structure is thought to be due to rotational levels in the vibrational bands of the cluster, and the width of the structure is inversely related (by the Fourier theorem) to the lifetime of the excitation. As the systems became more complex, the lifetime was found to decrease from >80 to 0.4 nanoseconds, thereby giving some support to the direct model. However, the fly in the ointment was ethylene (C2H4), which is of similar complexity to the larger of the systems mentioned above. Surprisingly though, ethylene was observed by a number of laboratories to have a very broad (12cm-1) &symbol;7 band spectrum which yielded lifetimes of only 1 picosecond (e.g. Hoffbauer et al., 1983). These measurements were taken using linetunable CO2 lasers near 950cm-1 in intervals of nearly two wavenumbers, and similar widths were obtained for the ethylene &symbol;9 band at 3000cm-1 using continuously tunable F-centre lasers (Fischer, Miller, Vohralik and Watts, 1985). These results implied that a statistical, direct dissociation process was not responsible for the observed widths. Instead, it was surmised, the lifetime of the photon excitation was limited by IVR which occurred on a picosecond timescale long before dissociation took place. However, recent studies of the &symbol;7 band at the ANU (Baldwin and Watts, 1986) and elsewhere (Shels et al., 1986) have shown that there is indeed rotational fine structure on top of the very broad &symbol;7 band spectrum which was missed in the previous point-by-point scans. Figure 5 shows a high resolution (0.01cm-1) scan obtained by piezoelectrically altering the cavity length of the CO2 laser near the 951cm-1 P12 lasing transition (Baldwin and Watts, 1986). The fine structure is most apparent at low concentrations and disappears completely at high concentratiopns leaving only the broad background, indicating that the broad spectrum measured by previous workers was probably due to very large clusters. The fine structure is still present using hydrogen as the carrier gas, and its presence a tthe dimer mass on the mass spectrometer indicates that the fine structure is due purely to the ethylene dimer. So the ethylene dimer is now shown to behave not dissimilarly to the other dimer systems, and from the measured linewidths has a lifetime of around 10ns. These results provide further evidence that molecular clusters behave like a single large molecule, whose excitation lifetime is limited purely by the pre-dissociation lifetime of the excited cluster eigenstate. This is yet another example of the way in which molecular beam spectroscopy has become a powerful tool in the study of molecular behaviour. J08 2157 words Journal of Biological Sciences J08a Journal of Biological Sciences - 1986 Antifertility activity and toxicity of α-chlorohydrin aromatic ketal analogues in male rats By P.D.C. Brown-Woodman, I.G. White and D.D. Ridley Abstract The antifertility activity and toxicity of &symbol;-chlorohydrin and seven aromatic ketal derivatives were investigated in male rats. At a dose of 5 mg/kg injected intraperitioneally each day for 14 days, &symbol;-chlorohydrin and the methoxy benzaldehyde derivative (compound 2) produced complete infertility. The benzaldehyde derivative (compound 1) was 89% effective and the other five compounds 71-25% effective. All compounds except the least effective antifertility agent, the methylbenzaldehyde derivative (compound 3), reduced the motility of sperm recovered from the epididymis. None of the compounds caused a decrease in body or testes weight but some increased adrenal weight. Introduction Since &symbol;-chlorohydrin possesses many desirable properties as a male contraceptive, but has proved too toxic for human use, numerous studies have been undertaken in an attempt to find analogues which exhibit antifertility activity without the side-effects (Jones 1983). FIGURE The structural requirements for antifertility activity are very specific, and thus the number of possible modifications limited. The active compound must contain three saturated carbon atoms: a primary carbon atom bearing a chlorine atom, adjacent to a carbon atom bearing a secondary hydroxyl group, adjacent to a primary carbon atom bearing a primary hydroxyl group. The hydroxyl groups may be free, esterified or present as ether linkages (Fig. 1) (cf. Jones 1978). Brown-Woodman et al. (1979) found that compound 1 (Fig. 1c) was an effective antifertility agent in the male rat and apparently less toxic than &symbol;-chlorohydrin. In view of this we have synthesized ketal derivatives of &symbol;-chlorohydrin and tested their antifertility activity in male rats. Materials and Methods Treatment of Rats Mature fertile Wistar rats were maintained under regulated conditions of temperature, light and humidity, and were given food and water ad lib. The formulae of &symbol;-chlorohydrin and the analogues tested are shown*show in Fig. 1. Each compound was dissolved in propyleneglycol and five male rats were injected subcutaneously daily for 15 days with each analogue, at a dose equivalent to 5 mg &symbol;-chlorohydrin per kilogram body weight. A control group of rats received propyleneglycol alone. Two female rats were caged with each male on the seventh day of injection. Male rats were killed and weighed on day 16 and the testes, epididymides, spleen, adrenal and body weights recorded. The vasa defentia were flushed with 0.5 ml Krebs-Ringer phosphate buffer (pH 7.2) containing 0.3% (w/v) fructose, and the 0.5-ml portions from each rat were pooled. Aliquots (0.2 ml) were added to 1.0 formal saline for assessment of sperm concentration using a haemocytometer. Sperm motility was scored on the remainder according to the method of Emmens (1947). The female rats were killed 20 days after mating and checked for pregnancy and the litter size recorded. Preparation of Ketal Derivatives of &symbol;-Chlorohydrin The ketal derivatives of &symbol;-cholorohydrin were prepared from &symbol;-chlorohydrin (0.10) mol), the carbonyl compound (0.11 mol), and p-toluenesulfonic acid (0.005 mol) in benzene (200 ml). The mixture was refluxed for 24 h (Dean-Stark water separator being used to remove water formed in the reaction), cooled, and extracted with dilute Na2CO3. After evaporation of the dried solvent the residue was distilled under reduced pressure. Thus were prepared the benzaldehyde derivative (compound 1), b.p. 103°C/1.2mm (Baggett et al. 1966); (126-127°/4 mm); the p-methoxybenzaldehyde derivative (compound 2), b.p. 128-130°/0.2mm (found: C, 57.8; H, 5.4; Cl, 15.6. CH13ClO13 requires C, 57.8; H, 5.7; Cl, 15.5%); the p-methylbenzaldehyde derivative (compound 3), b.p. 100-104°/0.04 mm (found: C, 62.3; H, 6.3; Cl, 16.9. C11H13ClO2 requires C, 62.1; H, 6.2; Cl,16.7%); the p-chlorobenzaldehyde derivative (compound 4), b.p. 106°/0.15 mm (found C, 51.2; H, 4.6; Cl, 30.8. C10H10Cl2O2 requires C, 51.5; H, 4.6; Cl, 30.4%); the p-nitrobenzaldehyde derivative (compound 5), m.p. 55-61° (found: C, 49.2; H, 4.5; Cl, 14.3. C10H10ClNO4 requires C, 49.3; H, 4.4; Cl, 14.6%); the acetophenone derivative (compound 6), b.p. 84-86°/0.4 mm (found C, 61.9; H, 6.4; Cl, 16.7. C11H13ClO2 requires, C, 62.1; H, 6.2; Cl, 16.7%; the cinnamaldehyde derivative (compound 7), b.p. 140-142°/0.6 mm (found C, 62.1; H, 6.2; Cl, 16.9. C11H13ClO2 requires C, 62.1; H, 6.2; Cl, 16.7%). All compounds tested were racemic and all of the derivatives of &symbol;-chlorohydrin were additionally mixtures of diastereoisomers which could not be separated. Statistical analysis The significance of differences between treatments was examined by analysis of variance and Duncan's multiple-range test (Steel and Torrie 1960). The mean increase in body weight during the experiment for each of the analogues was compared with the controls by a paired t-test. The number of fetuses produced per rat was analysed by a Student's t-test. Results &symbol;-Chlorohydrin and all analogues decreased the fertility of the male rats to some extent. Of the analogues, compounds 1 and 2 were the most active (Table 1), and the latter, like &symbol;-chlorohydrin, was completely effective. Both the number of pregnancies and the number of fetuses per litter were less than in the control group, except for compound 3 which did not decrease the litter size. All compounds except compound 3 reduced motility of the epididymal sperm (Table 2). None of the compounds caused an increase in the separation of sperm heads and tails (Table 2). TABLE No significant change in body weight occurred during the 15 days of injections. &symbol;-Chlorohydrin produced a significant decrease in testicular weight compared with the control; however, none of the derivatives affected testicular weight (Table 3). Spleen weight was decreased in all groups except those which received compounds 1 and 3, while adrenal gland weight was unchanged in all rats except those which received compound 7, where an increase was noted (Table 3). TABLE Discussion These experiments confirm that it is possible to mask the hydroxyl groups of &symbol;-chlorohydrin with ketal groups and still maintain at least a degree of antifertility activity. &symbol;-Chlorohydrin itself was completely effective and did not increase adrenal weight at the low dose in this experiment, in contrast to the increase following a single injection of 90 mg/kg (Brown- Woodman and White 1975). TABLE The benzaldehyde derivative (compound 1) was again found to be highly effective (89%) in reducing the fertility of male rats although it did not completely abolish fertility as was the case in the previous trial (Brown-Woodman et al. 1979). As there was again no increase in adrenal weight, no loss of body weight, and no change in spleen weight, the compound is possibly non-toxic. Stress or injection of toxic substance are known to cause enlargement of the adrenals and atrophy of the spleen (Selye 1976). Substitution of a methoxy (-OCH3) group in the para position of the benzene ring of compound 1 apparently increased antifertility activity as compound 2 was 100% effective, but only six of the 10 rats mated. This may reflect reduced libido or some degree of toxicity, as although body and adrenal weights were not affected by the compound, spleen weight was significantly decreased. Addition of a methyl group to the benzene ring (compound 3) greatly reduced antifertility activity and the harmful effect on epididymal sperm motility. The compound was also apparently less toxic than the methoxy derivative (compound 2) since there was no increase in adrenal weight, and no change in spleen weight. Substitution with chloro (compound 4) and nitro (compound 5) groups in the benzene ring did not reduce antifertility activity nearly as much as methyl group substitution; compound 5, however, may be toxic as the weight of the spleen was decreased. Substitution of a methyl group in the carbon link (compound 6) of the ketal group or lengthening the carbon link (compound 7) also reduced antifertility activity and presumably increased toxicity as judged by the decreased spleen weights observed in the rats receiving both compounds, and the increased adrenal weight seen with compound 7. We had hoped that increasing the lipophilic nature of the &symbol;- chlorohydrin derivatives might have enhanced uptake by the epididymis and this, followed by slow release into the blood stream, would reduce the toxicity of the compounds compared to &symbol;-chlorohydrin, without impairing antifertility activity. However, this does not appear to be the case. It is not known whether these ketal derivatives exert their antifertility activity as such or after degradation to &symbol;-chlorohydrin, although the decrease in activity observed in the series reflects expected ease of hydrolysis to the starting carbonyl compounds and &symbol;-chlorohydrin and we believe that &symbol;-chlorohydrin is the active compound. Some support for this was obtained by in situ experiments. Thus the ketals were heated at 37°C at pH 7.4 (KH2PO4-Na2HPO4 buffer) and the mixtures were analysed by g.l.c. for the presence of the free carbonyl component and &symbol;-chlorohydrin. Compound 2 was 5% hydrolysed after 24h, compound 1 was 1% hydrolysed after 24 h, whilst no hydrolysis products were observed under these conditions for compounds 3-7. The fact that these compounds were relatively inert under these near-physiological conditions is not surprising since ketal hydrolyses generally become rapid around pH 3; on the other hand their resistance to hydrolysis at pH 7.4 in situ does not necessarily indicate resistance to hydrolysis in vivo where enzymatic catalysis may occur. Jones and O'Brien (1980) studied the metabolism by the rat of two ketal derivatives which had been shown previously to have antifertility activities in the rat comparable to that of &symbol;-chlorohydrin (Banik et al. 1972; Hirsch et al. 1975). Both compounds produce &symbol;-chlorolactate, the major oxidative metabolite of &symbol;-chlorohydrin, indicating that these ketal derivatives are degraded to &symbol;-chlorohydrin. The antifertility effectiveness of the compounds tested in the present experiment may therefore, reflect their ease of degradation to &symbol;-chlorohydrin. The reduction in epididymal sperm motility produced by &symbol;-chlorohydrin and all the analogues apart from compound 3 was not unexpected in view of the data that the primary effect of &symbol;-chlorohydrin is directed towards the sperm in the epididymis and it produces biochemical changes in the organ (Crabo and Appelgren 1972; Brown-Woodman and White, 1975, 1976; Lobl 1980; Tsang et al. 1981; Paz and Homonnai 1982). Low doses of &symbol;-chlorohydrin do not affect the weight or ultrastructure of the epididymis (Reijonen et al. 1975) and thus the fact that none of the derivatives produced change in epididymal weight was not surprising. Compounds 1 and 2 would seem to warrant further investigation as possible male antifertility agents. Acknowledgements The authors wish to thank Miss H. Hughes for her invaluable technical assistance. J08b Journal of Biological Sciences - 1986 The movement of fluids and substances in the testis B.P. Setchell Abstract Three aspects of the control of movements of fluids and substances into, out of and inside the testis are discussed: the tubular barrier, the interstitial extracellular fluid and the testicular blood vessels. The functional basis for the tubular barrier is twofold; there are significant differences in the concentration of many substances inside and outside the tubules and marker substances enter or leave the tubular fluid at widely different rates, depending on lipid solubility and the presence of specific carrier systems. The anatomical basis for this barrier appears to be the specialized junctions between adjacent pairs of Sertoli cells. The barrier develops only at puberty, as the first cells undergo meiosis, but the development may not be as sudden as previously believed. The barrier breaks down after efferent duct ligation when spermatogenesis is disrupted. Techniques for measuring the volume, the turnover rate, the composition and fate of the interstitial extracellular fluid are described, and the unsatisfactory features of the presently available techniques for collecting this fluid for analysis are emphasized. There is a relationship between the fluid in the testis and lymph from vessels in the spermatic cord and lymph may be important for the transport of hormones to the general circulation in some circumstances and to other organs close to the testis. The testicular blood vessels display certain unusual features, a very high susceptibility to the toxic effects of cadmium salts, a high level of alkaline phosphatase activity in all endothelial cells but only after puberty and a high level of gamma-glutamyl transpeptidase in the endothelial cells of the arterioles and the testicular artery. These same cells are the site for a specific transport system for leucine and phenylalanine, with kinetic characteristics similar to the system in brain. Flow of blood may limit hormone secretion by the aspermatogenic testis, but diffusion limitation may also be important under some circumstances. A fuller understanding of the ways in which substances move around in the testis, particularly how they cross the endothelial cell layer or penetrate into the tubules, will be important for a better appreciation of testicular function. Introduction In this lecture, I propose to describe some features of the movement of fluids and substances within the testes of mammals. That such a topic merits consideration is perhaps surprising, but I hope to show that the testis has many curious features which influence the free movements of substances both within the tissue, and between the tissue and the rest of the body. As the testis is an important endocrine tissue, and hormones are important factors in the production of spermatozoa, this discussion will concentrate on hormones, although not exclusively. J09 2016 words Australian Journal of Zoology Phylogenetic relationships in the genus Limnodynastes (anura:myobatrachidae): a molecular perspective J09 2006 words Australian Journal of Zoology Phylogenetic relationships in the genus Limnodynastes (anura:myobatrachidae): a molecular perspective J.D. Roberts and Linda R. Maxson Abstract Phylogenetic relationships among 10 of the 12 currently recognised species of Limnodynastes were investigated by the quantitative immunological technique of micro-complement fixation (MC'F). Analyses of albumin differentiation in Limnodynastes suggest that L. ornatus and L. spenceri are representatives of an independent lineage that emerged in the early Tertiary. We identify four additional lineages appearing in the early Oligocene (L. terraereginae, L. dumerili, L. dorsalis and probably L. interioris; L. tasmaniensis, L. fletcheri and L. peroni; L. salmini; and L. convexiusculus). Our data do not support the recognition of Platyplectron (Heyer & Liem, 1976) as a separate genus. Members of Platyplectron are more closely related to various groupings within Limnodynastes than they are to other burrowing genera (Heleioporus, Notaden and Neobatrachus). Analyses of geographically widespread populations of L. ornatus, L. tasmaniensis, L. peroni and of the subspecies of L. dumerili indicate degrees of genetic differentiation which are correlated with distance. Introduction Frogs of the genus Limnodynastes are widespread over the Australian continent with one species also found in southern New Guinea (Tyler et al. 1981). All species in the genus construct floating foam nests for egg deposition and these are often a conspicuous feature of amphibian breeding sites in Australia (e.g. illustrated in Moore 1961). There are both non-burrowing and burrowing forms of Limnodynastes, with two of the latter occurring in the central deserts (L. ornatus and L. spenceri: Tyler et al. 1981). Martin (1972), Littlejohn and Roberts (1975), Heyer and Liem (1976), Tyler (1976), Tyler et al. (1979), Farris et al. (1982) and Watson and Littlejohn (1985) have all recently dealt with systematic, evolutionary, or biogeographic questions within this genus. However, the conclusions drawn in these papers need to be treated cautiously for two reasons. First, recent biochemical work on Australian anurans (summarised in Roberts and Maxson 1985b) has questioned relationships and speciation patterns amongst Australian frogs which have been inferred from similarities in external morphology, call structure, and the results of artificial hybridisation tests. These latter types of data were used by Martin (1972), Littlejohn and Roberts (1975) and Watson and Littlejohn (1985) to infer speciation patterns amongst members of the L. dorsalis group and the L. tasmaniensis complex. Evaluation by an independent molecular technique seems desirable. Second, detailed analyses of the same morphological and ecological data from Australian myobatrachid frogs (including species of Limnodynastes) by Heyer and Liem (1976) and Farris et al. (1982) have reached differing conclusions. Farris et al. noted that the data they used have given equivocal information on relationships. Thus, it appeared that an independent, molecular data set could be helpful in addressing questions of phylogeny in these taxa. This paper probes phylogenetic relationships among species of Limnodynastes, using micro-complement fixation (MC'F) studies of albumin evolution. MC'F and the resultant immunological distance (ID) data have been widely used in phylogenetic analysis (e.g. amphibians, Maxson 1984; reptiles, Gorman et al. 1971; mammals, Collier and O'Brien 1985; birds, Prager and Wilson 1980; insects, Beverley and Wilson 1982; and bacteria, Champion et al. 1980). Moreover, because albumin evolves at a relatively constant rate (e.g. Maxson and Wilson 1975; Wilson et al. 1977; Thorpe 1982), studies of albumin evolution can also provide a temporal perspective on the evolutionary process. We address four interrelated questions on systematic relationships and speciation in Limnodynastes arising from the recent literature cited above. (1) Is any generic division of Limnodynastes supported by immunological data? This question stems from Heyer and Liem's (1976) use of the name Platyplectron to accommodate members of the L. dorsalis group (L. dorsalis, L. dumerili, L. interioris and L. terraereginae: Martin 1972) and the L. ornatus group (L. ornatus and L. spenceri: Tyler et al. 1979), and from the suggestion by Tyler et al. (1979) that each of the three distinct morphological groups they recognised within Limnodynastes (sensu lato), the `dorsalis' group, the `ornatus' group and the `tasmaniensis' group (L. tasmaniensis, L. peroni, L. fletcheri, L. salmini and L. convexiusculus), might warrant elevation to generic status. (2) If a division of Limnodynastes is justified, where do the affinities of the resulting groups lie? Heyer and Liem (1976) described Limnodynastes and Platyplectron as sister groups but in a re-analysis of the same data set, Farris et. al. (1982) showed Platyplectron to be more closely associated with other burrowing genera of the subfamily Limnodynastinae such as Heleioporus, Neobatrachus and Notaden. (3) Do the immunological data suggest that descriptions of new species or erection of any new synonymies are warranted? These actions might be justified in taxa that have dubious status as separate species, e.g. L. spenceri, or in the subspecific taxa recognized in `L. dorsalis (Martin 1972) or in the call races of the L. tasmaniensis complex (Littlejohn and Roberts 1975; Roberts 1976). For example, L. spenceri was described by Parker (1940), but Moore (1961) and Barker and Grigg (1977) have questioned whether this species is distinct from L. ornatus. (4) Are the call races of the L. tasmaniensis complex and the subspecies of L. dorsalis of Pleistocene age or, are they older? These subspecies and call races have been viewed as evolving in the Pleistocene (Littlejohn and Roberts 1975; Roberts 1976; Martin 1972). However, recent papers by Barendse (1984), Maxson and Roberts (1984) and Roberts and Maxson (1985a, 1985b) have questioned Pleistocene scenarios for speciation events in other components of the southern and south-western Australian anuran fauna. By means of MC'F studies of albumin evolution we have been able to provide answers to all four questions that we have posed. Materials and Methods Albumins from 14 species of Australian frogs were studied: Limnodynastes convexiusculus L. dorsalis, L. dumerili (six populations), L. fletcheri, L. ornatus (five populations), L. peroni (four populations), L. salmini, L. spenceri (two populations), L. tasmaniensis (11 populations), L. terraereginae, Heleioporus barycragus, H. australiacus, Notaden nichollsi and Neobatrachus pictus. Unless otherwise indicated, single specimens were used as representatives of each population or species. Earlier work has shown intrapopulation variation for a valid species is within the sensitivity of the MC'F assay, &symbol;2 immunological distance units (Maxson and Maxson 1979). Serum albumin was purified from plasma by single-step polyacrylamide-gel electrophoresis (Maxson et al. 1979). A single frog of each species provided plasma for L. dorsalis, L. dumerili, L. ornatus, L. salmini, H. barycragus, H. australiacus and No. nichollsi. Plasma was pooled from three L. peroni and from seven L. tasmaniensis. Purified albumins were used for production of antisera in rabbits. Antisera were tested for purity as described by Maxson et al. (1982). MC'F experiments were performed with antisera to the albumins of six species of Limnodynastes, the two species of Heleioporus, and No. nichollsi following procedures outlined in Champion et al. (1974). The six Limodynastes species were selected as representative of the described species-groups. Sufficient material was not available to prepare a complete set of antisera. Data are reported as immunological distance (ID) where one ID unit is roughly equivalent to one amino acid difference between the albumins compared (Maxson and Wilson 1974). The phylogenetic tree was constructed from the averages of reciprocal comparisons by a simple algorithm (Maxson et al. 1979) which is a modification of Farris' Wagner tree method (Farris 1972). This method is appropriate for albumin MC'F data where the large number of amino acid positions in albumin permits one to assume there are very few parallel- and back-mutation contaminations. For species where only one-way comparisons were available, species were added to the tree by the method outlined in Beverley and Wilson (1982). Estimates of divergence dates are based on the relationship between ID and time, described by Maxson and Wilson (1975), where 100 units of ID accumulate between two independent lineages every 55-60 million years. Voucher specimens were deposited in the South Australian Museum, Adelaide (SAM) and Western Australian Museum, Perth (WAM). The individual frogs are indicated by LRM collection number in parentheses and collection locality. Standard abbreviations are used for Australian States and Territories, and points of the compass. LIST Specimens used to prepare antisera are indicated by an asterisk. Multiple museum registration numbers indicate plasma was pooled from several frogs. Otherwise, samples are from a single frog except where indicated for species with no museum registration number. Results The average titre and slope of the nine antisera used in this study were 5100 and 375 respectively, values typical of earlier studies of albumin evolution in anurans (Maxson 1981). Table 1 presents the data from reciprocal comparisons among the six species of Limnodynastes TABLE for which we have antisera, as well as the data from one-way comparisons with each of the antisera for four additional species. Reciprocal tests indicate how well the albumin sequence differences between species are estimated. Our reciprocal data demonstrate a significant non-randomness which was corrected by methods outlined by Sarich and Cronin (1976). The standard deviation (Maxson and Wilson 1975) of the raw data is 17.6% and for the `corrected' reciprocal matrix (Table 2) is 12.4%. In general, standard deviations for comparable matrices vary from 10 to 20% (Maxson et al. 1982). The averages for the `corrected' reciprocal measurements (Table 2) were used to construct a phylogeny for Limnodynastes (Fig.1). In order to estimate how well the tree of the six species (Table 2) describes the input data, we calculated the percentage standard deviation between the data input and the tree output (Fitch and Margoliash 1967). This value, 9.4%, is comparable to values from other studies (Maxson et al. 1982). The percentage error (Prager and Wilson 1976) is 6.7%. FIGURE Four species of Limnodynastes to which we did not have antisera have been added to the tree in Fig.1. The locations of these species were determined from their respective reactions to each of the antisera (Table 1). Table 3 contains data on albumin variation in different populations of four species of Limnodynastes. These are all one-way comparisons with the available, relevant antiserum. Table 4 contains data comparing representative major Limnodynastes lineages defined by this study with other, possibly related, genera (Farris et al. 1982). All data, except those involving Ne. pictus, are reciprocal comparisons. The standard deviation of the reciprocal matrix in Table 4 is 11.9%. If the single pair L. ornatus-L. dumerili is omitted, the standard deviation from reciprocity drops by almost half to 6.5%. Such deviation from reciprocity, as is exhibited by this single comparison, is not typical, but illustrates why we use averages of reciprocal measurements to estimate phylogenies. Without absolute albumin sequences, or data from a second molecule, we have no way of determining which value, 57 or 130, is the more accurate estimate of the `true' albumin sequence difference between these species. However, in this instance our phylogenetic conclusions are unaffected because all other reciprocal comparisons with L. ornatus determine the phylogenetic position of this lineage as most distant from all other Limnodynastes, except L. spenceri. The averages of reciprocal comparisons in Table 4 were used to add Heleioporus and Notaden to the phylogeny in Fig.1. When input and output data for L. ornatus, L. salmini, L.dumerili, H. australiacus, H. barycragus and No. nichollsi (Table 4) are compared, the standard deviation is 5.9%. The percentage error is 5.4%. These parameters suggest the tree is a good representation of the branching relationships among the taxa studied. Ne. pictus was not included in Fig. 1 because its relationships appear to be to Heleioporus (Table 4), not to Limnodynastes, and an antiserum will be needed to definitely associate Neobatrachus with other limnodynastine genera. TABLE Discussion Age of Limnodynastes There are clearly some old divisions within this genus. By means of the molecular clock properties of albumin evolution (Maxson and Wilson 1975; Wilson et al. 1977; Carlson et al. 1978), we estimate that the lineages leading to the modern-day genera of Limnodynastes, Heleioporus and Notaden separated from one another in the late Cretaceous-early Palaeocene (Fig.1). The lineage leading to the modern species, L. ornatus and L. spenceri, emerged about the same time in the Palaeocene and has had a history independent of the remainder of Limnodynastes for the past 57-62 million years. J11 2013 words Australian Journal of Botany The genus Pyxine (Physciaceae, lichenized ascomycetes) in Australia By R.W. Rogers Abstract Following morphological, anatomical and chemical studies, 15 species of Pyxine (Physciaceae, lichenized ascomycetes) are recorded for Australia. Their classification, distribution and habitats are discussed. The following taxa are reduced to synonymy: Pyxine cocoes var. endoxantha Mull. Arg. and P. meissneri var. rinodinoides Vainio with P. berteriana (Fee) Imshaug; P. brachyloba Mull. Arg., P. nitidula Mull. Arg. and P. microspora Vainio with P. minuta Vainio; P. meissneri var. convexula Malme, P. albida Magnusson and P. pringlei Imshaug with P. petricola; P. meissneri var. subobscurascens Malme with P. pungens Zahlbr.; P. retirugella var. laevior Vainio, P. retirugella var. capitata zahibr., P. copelandii Vainio, P. asiatica Vainio, and P. patellaris Kurok. with P. retirugella Nyl.; and P. prominula Stirton with P. cocoes (Sw.) Nyl. The new species P. isidiolenta R.W. Rogers is described and the new name P. linearis R.W. Rogers is proposed for P. retirugella var. endoxantha forma sorediosa Mull. Arg. Introduction The genus Pyxine was established by Elias Fries in 1825 with Lecidea sorediata Ach. as its type species. He placed Pyxine in the tribe Pyxinae along with Umbilicaria, the common character being a naked proper exciple. By 1885 Nylander had recognized four species in the genus, with essentially the same delimitation as now: a small foliose lichen with black apothecia usually without algae in the margin; spores thick-walled, brown and two-celled. Pyxine is one of a number of genera similar in thallus size and morphology (Pyxine, Physcia, Dirinaria and Physconia) in the Physciaceae. Fertile material of Pyxine can be distinguished from the others easily, for in sections of the apothecium the epithecium reacts K+ faint purple-violet. Both Dirinaria and Pyxine have a dark hypothecium which is not present in the other genera and Pyxine, unlike Physcia, Dirinaria or Physconia, often has apothecia with a margin devoid of algae. The apothecial margin in Pyxine is not lecideine as reported in some earlier papers, but is a modified lecanorine structure (Swinscow and Krog 1975a). Sterile material is more difficult to determine but Pyxine does have a number of attributes that help to identify specimens. First, many species contain lichexanthone in the upper cortex, and therefore react UV+ gold; no other foliose Physciaceae show this. Species of Dirinaria tend to have lobes which fuse laterally, which no Pyxine does. Many Pyxine species develop pseudocyphellae which show as white lines on the margins of the thallus or on the upper cortex, where they may form a reticulate pattern: such pseudocyphellae are not found in the other genera. The chemistry of Pyxine is also characteristic, all Pyxine species (except Pyxine nubila) producing a range of triterpenes, but in association with norstictic acid. Dirinaria also produces triterpines, but in association withdivaricatic or sekikaic acids. It is clear that Dirinaria is the genus closest to Pyxine in terms of both apothecial structure and chemistry. Both Dirinaria and Pyxine are genera of the tropics and subtropics, and have at times been combined (e.g. Stirton 1898). Examination of collections from the Brisbane area showed that the genus Pyxine in Australia was in need of careful study, although a great deal of ground work had already been done by Stirton (1898), Imshaug (1957), Swinscow and Krog (1975a, 1975c) and Kashiwadani (1977a-1977c). Materials and Methods In this study taxa have been delimited by examination of a large number of Australian collections of Pyxine. Having established the number of species in Australia, and what are the limits of their variation, type materials from Australia and elsewhere were examined in order to find appropriate names for the species. The result is a relatively broad species concept, with the type sometimes representing an extreme variant of the taxon as in the case of Pyxine retirugella. The species description given here are, therefore, not descriptions of the type but a description which circumscribes the taxa as they appear in the Australian environment. Most of the material examined was collected by the author or by Nell Stevens. Collections were borrowed from other Australian herberia, CANB, NSW, MEL, BRI, PERTH, and the herbarium of Dr J.A. Elix in the Chemistry Department of Australian National University, abbreviated CANUC. The Australian material in BM was examined and that in G borrowed for study. If no location is indicated specimens are housed in BRIU. Full synonymies are not given: those names reported for Australia are disposed of, and synonyms discovered during the study indicated. Many additional synonyms based on modern species concepts are reported by Swinscow and Krog (1975a). Type specimens were kindly made available for this study by BM, G, FH, UPS, O, W, H, S, GLAM, TNS, TUR and C. All specimens were examined under u.v. light and where material permitted, thin-layer chromatography (TLC) and microchemical spot tests were performed on the thallus. Thallus Morphology The thallus is normally composed of neatly radiating subdichotomous to linear lobes, although irregular substrates and age disturb this pattern. The lobes are often noticeably crenate or complicate along the margins. They are commonly more or less flat, although P. convexior and P. pungens are characterized by convex lobes. The colour of the lobes is fairly uniform white to pearl grey or dull yellow. (Colour terminology is after Kornerup and Wanscher 1967.) The lower surface is black, except in P. nubila, usually with plentiful, well developed black rhizines. Soredia, pustules and isidia occur in a continuum in this genus. The intermediate forms have been noted by Kashiwadani (1977a) and by Swinscow and Krog (1975a). Some species show well developed soralia, which may be orbicular and laminal as in some P. retirugella collections (Fig. 4) or orbicular and pedicillate as in others. The closely related P. consocians shows pustules, often with proliferating tissue on the margins. P. subcinerea shows marginal soralia that appear to develop from the marginal pseudocyphellae, often spreading continu+ously along lobe margins (Fig. 9) but in other cases remaining discrete. P. cocoes produces laminal and marginal erose soralia (Fig. 5) which may form extensive sorediate patches. In P. sorediata the soredia are marginal and very coarse, although sometimes they are restricted to the tips of marginal lobules and may look rather like insidia (Figs 6 and 7). The soredia of P. coccifera have their origin in the pseudocyphellae and are brilliant red (Fig. 8). Soralia are sometimes restricted to older parts of the thallus, with extensive non-sorediate areas near the perimeter. Great care must therefore be taken when looking for soralia, and very small thalli ought to be matched to both sorediate and non-sorediate descriptions. In the Australian material only P. isidiolenta shows true isidia. In this species the isidia are thin somewhat branched cylindrical structures (Fig. 10). Isidium-like pustules are devel+oped in P. consocians (Fig. 11). Pseudocyphellae are common in a number of species but the degree of development is very variable. Species should not be separated on differing degrees of pseudocyphellation as the character varies greatly from lobe to lobe on the same thallus. Marginal pseudocyphellae, which appear as a white line along the margin of the lobe, are especially common. They often carry over onto the upper surface as short white lines (Fig. 12) which may link up irregularly or more or less reticulately (Fig. 13). In some cases the pseudocyphellae develop as cracks or splits between ridges. This is particularly marked in the P. retirugella complex, in which the type of P. retirugella shows an extreme development of reticulate pseudocyphellae. P. coccifera commonly shows deeply split pseudocyphellae (Fig. 8). Colour of the medulla is fairly constant within a species. Three colours can usually be distinguished: white, yellow and buff. In P. coccifera, the medulla is white except immedi+ately under the pseudocyphellae where it is red. Pruina is present in most species, the amount varying from specimen to specimen and lobe to lobe. It may be present in continuous sheets, e.g. in P. cocoes (Fig. 14), or only in a sparse scatter of crystals as in P. linearis (Fig. 15). Apothecium Morphology Variation in apothecium morphology has been well discussed by Swinscow and Krog (1975a) and there is little to add. It is clear that the nature of the margin of the apothecium is variable, sometimes with an apparently thalloid margin and sometimes without one. The margin is in all cases lecanorine but often without algae and carbonized, thus appearing lecideine. In the past many species have been created on the grounds of a margin coloured like the thallus or not; such separations are spurious, a single thallus often having apothecia of both forms. The presence of an `internal stipe' (Imshaug 1957) has been found to be a useful taxonomic attribute. Chemistry Cortical chemistry is an important taxonomic character in Pyxine, the presence or absence of atranorin or lichexanthone being a useful character for identifying species. Medullary chemistry is variable within and between species. The medulla may contain norstictic acid, testacein, triterpenes and pigments. Testacein is the unknown UV+ sub+stance reported by Swinscow and Krog (1975a), first isolated from Parmelia testacea (J.A. Elix, personal communication). Triterpenes are present in all species except P. nubila, but in variable quantities. They appear to be constant or present as only a limited number of variants in a species. Medullary chemistry is regarded here as a confirmatory character only. Neither the pres+ence or absence of norstictic acid or testacein nor a different pattern of triterpenes was considered sufficient in itself to separate species. In this respect the treatment of chemistry in this study is akin to that of Swinscow and Krog (1975b) in their treatment of Usnea rather than their account of Pyxine in East Africa (Swinscow and Krog 1975a). Permitting chemical variation within species has had particular significance in the P. retirugella and P. minuta complexes, in which fewer species are recognized than would be if the criteria used in some other studies (e.g. Swinscow and Krog 1975a; Kashiwadani 1977a) were applied. The chemistry of the species discussed in this paper is presented in Fig. 1. Distribution patterns Virtually all of the collections of Pyxine made in Australia are from a narrow band near the coast. They were gathered mostly along the east coast except for a small number of collections from the north and north-west, two from the extreme south-west and one from Tasmania (Fig. 2). If the coastal strip is divided into segments representing climatic regions and the total number of species of Pyxine present in each is accumulated (Fig. 2), it is apparent that the genus shows its greatest development in the tropics and subtropics, which have a more or less year-round rainfall. A number of species is also known from the `Wet-Dry' tropics, a region with an extreme winter drought and a relatively short wet summer season. Only one species occurs in the cool-temperate region, Pyxine nubila, known only from a single site in Tasmania. One species, P. subcinerea, has a disjunct distribution from southern New South Wales to the far south-west of Western Australia. On the maps of individual species it is likely that any disjunctions apparent along the eastern and southern coasts where collections of lichens are numerous represent real distri+bution gaps. However, gaps along the northern coast (e.g. in the Gulf of Carpentaria) may represent gaps in collection rather than distribution. The distribution of Pyxine in Australia (Fig. 3) can be explained in climatic terms. The genus occurs only in those areas which are at least seasonally humid and wet and warm simultaneously. This explains the absence of Pyxine from the inland, from the south-central coast and the western coast, which have a cool wet winter and a dry summer or are uniformly dry all year round. Exceptions to this are Tasmania, where a single collection of P. nubila (Fig. 3F) is known from a region which is uniformly cool and moist, and the extreme south-west of Western Australia where P. subcinerea occurs (arrowed in Fig. 3J). In the north the seasons are strongly differentiated with a warm, very dry winter and a hot wet summer. This climate supports a number of species, one of which (P. coccifera, Fig. 3B) is restricted to the region. J14 2001 words The Medical Journal of Australia - July 7, 1986 Premature adult mortality and short-stay hospitalization in Western Australia attributable to the smoking of tobacco, 1979-1983 By C. D'Arcy J. Holman and Ruth E. Shean ABSTRACT The proportions of total deaths and premature adult mortality in 1979-1983, and of short-stay hospital admissions and bed-days in 1983, that were attributable to the smoking of tobacco were estimated in Western Australia by the use of aetiological fractions that had been derived from the published literature. Premature adult mortality was measured by the person-years of life that were lost from ages 15 to 69 years (PYLL6915). In men it was estimated that 25% of all deaths and 14% of PYLL6915 were attributable to smoking. In women the corresponding proportions were 15% of deaths and 8% of PYLL6915. The proportions of short-stay hospital bed-days that were attributable to smoking were estimated at 7% in men and 3% in women; for hospital admissions the estimates were 4% and 1% in men and women, respectively. In all, tobacco-related disease and injury accounted for around 1700 deaths and 7500 short-stay hospitalizations each year in a population of 1.4 million persons. (Med J Aust 1986; 145: 7-11) In April 1985, the Commonwealth Department of Health produced a document for the Special Premiers' Conference on Drug Abuse in Australia that was entitled, "Statistics on drug abuse in Australia". In that paper it was estimated that 16 620 deaths occurred in Australia in 1983 as a result of the smoking of tobacco. When the same methods were applied to Western Australian mortality data, the number of tobacco-related deaths was estimated at 1204 a year. There are three reasons why we consider that the above figures underestimate substan+tially the true number of deaths in our population that are attributable to tobacco. First, the Commonwealth Department of Health estimate was based on aetiological fractions that were derived by Drew. Drew generated these fractions for the purpose of the estimation of tobacco-related deaths in Australia from 1969 to 1980. Drew's calcu+lations were based on sound methods, and the utility and application of his report in this country have been considerable. However, the aetiological fractions that were contained in Drew's report were derived from the prevalence of smokers and recent ex-smokers (that is, those who had given up smoking in the last five years) among Australian men and women in February 1977. These exposed proportions of the population, 51.9% of men and 33.7% of women, were combined with rate ratios for smoking-related diseases in which the exposure contrasts were formed in terms of ever-smokers compared with never-smokers. Thus, the appropriate prevalence of "exposure" to use with these rate ratios was the proportion of persons who had ever smoked regularly, which was estimated in February 1977 to be 63.7% and 39.0% of Australian men and women, respectively. The effect of the exclusion of long-standing ex-smokers from the prevalence estimates that were used in the calculations was that the aetiological fractions were underesti+mated by an absolute error of 2% to 4% (the relative error ranged from 4% for lung cancer in men to 20% for cerebrovascular accidents in men). A second problem occurred because, although the prevalence of current smoking in Australia from 1974 to 1983 remained constant in women and declined slightly in men, the prevalence of those who had ever smoked regularly increased, especially in women. In 1983, 68% of Australian men and 49% of women had smoked at some time, compared with around 64% of men and 39% of women in 1977. This trend towards a greater prevalence of persons who have ever been regular smokers must be taken into account in applying Drew's methods to deaths that have occurred in more recent time periods. This is because the published estimates of rate ratios for tobacco-related diseases apply to exposure status within six years of death, and, for this reason, it is appropriate to combine them with the current prevalence of ever having smoked. Failure to recognize this fact results in further underestimation of tobacco-related deaths, particularly in women. Respiratory cancer mortality rates in Western Australian women increased by 28% from 1973-1978 to 1979-1982. It is likely that most of this increase reflected a greater prevalence of women who had ever smoked regularly, for whom the latent period between the onset of smoking and the occurrence of chronic smoking-related diseases had elapsed. Thirdly, and most important, both Drew's estimates of tobacco-induced deaths and those of the Commonwealth Department of Health excluded several causes of death which are known, or very likely, to be smoking-related. These are cancers of the pancreas, stomach, uterine cervix, bladder and kidney; diseases of the pulmonary circu+lation, heart failure and complications of heart disease; peripheral vascular disease; low birth weight; and injury caused by fire. In this report we estimate the proportions and absolute numbers of all deaths, premature adult mortality, short-stay hospital admissions and short-stay hospital bed-days that were attributable to the use of tobacco in Western Australia. To the extent that it was possible, we have incorporated into our analysis the revised procedures that are necesssary to avoid overconservative estimates. Methods Mortality Data The total numbers of deaths that occurred in Western Australia in 1979-1982, and the number of deaths in which the underlying cause of death was a tobacco-related condition, were read from data tapes that were provided by the Office of the Registrar General. For the purposes of analysis, deaths were tabulated by underlying cause, sex and age at death in five-year groups. Hospital morbidity data The total numbers of short-stay hospital discharges and bed-days in 1983, and those in which the principal condition that was treated during the hospital stay was tobacco-related, were based on the Hospital Morbidity Data System and were provided by the Planning and Research Branch of the Health Department of Western Australia. Discharges and bed-days were tabulated by patient sex and principal condition (except for injuries that were caused by fire and flames, where use was made of external cause coding). Prevalence of smoking The derivation of most aetiological fractions required estimates of the prevalence of persons who had ever smoked regularly in Western Australia in 1979-1983. For this purpose we used the results that were reported by Armstrong and Butler from the 1980 National Heart Foundation Risk Factor Prevalence Survey which was conducted in Perth. It was estimated that 61.5% of men and 43.6% of women had ever smoked cigarettes regularly. The 95% confidence intervals for these estimates were 56.9%-66.1% in men and 41.3%-45.9% in women. No woman had smoked a pipe or cigars exclusively, whereas 4.2% of men had done so. However, exclusive pipe and cigar smokers were not included in the prevalence estimate for men. Aetiological fractions Revised aetiological fractions for tobacco-related diseases and injury were derived by the use of the following methods. Cancers of the lip (ICD-9 140); mouth (141,143-145); salivary glands (142); pharynx (146-149); oesophagus (150); stomach(151); pancreas (157); nasal cavities and accessory sinuses (160, which includes the middle ear); larynx (161); trachea, bronchus and lung (162); uterine cervix (180); bladder (188); kidney and other urinary organs (189); as well as carcinoma-in-situ of the respiratory system (231) are known or suspected to be smoking-related. With the exceptions of cancers of the salivary glands and of the nasal cavities and accessory sinuses, we accepted that the strength of the evidence of the association of these cancer sites with smoking was sufficient to warrant their inclusion in our calculation of tobacco-related hospitalization and mortality. Raw figures that pertained to the two excluded sites are present but were not used in the analysis. Aetiological fractions (F) were derived from the formula &formula; where RR, the rate ratio in those who had ever smoked regularly compared with non-smokers, was taken from the American Cancer Society (ACS) results which are in Appendix Tables A and B of the 1982 US Surgeon General's report on the health consequences of smoking. The prevalence of ever having smoked regularly, P, was estimated from the results of Armstrong and Butler. Thus, for lung cancer in women, RR = 3.58 and P = 0.436. Therefore: &formula;. For men, separate ACS rate ratio estimates were available for ages 45-64 and 65-79 years. As such we calculated separate aetiological fractions for these two age groupings, and in the final analysis used a weighted average in which the weights were the numbers of cancer site-specific deaths at ages of less than 65 years and ages of 65 years or more. No rate ratio was available for renal cancer in women and an aetiological fraction of one-half that estimated in men was assigned on the basis of the relative position of men and women with respect to fractions that applied to other cancer sites. The generalization of ACS rate ratios to Western Australia was considered valid for all the cancer sites that were studied with the exception of lip cancer. For cancer of the lip it was con+sidered necesary to make adjustment for sunlight-induced cases, which probably account for a higher proportion of lip cancers in Western Australia than in the United States as a whole. An arbitrary multiplicative adjustment factor of 0.5 was applied. In any case the numbers of deaths from and hospital admissions for lip cancer were small (see Tables 1 and 2). Aetiological fractions of ischaemic heart disease (410-414), and cerebrovascular disease other than subarachnoid haemorrhage (431-438) were calcu+lated by means of the rate ratios of Garfinkel. For diseases of the pulmonary circulation (415-417) we assigned aetiological fractions that were identical to those that were calculated for chronic bronchitis and emphysema based on the view that the latter are the underlying cause in most cases of acute and chronic pulmonary circulatory problems. Heart failure and ill-defined descriptions and complications of heart disease (428-429) were coded as the underlying cause of death or the principal condition that was treated during the hospital stay in substantial numbers of instances (see Tables 1 and 2). In our view, a very high likelihood exists that most of these deaths and hospital admissions, which were often ascribed to "congestive cardiac failure" and other similar non-specific diagnosis, were due to ischaemic heart disease. As such we have applied the aetiological fractions of 0.31 in men and 0.22 in women as were derived for ischaemic heart disease. Aetiological fractions for peripheral vascular disease were derived by means of rate ratios from a case-control study of intermittent claudication that was reported by Hughson et al. As with heart disease, for chronic bronchitis and emphysema (490-492,496) the aetiological fractions were calculated by means of the rate ratios of Garfinkel. Although it was considered likely that smoking was a contributory cause in a proportion of respiratory diseases that were diagnosed as pneumoconioses (for example, silicosis, asbestosis), because of insufficient infor+mation we did not attempt to derive aetiological fractions of pneumoconioses due to smoking. The aetiological fraction of low birth weight due to smoking was taken as the average of five estimates from the different studies that were summarized in Table 1 of Meyer. The average estimate was 0.32. The proportion of fire deaths due to smoking was estimated by a review of the records of these deaths that were kept by the Coroner's Office. Forty-two of a total of 55 fire deaths were inves+tigated by the Coroner, and of these smoking was determined to be the underlying cause without doubt in three. A further eight fire deaths were classified as possibly being due to smoking (for example, a "respiratory cripple" on oxygen who caught fire in bed; a person with a high postmortem alcohol level who was burnt while asleep in a hotel). In calculating our estimate of the aetiological fraction we assumed that one-half of the eight "possible" deaths were truly caused by cigarette smoking. Thus, our estimate was 7/42 = 0.17. Method of analysis The person-years of life lost (PYLL) were calcu+lated by the method of Hakulinen and Teppo, which was based on Chiang's approach to the problem of estimation of death rates after the removal of some, but not all, causes of death. J16 2016 words The Australian Journal of Science and Medicine in Sport - March 1986 Growth hormone By Stephen P. Haynes ABSTRACT Haynes, S.P. (1986) Review: Growth Hormone Australian Journal of Science and Medicine in Sport 18(1): 3.15. Human growth hormone, secreted by the pituitary gland, is the major hormone responsible for post-natal somatic growth. It acts on a variety of tissues including bone, cartilage and muscle, mediating anabolic, diabetogenic and lipolytic processes. The secretion of growth hormone is modulated principally by two hypothalamic hormones - somatostatin and growth hormone releasing hormone and stimulated by a number of factors including exercise, deep sleep, hypoglycaemia and the infusion of amino acids. Growth hormone is used in the treatment of growth hormone deficient children. It is prepared by extraction from cadaver pituitaries and it is currently in extremely short supply. Growth hormone is now used in sport in an attempt to enhance athletic performance, a situation that may be aggravated by the availability of syn+thetic growth hormone produced by recombinant DNA techniques. The use of hormones in the treatment of a variety of endocrine deficiency states is well-known, and includes the use of insulin in diabetes mellitus, thyroxine and cretinism, androgens in primary hypogonadism and human growth hormone in idiopathic and organic growth hormone deficiency. The use of hormonal agents by athletes in an attempt to enhance performance became evident several decades ago. Initially anabolic steroids, synthetic derivations of testosterone, were used, but as drug control procedures were instigated their use was supplemented by endogenous androgens, particularly testosterone, or hormones that stimu+late androgen production, primarily human chorionic gonadotrophin. More recently human growth hormone has been added to the arsenal of doping agents used in sport principally because of its reported effects on anabolic processes in a variety of tissues includ+ing muscle. This review provides topical information on growth hormone, includ+ing biochemical and physiological as+pects, the use and abuse of growth hor+mone and the clinical manifestation of excess and deficiency states. It will pro+vide fundamental knowledge for all health care professionals, particularly those concerned with discouraging the use of doping agents in sport. BIOCHEMISTRY AND METABOLISM OF GROWTH HORMONE Human growth hormone (hGH) is not homogenous but is a mixture of a num+ber of peptides, the major one being a single chain of 191 amino acids contain+ing two disulphide bridges, with a molecular weight of approximately 22,000 (Niall 1971). Growth hormone is synthesised and stored in the somatotrophes of the anterior lobe of the pituitary gland. These cells comprise over a third of the gland and contain 5 to 10 milligrams of growth hormone, making it the most abundant hormone in the pituitary. The genes responsible for hGH bio+synthesis are located on the long arm of chromosome17. The daily production rate of hGH approximates 0.5 mgs/24 hours/m2 in normal females (Thompsons et al 1972) and 0.4 mgs/24hrs/m2 in adult males (Alford et al 1973). The secretion rate in adolescence is about 0.7 mgs/24hrs compared to 0.1 mgs/24hrs in the pre-pubertal state (Finkelstein et al 1972). Although the metabolic clearance rate (MCR) is usually constant in individuals there is much variation between individuals (Thompson et al 1972). In addition upright posture decreases the MCR by 24% (Alford et al 1973). A MCR of 170 litres/24hrs/m2 approximates most reported estimates (Franchimont and Burger 1975). The disappearance rate of hGH from plasma is multiexponential (Cameron et al 1969) and therefore the significance of half life estimates of 20 to 30 minutes is difficult to state. There are marked fluctuations in blood levels of hGH throughout a twenty-four hour period, peak levels occurring within the first two hours of sleep. Twenty-four hour integrated concentra+tions are about 3 mgs/L in adult males and females. However, mean levels in puberty (Tanner, stage 5) of 7.7 mgs/L are higher than mean levels of 5.7 mg/L (in puberty Tanner State 2.4) or pre+pubertals. Levels decline significantly in the second decade of life (Zadik et al 1985). ACTIONS OF GROWTH HORMONE Growth hormone is the major hormone responsible for post-natal somatic growth and acts on a variety of tissues. The growth promoting actions of hGH on muscle and skeletal tissues are insulin+like whereas the diabetogenic effects on carbohydrate metabolism and the lipo+lytic effects on fat oppose those of in+sulin. Similarly the actions of cortisol on muscle and cartilage are catabolic inhibiting the actions of hGH whereas cortisol and hGH are synergistic in promoting diabetogenic and lipolytic effects. Simplistically, growth hormone directly affects carbohydrate and lipid metbolism whereas the anabolic actions are mediated through somatomedin-like peptides. Growth can occur by cellular pro+liferation (hyperplasia) or by hyper+trophy with concomitant synthesis of differentiated cell products. Somato+medins can stimulate cell proliferation in some tissues, differentiation without proliferation in others, and in all respond+ing target tissues, the production of characteristic cell products. In muscle, for example, somatomedins stimulate both the proliferation of myoblasts and their differentiation into myo+tubes (Ewton and Florin 1980). In cultured chondrocytes DNA synthesis is stimulated during the log growth phase until growth to high density has occurred when the components of cartilage matrix, particularly proteo+glycan, are stimulated (Hill 1979). Somatomedins mimic some of the effects of insulin. The insulin-like actions in+clude increased intracellular transport of glucose (Hall and Uthne 1971) and its incorporation into glycogen and total fat in the epididymal fat pad (Stern et al 1969), oxidation of glucose to car+bon dioxide (Hall 1972) and inhibition of glycerol release in adipose tissue (Underwood et al 1972). Furthermore insulin has been shown to mimic some effects of somatomedin in cartilage including the stimulation of collagen and chondroitin sulphate synthesis (Salmon et al 1967) and the uptake of nucleic acids into RNA and DNA (Salmon et al 1968). These similar actions relate to the fact that insulin will bind to IGF I receptors and IGF I will bind to insulin receptors. Two receptors in fact, mediate the actions of somatomedins, one preferentially binding IGF I and the other IGF II. Exogenously administered somatomedin can stimulate growth in the intact animal (van Buull-Offers et al 1979). Both insulin-like growth factor I and II stimulate growth when administered by implanted osmotic pump over a six-day period (Schoenle et al 1982). A number of direct actions of growth hormone on isolated tissues has been observed including RNA synthesis, plasma protein synthesis and somato+medin release in the liver (Jefferson and Korner 1967; Griffin and Miller 1974; McConaghey and Sledge 1970), amino acid transport and incorporation in muscle (Kostyo et al 1959), lipolysis in rat adipocytes (Fain et al 1965), DNA synthesis and sulphate incorpora+tion in chondrocytes (Madsen et al 1983), somatostatin secretion from hypothalamii (Berelowitz et al 1981) and replication of hepatocytes in cul+ture (Moon et al 1962). In growth hor+mone deficient rats GH administration initiates an increase in glucose uptake in muscle or adipose tissues accompanied by an increased uptake of amino acids and fatty acids and inhibition of lipoly+sis. This is followed by increased hepatic glucose output, decreased glu+cose uptake, stimulation of lipolysis and increased peripheral utilisation of fatty acids and stimulation of protein synthesis, the overall effect being protein anabolism, glucose sparing and fatty acid metabolism (Goodman 1968). Specific receptors for human growth hormone are present on liver membranes, adipocytes, fibroblasts and lymphocytes. However, the early events following activation of the growth hormone re+ceptor remain unclear (Hughes and Friesen 1985). The administration of hGH to hypopituitary patients has an immediate insulin-like action that re+sults in transient hypoglycaemia. The continued administration of hGH antag+onises the peripheral action of insulin. This results in increased insulin secre+tion after glucose ingestion. Growth hormone may also have a direct action on pancreatic islets to increase B-cell secretory capacity and in certain cir+cumstances to promote B-cell hyper+plasia. Prolonged elevation of hGH lev+els as occurs in acromegaly, can lead to diabetes in susceptible patients because insulin secretory capacity is not sufficient to overcome the growth hormone induced insulin resistance. After hGH administration, the oxid+ative energy lost through diversion of amino acids from oxidative to anabolic pathways and promotion of hepatic and muscular glycogenesis is balanced by increased lipolysis and fatty acid oxidation. This lowers the respiratory quotient and promotes ketogenesis. Clinically the lipolytic effect of hGH is evident in hypopituitary dwarfs as a loss of subcutaneous fat during the early months of hGH treatment. Growth hormone deficient children have a decreased number of muscle cells. This is normalised following hGH administration, indicating a stimulating effect of the hormone on cell division (Brasel and Cheek 1968; Check et al 1970; Cheek and Hill 1970). REGULATION OF GROWTH HORMONE SECRETION The regulation of growth hormone sec+retion is shown in Figure 1 and includes adrenergic and cholinergic mechanisms, two hypothalamic hormones - somato+statin and growth hormone releasing hormone (GHRH) - and substances emanating principally from the liver termed somatomedins. The secretion of the hypothalamic hormones somato+statin and GHRH which regulates hGH secretion is modulated by a complex network of neurotransmitters (Muller 1979). Cholinergic mediation is prob+ably the most important since growth hormone secretion in response to argin+ine, clonidine, and physical exercise can be blocked by atropine, a muscarinic cholinergic receptor blocker (Casanueva 1984). Whether acetylcholine mediates hGH secretion by stimulation of GHRH or inhibition of somatostatin remains unclear. Somatostatin or growth hormone re+lease inhibiting factor was first isolated by Krulich et al (1968) and later se+quenced as a cyclic peptide containing fourteen amino acids - S14 (Brazeau 1973). Somatostatin (S14) is in fact a member of a family of peptides that inhibit not only the pituitary secretion of growth hormone and thyro+trophin (TSH) but also a number of gastrointestinal and pancreatic hor+mones. Somatostatin is secreted into the portohypophyseal circulation and binds to pituitary somatotrophic cell plasma membranes to affect growth hormone secretion. The existence of growth hormone releasing hormone, recently termed somatocrinin (Guillemin 1983), was first demonstrated in 1964 (Deuben and Meites 1964) and more recently a number of active peptides have been characterised from human pancreatic tumors (Rivier et al 1982; Guillemin 1982) including a 44 amino amide (GRF 44, GHRH 1-44NH2) and the free acids of the first 37 and 40 amino acids (GRH 37, GHRH 1-37, GRF 40, GHRH 1.40 OH). The molecular weights of these peptides approximates 13.000. Intravenous bolus injection of GHRH will elicit a prompt and significant rise of hGH (Gelato et al 1983). However, as with luteinising hormone releasing hormone (Haynes et al 1985), for physiological effect GHRH may depend on pulsatile secretion since sustained infusions of GHRH over several hours produce a decrease in hGH levels (Goldman et al 1984). Some effects of growth hormone are meditated by inducing the secretion of a group of substances, principally from the liver and kidney, termed somatomedins or insulin-like growth factors (IGF) (Clemmons and Van Wyk 1981; Daughaday 1981). Of particular interest are somatomedin C or insulin like growth factor I (IGF I) and insulin+like growth factor II (IGF II). IGF I is a straight chain basic 70 amino acid peptide (Rinderknecht and Humbel 1978) whereas IGF II is a neutral pep+tide being less dependent on growth hormone secretion than IGF I. In addition to the actions first observed on cartilage (Salmon and Daughaday 1957) somatomedins may also play an important role in growth hormone feed+back mechanisms by stimulating so+matostatin production (Berelowitz et al 1981) and inhibiting growth hormone synthesis in response to GHRH (Brazeau et al 1982). STIMULI TO GROWTH HORMONE SECRETION There are a number of neuronal hor+monal and metabolic stimuli to growth hormone secretion as summarised in Table 1. Hypoglycaemia is a significant stimulus (Roth et al 1963, Greenwood et al 1966) (Figure 2), a reduction of blood glucose by only 25% being sufficient to stimulate hGH release even though there may be no subjective signs of hypoglycaemia. The release of growth hormone is of short duration and is normalised as blood glucose returns to control levels. In contrast oral glucose administration leads to a reduction in growth hormone levels within two hours (Roth et al 1963). Hyperglycaemia attenuates the response of hGH to GHRH (Masuda et al 1985). These effects are probably mediated by glucoreceptors in the ventromedial nucleus of the hypothalamus. Cholin+ergic mechanisms are unlikely since growth hormone release induced by hypoglycaemia is not diminished by cholinergic blockade (Mendelson et al 1978; Blackard and Waddell 1969). J17 2026 words The Effects of Unemployment: Physical and Psychological Health By Ross D. Harris, Susan Merrett, Anthony J. Radford 9. HEALTH 9.1 Employed/Unemployed Arising from the literature review of research into the effects of unemployment are several inferences that were investigated further in this section of the study. The hypotheses that were formulated were: 1. Unemployed persons will have a greater number of acute illnesses than employed persons. 2. Unemployed persons will have more chronic illness than employed persons. 3. Any increase in illness rates amongst the unemployed can be accounted for in part by poorer health-related behaviour on the part of unemployed persons, (i.e. the stress of unemployment causes the unemployed person to smoke more, drink more etc.). Hypotheses were investigated by the use of a series of questions within the main questionnaire. Responses from employed and unemployed were analysed in the first instance using Chi-square the the Student t-test and McNemar's "Test of Proportions," as appropriate. Multivariate analyses were carried out on a number of dependent variables. The same independent variables were used throughout - employment status, place of birth, age, occupation/previous occupation, length of unemployment, family size and the respondent's perception regarding whether or not he found it impossible to achieve his aims for his family (referred to as `family importance'). Respondents were also grouped according to place of birth (Australia, England/Wales/Scotland/Ireland - referred to as U.K., and the Rest-of-the-World - referred to as R.O.W.), and responses from employed and unemployed within each group analysed by using Chi-square or Student t-test as appropriate. Hypotheses 1: `Unemployed persons will have a greater number of acute illnesses than employed persons'. This was investigated using a symptom check list to detect recent illness. Respondents were asked if they had experienced any of the 25 symptoms listed on page A.4 of Appendix 1 in the two weeks prior to interview. The respondent was required to answer either YES or NO for each symptom listed. Results appear in Table B1 (page A.4 of Appendix 1). The employed and unemployed were compared using `total number of complaints listed', as the dependent variable. Unemployed respondents listed a significantly higher total number of complaints than employed (F(1,269) = 10.56, p = 0.001). In addition, frequency of reporting of each symptom was analyzed for significant differences between employed and unemployed respondents, using Chi-square. Individual symptoms where frequency of reporting showed a significant difference between employed and unemployed respondents, appear in Table 9.1. Table Each of the symptoms in which a significant difference occurred, were reported more frequently by the unemployed. There were no symptoms that were reported significantly more frequently by the employed. All symptoms in Table 9.1 are significant at the p<= 0.05 level. `Feeling depressed', `severe headache', `dizziness', and `seriously overweight', are significant at the p<= 0.005 level. Multivariate analysis was carried out, using `total number of complaints listed' as the dependent variable, and examining the main effects, two-way and three-way interactions between a number of independent variables (refer page 66). As previously mentioned, there is a main effect of employment status, with unemployed listing a higher total number of complaints than employed. There is no main effect for place of birth upon total number of complaints listed (i.e. `place of birth' irrespective of employment status). However, a further analysis was carried out, examining a number of dependent variables against whether the respondent was born in Australia, U.K. or R.O.W. Amongst Australian-born respondents, there is a significant difference between the unemployed and employed, with unemployed respondents listing a higher total number of complaints (t = 2.22, df = 114.86, p = 0.029). There is no significant difference between employed and unemployed respondents born in U.K. or born in R.O.W. There was no effect upon the dependent variable by age, occupation /previous occupation, length of unemployment or family size. There was a main effect of `family importance'. That is, those respondents who felt they were unable to achieve their family aims, list significantly more complaints. F(1,201) = 7.88, p = 0.005). This was irrespective of employment status. There was a significant three-way interaction between employment status, place of birth and size of family (F(2,262) = 3.53, p = 0.03). Amongst respondents with 3 or less family members, those who are unemployed and born in U.K., listed the highest number of complaints, and those who were employed and born in the R.O.W., listed the least complaints. With a family size of three or less, there is demarcation between the employed and unemployed, with all unemployed (regardless of place of birth) recording more complaints than employed. In families with 4 or more members, employed respondents who were born in U.K. report the highest number of complaints, whereas unemployed respondents with the same place of birth, report the least. The clear dichotomy that occurs with family size <=3 (i.e., all unemployed list more complaints) does not occur with family sizes >=4. With a family size >=4, the unemployed record fewer complaints for respondents born in U.K. and R.O.W.. For Australian-born respondents, the reverse is true, with unemployed respondents listing more complaints than employed. Hypothesis 2: `Unemployed persons will have more chronic illness than employed persons'. This was investigated by asking respondents to indicate from a comprehensive list of commmon chronic conditions, which illnesses (if any) they suffered from. The criteria for a condition to be considered `chronic' were: •The illness had been diagnosed by a doctor. •The illness had been present more than six months. High numbers of both employed and unemployed respondents reported chronic illness fulfilling the above criteria - 69.6% of employed and 71.6% of unemployed. The number of chronic illnesses reported appears in Table 9.2. Table The majority of respondents who report having long-term illnesses report either one or two chronic illnesses - 43.9% of employed and 37.6% of unemployed. A significantly higher percentage of unemployed report three chronic illnesses - 17.2% compared with 6.0% of employed. (z = 2.76, p = 0.003). Percentages of respondents reporting four and five or more chronic illnesses are similar amongst the employed and unemployed. Significantly more employed report more than five chronic illnesses (z = 2.36, p = 0.009). The type of chronic illnesses and the frequency of reporting for employed and unemployed respondents, appear on pages A.5 and A.6 of Appendix 1. Responses are summarized up to a maximum of five chronic conditions illnesses. Despite significant differences in reporting of `three' and `more than five' chronic illnesses, there is no significant difference in the total number of chronic illnesses reported by the employed and unemployed. The unemployed reported the following chronic conditions more frequently than the employed. list The only one of these differences which reaches significance is for `allergy' (z = 2.21, p = 0.0136). It is noteworthy that, though the data is not appropriate for reporting significant variation, whereas 5% (5/93) of the employed reported heart and coronary disease, 13% (9/67) of the employed reported coronary problems. The employed reported kidney stones and bronchitis more frequently, but once again the differences are not significant. Multivariate analysis was carried out using the total number of chronic illnesses listed as the dependent variable. Results were analysed for main effects by the independent variables, two-way and three-way interactions. Employment status, place of birth, occupation/previous occupation, length of unemployment, family size and family importance had no effect upon the total number of chronic illnesses listed. However, when subjected to an examination of correlation (Pearson Product-Moment Correlation Co-efficient), length of unemployment was significantly correlated with number of chronic illnesses (n = 105; r = 0.22; p<0.05). Furthermore, Chi-Square analysis of numer of chronic illnesses against months of unemployment indicates a significant increase in the number of illnesses reported in those unemployed for more than 12 months. The important implication for further investigation is that illnesses multiply in the population who endure a series social dislocation (e.g. unemployment) for longer than a year. There was a significant main effect for age (F(3,201) = 6.0, p = 0.001). Age was divided into 4 categories <=35, 36 - 45; 46 - 55; >=56. Those aged 46 - 55 years of age listed the highest total number of chronic illnesses, followed by >=56 years of age. Those aged less than or equal to 35 years of age, reported the least chronic illness. (This effect was independent of employment status). A significatnt two-way interaction was found between length of unemployment and place of birth (F(6,92) = 2.82, p = 0.015). Those born in U.K. who had been unemployed more than three years listed the most chronic illnesses. Respondents were asked to what degree they found their chronic illness to be limiting. Reference to Table 9.3 shows 6.4% of unemployed reported being unable to work at all (compared with no employed) and 17.4% of unemployed reported being able to carry out some work but not a full day's work (compared with 6.0% of employed). Cross-tabulation of results and application of Chi-square shows the unemployed to report significantly more disability as a result of their chronic illness (X2 = 23.12, df = 3, p<=0.001) Table There are a number of behavioural parameters that reflect an individual's perception of their health. These were investigated in this study in order to further address the hypothesis that the unemployed are `less well' than the employed. The behavioural indices used in the Mature Unemployed Study were: days spent in bed recently due to illness/injury; the degree to which illness had compromised normal daily activities; recent hospital admissions; consultations with health professionals; and medication use. The numbers of employed and unemployed that reported spending days in bed over the two weeks prior to interview due to accident or illness were not significantly different (5.4% of employed and 4.6% of unemployed). There were no significant differences in the number of days spent ill in bed in the two weeks prior to interview, in limitation of daily activities due to illness or injury in the two weeks prior to interview, or in the number of days that activities were limited. There is no significant difference in the number of hospital admissions in the twelve months prior to interview. 7.7% of employed respondents and 12.8% of unemployed respondents having had hospital admissions. 1.8% of unemployed respondents (and no employed respondents), had been admitted to a psychiatric hospital within the same period. In both groups, the majority of thoe*those who had experienced admission to hospital, had done so on only one occasion. The reason for the most recent hospital admission appears in Table B3, of Appendix 1. Significantly more unemployed (7.3%) were admitted for surgery than employed (z = 1.78, p = 0.0375). No other differences between employed and unemployed are significant. The employed are fairly evenly divided between admissions for surgery (2.4%) and admissions for sickness/illness (3.0%). Respondents were asked to indicate the last time they had consulted a doctor. Results are summarized in Table 9.4 below. Table Significantly more unemployed than employed had visited a doctor within the two weeks prior to interview (z = 2.06, p = 0.0197). There was no significant difference in respondents who had visited a doctor two weeks to three months ago. The difference between employed and unemployed once again became significant in the three months to six weeks time period, with less unemployed having consulted a doctor than employed within three to six months of the interview ( z = 2.239, p = 0.0084). Figures for six to twelve months and more than twelve months showed no significant difference. Multivariate analyses were carried out on two dependent variables: •Last time a doctor was consulted. •Total number of visits to the doctor in the week prior to interview. With the first dependent variable (`last time a doctor was consulted'), data was analysed within four time frames: 1) less than three months; 2) four to six months; 3) seven to twelve months; 4) more than twelve months. This analysis failed to separate the figures for `two weeks ago or less', and the significant difference shown in Table 9.4 was not apparent. For the second dependent variable mentioned above, (`total number of visits to the doctor in the week prior to interview') there were no effects from employment status, place of birth, occupation/previous occupation, length of unemployment, family size or family importance. J18 2003 words A microcomputer introduction to the finite element method By G.A. Mohr, H.R. Milner CHAPTER 6 Finite Element Analysis of Vibrations In this chapter the beam stiffness matrix developed in Chapter 5 is used to analyse the vibrations of frames. We consider the use of both numerical time stepping techniques, in which finite differ+ence approximations in time are used for the velocity and accel+eration terms, and modal analysis techniques. The modal analysis method involves an initial determination of those natural vibration modes (or eigenvectors) which have the most significant effect on the dynamic behaviour of the structure. These are used to diagonalise the stiffness and mass matrices and thereby transform the problem to one of analysing a system of equivalent and independent one degree of freedom systems, involving a set of artificial variables. The analysis of these inde+pendent systems may be readily undertaken by such methods as numerical time stepping techniques and Fourier type analyses. Finally, modal analysis involves summing appropriate multiples of the various natural modes and a transformation back to the original variables. 6.1 Dynamic problem types There is a variety of forces under which structural response will vary with time. Wind and earthquake loading are obvious natural forces and dynamic forces from machinery are obvious man-made forces. Structural behaviour is influenced by the structure's stiff+ness, mass and damping characteristics and the nature of the forces. However, visco-elastic creep under static loading is also a dynamical problem but, because displacements develop slowly, inertial effects may be regarded as insignificant. Their omission simplifies the analysis considerably and we can regard it as a special case of the more general problem. The general equation governing the dynamic behaviour of a structural system is &formula; 6.1 In equation 6.1 the mass matrix M is multiplied by the vector of accelerations and the damping matrix C is multiplied into the vector of velocities. Mass and damping matrices are considered later and, in this introductory text, we restrict discussion to lumped mass systems. K is the usual structure stiffness matrix and {Q(t)} is the vector of, in general, time dependent loads. 6.2 Finite difference expressions used for time stepping The most common method of modelling the variation of time is through the use of finite difference techniques. We consider a variety of the more common approximations. Inertial effects not significant In problems involving creep inertial effects associated with the mass matrix are not significant; we require finite difference ex+pressions only for the velocities. In the Crank-Nicolson scheme &formula; 6.2 &formula; 6.3 is used where δt is the time step length. The time stepping is centralised about &symbol;. Substituting equations 6.2 and 6.3 into equation 6.1 leads to the recurrence relation &formula;6.4 which is used to compute &symbol; from &symbol;. In using equation 6.4, Irons and Ahmad recommend that, for consistency, an equation similar to equation 6.2 should also be used for the loads &symbol;. A second scheme involves using the (n+1)th time instant as a reference point, ie we write &formula; instead of equation 6.2 and continue to use equation 6.3. This approximation is referred to as a backward difference and leads to the recurrence relationship &formula; 6.5 This formula has been used extensively in transient heat flow analysis but seems to have little advantage over the Crank-Nicolson scheme. A further, very similar, alternative is to use the nth time point as the reference, ie we write &formula; instead of equation 6.2. This approximation is referred to as a forward difference approxi+mation and leads to the recurrence relation &formula; 6.6 If the damping matrix, C, is diagonalised by lumping the damping constants at the nodes by intuition, the recurrence relationships, equation 6.6, become explicit because only a trivial inversion of diagonal coefficients is required to invert the C matrix and enable the time stepping to proceed. Although such lumping minimises computational effort, the approach is not particularly accurate unless small time steps are used. It can be shown that such approximations involve a truncation error of 0δt and are equivalent to using linear interpolation in time. On the other hand, the Crank-Nicolson method involves a truncation error of &symbol; and is equivalent to using quadratic interpolation in the time domain. It tends to have superior accuracy and is to be preferred. Inertial effects significant The inclusion of inertial effects involves the use of finite differ+ence approximations for the accelerations and values of &symbol; at three points in time. It is now natural to use the cantral differ+ence method centred about the nth time point. Considering the two time intervals, &formula; and &formula;, the velocities at the centre of these are approximated using equation 6.3 giving &formula; 6.7 &formula; 6.8 and the accelerations at time tn are then estimated as &formula; 6.9 The velocity expressions used within equation 6.1 is not obtained from either of equations 6.7 or 6.8. Rather, we use the centre point, &symbol;, as the point of reference giving &formula; 6.10 Substituting equations 6.9 and 6.10 into equation 6.1 we obtain the following recurrence relation &formula; 6.11 This process is often referred to as one of time integration but, in fact, it can be viewed as one of extrapolation as all the finite difference approximations used above can be obtained from linear or quadratic interpolations. Equation 6.9, for example, can be obtained from equation 2.8 by replacing L by 2δt. 6.3 Time stepping analysis of structural oscillations The structure of Fig 6.1 is subject to impressed boundary dis+placements, such as might arise under earthquake loading, in which the ground displacement &symbol; is a specified function of time. It is not unusual to study such oscillations by taking into account only the horizontal displacements of the nodes at each floor level. This implies that the bending stiffness of the floor beams is infinite by comparison with the columns. We also neglect the compression in the floor and roof, so that only a single displace+ment freedom is needed at each level. The stiffness matrix for each column is thus a contraction of equation 5.15 in which only the shearing entries V are required. We sum the pair of column stiffness matrices at each level, giving &formula; 6.12 Furthermore, to simplify the analysis, we neglect damping and assume the entire mass of the building is concentrated at the first floor and roof levels. The concentration of mass in this intuitive fashion is referred to as lumping the masses. Assembling the element matrices for each floor level and parti+tioning equation 6.11 to distinguish the specified boundary dis+placements (subscript b) and the free displacements (subscript f), we obtain the recurrence relation &formula; 6.13 As &symbol;b is specified the first row of equation 6.13 is all that is required to determine &symbol;f at each time step. Further, we can neglect the masses of the columns or alternatively lump them together with the naturally lumped floor masses shown in Fig 6.1. In this case the system mass matrix is diagonalised so that &symbol; is null and both &symbol; and &symbol; are diagonal matrices. This leads to the simplified expression &formula; 6.14 where the first term on the right hand side gives the loading effect of the specified boundary displacements upon the rest of the system. The matrices in equation 6.14 are given by &formula; 6.15 Substituting these into equation 6.14 and dividing through by a common factor of 10⊃4 we obtain &formula; 6.16 where the constant &formula;. The transient boundary excitation at ground level is taken to be given by &formula; 6.17a &formula; 6.17b with &formula;. As we use a time step length of δt=0.02 secs we would expect this to give reasonably accurate results. It fol+lows &formula; 6.18 Substituting this value of β and the specified value of &symbol; for &formula; into equation 6.16 we obtain the two recurrence relations &formula; 6.19 &formula; 6.20 Using these results we obtain results close to the exact solution produced using the techniques outlined in Section 6.4. Once the recurrence relations have been established it is straightforward to code the time stepping solution. This is under+taken for equations 6.19 and 6.20 in Section 6.5. 6.4 Modal superposition methods Free undamped vibrations Modal superposition methods are based on solutions of a sim+plified version of equation 6.1, viz &formula; 6.21 Equation 6.21 describes unforced and undamped vibrations of an oscillating system having n degrees of freedom. We view the system as excited by some initial disturbance, which causes it to oscillate freely and indefinitely, in one of its n natural modes after the initial disturbance is removed. In each of these natural modes, the displacements of each node are in phase, ie these all reach a maximum value at the same time. It is assumed that the displacements, associated with a natural mode, can be expressed in the form &formula; 6.22 where &symbol;, &symbol; and &symbol; are respectively the angular frequency (in radians/second), phase angle and vector of amplitudes or eigen+vector of the &symbol; natural mode. On substitution of equation 6.22 into equation 6.21, we obtain &formula; which must be true for all t values so that &formula; 6.23 Equation 6.23 is a statement of an eigenproblem described in Appendix A. Computer routines are given there to extract the eigenvalues, which are the square of the frequencies, and the eigenvectors or natural mode shapes. We should note the following additional points: 1 the unit of frequency is Hertz (or cycles per second) and this is related to the angular frequency by &formula; 6.24 2 the period to complete one cycle of oscillation is given by &formula; 6.25 Orthogonality and related properties One of the important properties of eigenvectors is their ortho+gonality with respect to the K and M matrices. Suppose we have two eigenpairs &symbol;, &symbol; and &symbol;, &symbol; then &symbol; 6.26a &symbol; 6.26b, Premultiply equation 6.26a by &symbol; and equation 6.26b by &symbol; and subtract the two expressions. Noting that K and M are symmetric and &formula;, it follows that &formula; 6.27 Since the eigenvalues are, in general, different it follows that &formula; 6.28a and it is supposed that, by suitably scaling &symbol;, &formula; 6.28b We conclude from equations 6.28 that &formula; 6.29a &formula; 6.29b If the eigenvectors are scaled to satisfy equation 6.28b, they are said to be normalised with respect to the M matrix; both computer routines given in Appendix A normalise and output the eigenvectors in this form. Assume also that a square matrix E is constructed, the columns of which are the eigenvectors &symbol;. If I represents the unit matrix then &formula; 6.30a and &formula; 6.30b where &symbol; is a diagonal matrix with values &symbol; on the leading diagonal. Forced undamped vibrations When an undamped structure is subjected to the influence of disturbing forces which are maintained, equation 6.1 becomes &formula; 6.31 It is assumed that, for an arbitrary &symbol;, the displacements may be expressed as a linear combination of the eigenvectors or natural modes. Let this linear combination be represented as &formula; 6.32 where {δ} represents the various multiples of the eigenvectors to be taken. Substituting equation 6.32 into 6.31 leads to &formula; which, on premultiplication by &symbol; and the use of equations 6.30, gives &formula; 6.33 In equation 6.33 the various equations are decoupled, ie these can be separated into n single degree of freedom systems each having the form &formula; 6.34 where &formula;. To solve equation 6.31 we can now undertake the simpler exercise of solving the individual de+coupled equations, 6.34, by time stepping or other techniques. The final solution is obtained by substituting the &symbol; values back into equation 6.32 to obtain the real nodal displacements {D}. In actual analyses, the problem is simpler than just outlined in that only a few of the natural modes contribute significntly to the dynamic behaviour, viz those having frequencies close to the dominant frequencies in the disturbance. For example, in the well known gust factor method for wind disturbance, only the eigenvector corresponding to the lowest mode is taken into account. Damped forced vibrations The introduction of arbitrary damping matrices does not allow the decoupling (described above) to take place. This means that the modal superposition method cannot be applied in general. In practice, special forms of damping are used in which the damping matrix is a linear combination of the mass and stiffness matrix. For uniform viscous damping, it is assumed that &formula; which leads to the decoupled system. &formula; 6.35 Individual systems can be separated from this equation in the same manner as for undamped systems and have the form &formula; 6.36 If the damping is expressed in terms of the mass matrix then the damping is described as uniform mass damping and, if it is a linear combination of the K and M matrices, it is known as Rayleigh damping. Behaviour of single freedom systems J19 2029 words Australian Journal of Statistics Modelling examination marks D.J. Daley and E. Seneta Summary The paper proposes a model to describe marks as awarded to students who select and sit for examinations in a subset of the courses offered. For each subject a linear transformation of the raw marks is sought so as to place all marks on a common scale. In this guise, the set-up reduces to a simple linear model with multiplicative interaction term, totally lacking in balance as would results from experimental design practice. A variety of methods of estimating the linear transformation parameters is described. O. Introduction The main object of this paper is to exhibit and study some properties of a simple stochastic model which facilitates the study of data sets consisting of examination marks. At the end of secondary schooling in Australia a student is usually provided with a certificate indicating his achievements at that stage relative to others within the same system. Usually, the certificate includes a few (usually in the region of 4 to 7) course scores which decades ago were examination marks but nowadays may include or consist entirely of some form of school-based assessment. These course scores have usually been moderated from the raw course score data, the aim of this operation being to produce scores which can be compared "fairly" or "equitably" across subjects, and hence (so it is argued) can be summed to form a student's aggregate score as the sum of his best v moderated course scores for some fixed number v. Different educational systems have different schemes for mod+erating the raw scores, and have different rules governing formation of the aggregate. The main purpose of the model proffered below is to provide a framework within which different moderation procedures can be compared as statistical procedures. It is used here to illustrate versions of three existing procedures. Clearly the availability of an appropriate model makes simulation a possible technique for the empirical investigation of its applicability. The model itself (see equation (1.3) of the text) can be viewed as a single factor model associated with the name of Spearman (see e.g. Section 1.2 of Lawley and Maxwell (1971). In this context, it must be noted that preliminary examination of data suggests that, in spite of this one factor being quite dominant and i nterpretable as a general level of ability/achievement, a further factor akin to a contrast of quantitative and verbal abilities may also be identifiable. Neither of these matters is pursued in the sequel. The moderating procedures of various examining bodies are documented mostly as internal memoranda and they are not neces+sarily available to the general academic community. Yet such procedures are widespread (e.g. Broyden (1983), Murgatroyd (1975, 1979), Smith (1971); all of these are encompassed by the model below or special variants of it). Comprehensive documentation of Austral+asian experiences is overdue (cf. Cooney (1976). 1. Notation and the Model We are concerned with a finite population of candidates, i=1,...,N, each taking a selection from the courses j=1,...,S. We write &formula; if candidate i takes course j, =0 otherwise. When &formula;, we denote by &symbol; the raw course score of candidate i in course j. Moderated course scores &symbol; are taken to be given by an appropriate linear transformation of the raw course score for each course. Thus, if &formula;, &formula; (1.1) for some course parameters (&symbol;, &symbol;). An important empirical observa+tion is that correlation coefficients of raw course scores &symbol;, &symbol; for distinct courses j,k taken over their common candidature i, are positive (usually, in the range 0.3 to 0.7). On the basis of this, the crucial assumption is made that appropriately moderated scores &symbol; can be placed (apart from random error) on a common scale furnished for individual i by some unobservable value vi which can be interpreted as representing a general measure of i's achievements, or alternatively, i's ability. Thus, when &formula;, &formula; (1.2) where the residual random variables &symbol; are assumed to have &formula;, &formula;, and to be uncorrelated amongst themselves. Here and below (e.g. (2.1b), (2.4a)) the notation &symbol; and &symbol; refers to variances (as second moments of random variables) whereas &symbol;, &symbol;, &symbol;, &symbol; refer to formal moment expressions defined on finite sets of numbers. Substituting from (1.1) into (1.2) the model becomes &formula; (1.3) where &formula;, so &formula;, &formula; say, with &symbol; for distinct (i,j) uncorrelated, and we regard &symbol;, &symbol;, &symbol; as unknown parameters. In the language of experimental design, (1.3) is a model with multiplicative interaction term, but there is complete absence of balance so our analysis is necessarily ad hoc. For purposes of statistical inference, further conditions, such as normality, may need to be imposed on the eij's. Krishnaiah & Yochmowitz (1980) surveys such questions in the case of a balanced design and allowing for more general structure of the interaction term. 2. Moments From (1.3) it follows that, if &formula;, &formula; (2.1a) &formula; (2.1b) i=1,..., N; j=1,...,S. Writing &formula; for the number of candidates taking course j, we introduce formal moments with respect to i or j as illustrated by &formula;, &formula;. Thus, &formula;, &formula;. From (2.1a) it follows that &formula; (2.2a) or equivalently from (1.2), &formula;. (2.2b) Linearity gives us another equivalent form, namely &formula;. (2.2c) Also, from (2.1), &formula; where we have used (2.2a). Thus, &formula;. (2.3) As the variance analogue of (2.2a) and which we regard as a manifestation of the double expectation theorem we define &formula;, (2.4a) but it must be noted that this differs both from &formula; (2.4b) and of course from &formula;. (2.4c) Finally we note that from the identities &formula; we can construct normalized linear expressions like both &formula; (2.5a) and the minimum variance linear combination &formula;. (2.5b) In the next three sections we outline approaches that have been (or, could be) used to estimate in particular the parameters &symbol;, &symbol; with a view to being able to form an aggregate score for i out of the totality of moderated scores &symbol;. We shall find that the expressions developed above at (2.2)-(2.5) concerning moments and formal moments have analogues in equations for estimation in Section 3. 3. Maximum Likelihood Estimation The strongest set of assumptions which we consider is that the r.v.s &symbol; are independent normal r.v.s with zero mean and variance &symbol;. The log likelihood of the data set &symbol; is then given by &formula;. (3.1) Differentiation with respect to &symbol;, &symbol;, &symbol; and &symbol; leads in the usual manner to the following relations satisfied by the maximum likelihood (ML) estimates &symbol;, &symbol;, &symbol;, &symbol;, in terms of the data set &symbol;: &formula;, (ML.1) &formula;, (ML.2) &formula;, (ML.3) &formula;. (ML.4) Clearly, these equations are just the analogues of (2.2a), (2.3), (2.4a) and (2.5b) respectively. Consequently, the estimators in (ML.1-4) can be regarded equivalently as moment estimators which do not in essence require the additional assumption of normality imposed in the present section. It is relevant to later comparisons to note that the equations (ML.1-4) can be written in terms of the ML-moderated course scores &formula;, the formal correlation coefficient &formula; and &formula; as follows: &formula;, (ML'.1) &formula;, (ML'.2) &formula;, (ML'.3) &formula;. (ML'.4) Nothing has been said yet about existence or uniqueness of any solution of (ML.1-4). These matters will be discussed later in Section 6. Digby (1979) considered three algorithms for solving equations (ML.1), (ML.2) and (ML.4) in the case that all &formula; (and so (ML.3) does not arise). 4. An Approach for Weighted Scores It is well known that, provided the variances &symbol; are known, the ML equations for &symbol;, &symbol;, &symbol; can be obtained by minimizing &formula;. (4.1) Now it is not uncommon, in the formation of any aggregate, to have the course score &symbol; contribute with the weight or unit value &symbol; which is typically a smaller integer: in the present NSW system, &symbol; takes one of the values 1, 2, 3 and 4, while in the ACT system it takes values 0.6, 1, 1.6 or 2. The weight may reflect either or both of the amount of work being covered in course j and the extent of assessment (e.g. the amount of examining). In the latter case it is plausible that the variance &symbol;, viewed as a measurement error of &symbol;, should be inversely proportional to &symbol;. In other words, we would assume that &formula;, where &symbol; is known, and then (4.1) becomes (apart from a multiplicative constant) &formula;. (4.2) Minimizing this last expression for S with respect to &symbol;, &symbol;, &symbol;, we obtain least-squares (LS) or maximum likelihood estimators &symbol;, &symbol;, &symbol; which satisfy &formula;, (LS.1) &formula;, (LS.2) &formula;, (LS.3) or equivalently, writing &formula;, &formula;, (LS'.1) &formula;, (LS'.2) &formula;, (LS'.3) where &formula; and &formula; is the total number of units taken by candidate i. Clearly (LS.1) and (LS.3) resemble (ML.1) and (Ml.4), but the estimating equations for &symbol; and &symbol; differ in the role of the correlation coefficient. We discuss this point later in Section 5. A computational attraction of (LS.1-3) is that the reparametriza+tion &formula; and &formula; leads to a linear system of equations for the estimates &symbol; and &symbol;. Thus, (LS.3) becomes &formula;, (4.3) so (LS.2) becomes &formula;, (4.4) using (4.3). Similarly, (LS.1) takes the form &formula;, (4.5) so (4.4) and (4.5) constitute a linear system for &symbol; and &symbol; can then be obtained from (4.3) if the linear system is soluble. 5. A Bivariate Adjustment Procedure In Queensland, Western Australia, and the A.C.T. an essentially different practice to either of those above is followed, though of course there are modifications as to details in the different regions. The essence is that the common scale values &symbol; are estimated in a separate test (the Australian Scholastic Aptitude Test (ASAT)). Thus, in contrast to the approaches of Sections 2-4, this component of the modertion procedure is external. Denoting these external estimates by &symbol; the course parameters &symbol;, &symbol; are then defined by &symbol;, (5.1a) &SYMBOL; (5.1b) because with these values, the ASAT-moderated course scores &SYMBOL; (5.2) are then claimed to be on the common scale of the vi on account of &symbol;, (5.3a) &symbol;. (5.3b) Inspection shows that (5.3a) is of the same form as (ML'.1) and (LS'.1), just as (5.1a) has the appearance of (ML.1) or (LS.1); indeed, (5.1a) can be deduced from (LS.1) or (ML.1) as follows. Regard the &symbol; as having the status of moderated course scores yi0 say, corresponding to some fictitious course 0, so &formula; (all i). Suppose the weight w0 is exceedingly large (for(LS.1)) or else &formula; (for (ML.1)). Then from (LS'.3) we have &formula;, and similarly from (ML'.3), &formula;. On the other hand, on comparing (5.3b) with (ML'.2) and (LS'.2) which it parallels, we see that if it should happen that &formula; for all i then &formula;. The equations (5.3) quite clearly take the approach that "abil+ities" as represented by &symbol; determine the "achievements" as represented by yij, whereas the other approaches regard the achievements &symbol; as measuring the unobservable underlying abilitites &symbol;. In fact, the most that is claimed by the designers of ASAT is that the observed measures &symbol; are estimates of some general scholastic aptitude measure. While attention has been given to relations like (ML'.2) and (LS'.2), with (5.3b) emerging as a compromise (see Cooney (1975, 1978), Hasofer (1978), Hasofer & Davis (1979)), it has been in the context of a bivariate selection model. Our model and approaches are much closer to those of a multivariate model. 6. Existence and Uniqueness These problems arise only in connection with the procedures of Sections 3 and 4. First, supposing &formula;, it follows that in (1.3) we can write &formula; (6.1) where for any real δ and non-zero γ we have &formula;, and &formula;, so there is of necessity a considerable degree of non-uniqueness present. What we discuss here is the simplest case - and of practical relevance for a procedure currently imple+mented by Sydney University - where, in the situation Section 4, we suppose that the values of the paramaters &symbol; are fixed beforehand. Then the relevant estimation equations are given by (LS.1) and (LS.3). Equivalently, we need to determine the &symbol; from the system (4.5), which, the &symbol; being known, can be rewritten as &formula; (6.2) where j=1,...,S. Thus by introducing the S x S matrices &formula; and &formula; and the S x 1 vectors &formula;, &formula;, where &formula;, (6.3) &formula; (6.4) where &symbol; is the Kronecker delta, (6.2) can be rewritten compactly as &formula;. (6.5) Now the matrix B is stochastic, i.e., its elements are non-negative and its row of sums are unity, so that the matrix I - B is singular. If we assume (as is usually the case in practice) that it is irreducible (Seneta, 1981), this implies that there is a unique left eigenvector &symbol; satisfying &formula; and it is then elementwise positive. This in turn implies that I - B is of rank S -1, and that u = &symbol; spans the subspace orthogonal to the subspace spanned by the columns of I - B. It is easily checked directly that in our case, u = &symbol; using (6.3), and &symbol; using (6.4), so &symbol; is in the space spanned by the columns of I - B, and hence (6.5) does have a solution, albeit non-unique. Now if &symbol; is any specified solution and &symbol; denotes any solution, it follows from (6.5) that &formula;. J20 2016 words Electro-acoustic effects in a dilute suspension of spherical particles By R.W. O'Brien ABSTRACT Sound waves can be generated in a colloid by the ap+plication of an alternating electric field. In this paper we describe the method for calculating this and the related electro-acoustic phenomenon of electric fields generated by sound waves. As an illustration of the procedure, we obtain formulae for these two effects for a suspension of spherical particles with thin double-layers, in a parallel plate geometry. 1. INTRODUCTION The effects to be described in this paper arise from the presence of electric charges on the surface of the suspended particles. In equilibrium such particles are surrounded by a diffuse cloud of ions carrying a total charge equal and opposite to that of the particle. This arrangement of surface charge and diffuse charge is known as a "double-layer". When sound waves pass through a suspension, the density difference between the particles and the liquids leads to relative motion between these two phases. As a result macroscopic electric currents are set up and these lead to electric fields which alternate at the sound wave frequency. The idea that sound waves could generate electric fields in a suspension of charged particles arose in a paper by Debye (1933), in connection with electrolyte solutions. In 1938 Hermans extended Debye's analysis to the case of a suspension in which the particle radius is much smaller than the double-layer thickness, a situation which occurs rarely in practice. In 1951 Enderby studied the more important case of a dilute suspension of weakly-charged spheres in an electrolyte in which the ions have equal diffusivities. This restriction on the electrolyte was removed in the following year by Booth and Enderby (1952). Since that time there have been no theoretical developments in this area, presumably because of the difficulties associated with measuring pressure waves and electric fields in suspensions. Fortunately, these difficulties have now been overcome, and a device has appeared on the market which is capable of accurately measuring this effect in the Megahertz range. The device is also capable of measuring the reverse effect of sound waves gener+ated by electric fields, an effect which has hitherto escaped notice in the scientific literature. In this paper these two phenomena will be referred to as "electro-acoustic" effects. The aim of the paper is to provide a theoretical basis for relating both effects to the suspension microstructure. In the following section we set out the microscopic differential equa+tions which must be solved in the calculation of these effects. These equations govern the distribution of ions, electrical potential, fluid velocity and pressure in the suspension. In S3 we set out the macroscopic constitutive equations required for the calculation of electro-acoustic ef+fects and we derive a reciprocal relation between two of the coeffecients in these expressions. This relation provides a link between the electric field generated by a sound wave, and the sound waves generated by an electric field. Formulae for these two effects are obtained in SS4 and 5 for the case of a dilute suspension confined by two parallel plates. In S4, which is con+cerned with electric fields generated by sound waves, we discuss Enderby's work in more detail, pointing out a number of flaws in his solution of the electrokinetic equations and in his subsequent calculation of the electric field. The formulae derived in SS4 and 5 both involve the electrophoretic mobility of the particles in an alternating electric field. In S6 we calcu+late this mobility for particles with radii much greater than the double-layer thickness. 2. THE ELECTROKINETIC EQUATIONS The calculation of colloidal transport properties involves the solution of the "electrokinetic equations", equations which describe the microscopic variations in the ion density, electrical potential, velocity and pressure in the suspension. The derivation of these equations is described in a number of papers (see for example O'Brien and White (1978), or Sherwood (1980)), so only a brief outline will be given here. The electrical potential ψ satisfies Poissons equation &formula; (2.1) in the liquid. Here &symbol; is the permittivity of the electrolyte, &symbol; is the charge and &symbol; the number density of the jth species of ion, and N is the number of ionic species in the electrolyte. In the absence of any chemical reactions each species satisfies the conservation equation &formula; (2.2) where &symbol; is the flux density of the jth ionic species. In a dilute electrolyte &formula; (2.3) where &symbol; is the fluid velocity and &symbol; the ion diffusivity. The terms on the righthand side represent the fluxes due to Brownian motion, the local electric field, and convection with the flow respectively. The microscopic quantities of interest will presumable vary in the liquid on a length scale of the order of the particle radius. On the assumption that the wavelength of the sound wave is much greater than the particle radius, we will treat the fluid as incompressible in the calculation of these microscopic variations. Thus the equations of fluid motion take the form &formula; (2.4) and &formula;. (2.5) As usual &symbol;, μ and 1.c. are the fluid density, viscosity and pressure respectively. The convective inertia term has been omitted on the grounds that the particle Reynolds number is very small. The final term on the right hand side represents the electrical body-force per unit volume. In a suspension in thermodynamic equilibrium, the ionic and fluid fluxes are identically zero. From equation (2.3) it follows that the ion densities are given by the Boltzmann expression. &formula; for j=1, ....N, where the &symbol; are constants. Substitution of these for+mulae in Poisson's equation yields a differential equation for the equilibrium potential. From this equation it can be shown (Hunter, (1981), Chp.2) that the potential decays to zero exponentially with distance from an isolated particle, with a decay length &symbol; given by &formula;. (2.6) This decay is associated with the presence of the diffuse cloud of counterions referred to in the introduction. &symbol; is normally referred to as the "double-layer thickness". Beyond the double-layer the potential is zero and &formula;. The form of the equilibrium potential and ion density fields around a spherical particle depend on the relative ion densities beyond the double-layer, on &symbol;, the ratio of particle radius to double-layer radius to double-layer thickness and on the potential at the particle surface ζ. The latter quantity in turn depends on the nature of the particles and on the type and density of the ions beyond the double-layer (Hunter, (1981), Chp.2.2). In this paper ζ will be treated as a given quantity. We now turn to the case of a suspension disturbed from equilibrium by, for example, the application of an alternating electric field. As in nearly every other electrokinetic study it will be assumed here that the local ion densities and electric fields are only slightly perturbed from their equi+librium values. For convenience we take a frame of reference moving with the particles. A superscript "o" will be used to denote the equilibrium ion densitites and potential, and the departures from those equilibrium values will be indicated by δ prefix. Neglecting products of the various deviations from equilibrium in the equations (2.1)-(2.3) and (2.5), we obtain the linear forms &formula; (2.7) and &formula; where an &symbol; time dependence has been assumed for each of the perturbed quantities. The term involving the particle velocity &symbol; arises from our choice of the particles as the frame of reference. Inside the particle, the velocity and ion densities are zero, and δ ψ satisfies Laplaces equation, assuming fixed charge density within the particle. At the particle surface, the boundary conditions are &formula; and&formula; (2.8) where &symbol; is the unit outward normal and the square brackets denote the jump at the particle surface. At large distances &symbol; from the particle &formula; (2.9) and&formula; (2.10) where &symbol; and VP are the uniform electric field and pressure gradient far from the particle. For the dilute suspension of interest here, it will be shown that these quantities may be equated to the macroscopic electric field and pressure gradient. The mathematical specification of the problem is completed by the re+quirement that the nett external force on any particle and its double-layer is zero. This follows from the fact that in equilibrium, the nett charge on the particle and double-layer is zero. Since the nett external force on this region is the charge times the field, we conclude that to O(E), this force is zero. 3. A USEFUL RECIPROCAL RELATION For the calculation of the electro-acoustic effects we will require formulae for the particle velocity &symbol; and the volume average current density &symbol; in the suspension, where the local current density &symbol; is given by &formula;. (3.1) Here &symbol; is the local free charge current density, due to the ions and any fixed charges on the particles, and the second term includes the contribution from the polarization charges (O'Brien, 1982, SIII). From the linearity of the equations (2.4) and (2.7) it follows that &symbol; and &symbol; are related to VP and &symbol; by the linear forms &formula; and &formula; (3.2) where the symbols &symbol; and K* have been chosen in accordance with the usual convention for electrophoretic mobility and complex conductivity respectively. In the following sections it will be shown that the coefficient β deter+mines the electric field generated by a sound wave, while &symbol; determines the form of the sound waves generated by an elternating electric field. The calculation of β and &symbol; involves the solution of the electrokinetic equations for zero electric field and zero macroscopic pressure gradient respectively. Fortunately we only need to solve one of these problems, for &symbol; and β are linked by a reciprocal relation. This relation arises from an integral identity involving two solutions to the electrokinetic equations with different prescribed macroscopic pressure gradients and electric fields. The two solutions will be indicated by super+scripts a and b respectively. Consider the integral &formula; (3.3) where λ is a closed surface lying in the fluid. &formula; and &symbol; is the usual hydrodynamic stress tensor. Applying the divergence theorem, and using the electrokinetic equations we obtain the volume integral &formula; where V is the volume enclosed by A, and &symbol; denotes the rate of strain tensor. Since the volume integral is unaltered by an interchange of a and b, it fol+lows that the surface integral (3.3) is similarly unaffected. This result applies to any closed surface in the suspension, for since &symbol; and &symbol; are zero at the particle surface, the contribution to (3.3) from a particle surface is given by &formula; by applying the divergence theorem and using the fact that &symbol; and δ ψ are continuous across the particle surface we once again obtain a volume integral which is unaffected by an interchange a and b. It is convenient to choose A to be a "macroscopic surface", that is a surface with radii of curvature which are everywhere much greater than the particle radius; since we are treating the fluid as incompressible, we must also add the proviso that &lambada; be much smaller than the sound wavelength. The quantities &symbol;, &symbol;, &symbol; and the deviatoric part of the stress tensor will fluctuate with position around spatially uniform mean values, while δp and δ ψ fluctuate about mean values &symbol; and &symbol; respectively. On expressing each of the quantities in (3.3) as the sum of their mean and fluctuating parts, and dividing by the ensclosed volume V, we obtain &formula; (3.4) in the limit as V becomes infinite. In deriving this result we have used the fact that the various fluctuations are statistically homogeneous functions; it follows that the contribution to (3.3) from products of these fluctuations increases in proportion to the area of A, and can hence be neglected in the limit. This point is discussed in more detail in Oshima et al's 1984 paper, in connection with a reciprocal relation for the sedimentation potential in a dilute suspension. Since the integral (3.3) is unaffected by an exchange of a α and β, we see that the expression (3.4) is equal to &formula;. Thus in the case when &formula; and &formula; we find &formula;. (3.5) By using the second of the formulae (3.2) we can express &symbol; in terms of β. To find the required reciprocal relation we must also express &symbol; in terms of &symbol;. To this end, we begin by noting that since the nett electrical force on the suspension enclosed by A is zero, we have &formula; where &symbol; is the fluid volume and &symbol; is the particle volume enclosed by A, and &formula; is the particle density. On dividing both sides of the above expression by V, we find, in the limit of infinite V that &formula;(3.6) where &symbol; is the particle volume fraction. J21 2018 words Journal of Australian Mathematical Society Existence and regularity results for Maxwell's equations in the quasi-static limit By A.L. Carey and D.M. O'Brien Abstract We prove the existence of solutions of Maxwell's equations for a conducting medium whose constitutive parameters are piecewise constant on &symbol;, and then examine the convergence of these solutions in the quasi-static limit in which displacement currents are neglected. Secondly, we examine the regularity of the limiting solution and the sense in which the classical boundary conditions hold, namely, continuity of the tangential electric field and the normal current density. 1. Introduction The work described in this paper arose from a study of the electromagnetic prospecting technique used by geophysicists. The aim of the technique is to determine the extent and electrical properties of a conducting ore body, buried in a layered conducting ground, from transient electromagnetic observations at the surface. In the usual experimental arrangement, a horizontal transmitting loop is laid upon the ground and is driven by a current pulse or current ramp. The fields induced in the buried ore body then generate secondary currents in a receiving loop, and these are recorded for subsequent analysis. In order to model this technique, one must be able to solve Maxwell's equations in a structured medium. When the structure is simple, such as in a layered medium without ore body, or a spherical or cylindrical ore body in a non-conducting earth, then the techniques of classical analysis yield solutions in series of special functions which are easily computable and fairly reliable. In more complex structures, one is forced to use a finite element or finite difference representation of the electromagnetic fields. In addition, it is sometimes necessary to couple the finite element representation to an integral representation in order to adequately acount for boundary conditions at infinity. The successful application of finite elements and subsequent analysis of the errors presumes knowledge of the regularity of the electromagnetic fields near the interfaces. According to classical electromagnetism the tangential compo+nent of both the electric and magnetic field intensities must be continuous across any interface between media with different constitutive parameters. However, greater precision is needed in order to tackle the numerical analysis of Maxwell's equations. In particular, in what sense must the tangential components be continuous, and how discontinuous are the normal components? We were unable to find definitive answers in the literature for Maxwell's equations in a complex medium. Nor could we find results immediately applicable in the quasi-static limit, used in the electromagnetic prospecting problem in which Maxwell's equations degenerate into a parabolic system. This paper is an attempt to answer these questions. As such it is a first step in extending the approach of [3] (for a layered earth) to more complicated geometries. In this paper we are concerned with existence and regularity results for Maxwell's equations in a conducting medium, & Formula; (1) in the quasi-static limit as &formula;. The notation used here is standard: (1) E and H are the electric and magnetic field intensities; (2) ρ is the density of electric charge; (3) J is the total current density, σE is the conduction current density, and K is a known current density maintained by an external energy source; (4) μ is the permeability, ε the permittivity and σ the conductivity. We shall require that μ be constant on &symbol;, but allow ε and σ to be piecewise constant functions. More precisely, we suppose that &symbol;, &symbol;, ..., &symbol; are disjoint open regions whose closures cover &symbol; and whose boundaries are smooth and that &formula;, &formula;, &formula;, &formula;. In addition, we shall suppose that the source K is switched on at time zero, and that E, H and &sho; are all zero prior to time zero. Consequently, &sho; will vanish for all time in the interior of regions where ε/σ is constant, except possibly at points where &symbol;. K is non-zero, as the charge density will be a distribution concentrated on the interfaces between regions with different values of &symbol;/σ. In physical terms, the quasi-static limit is equivalent to the neglect of displace+ment currents. This is usually a good approximation in the propagation of low-frequency waves through conducting media, and also in the transient electro+magnetic (TEM) response of a conducting medium when observations are made long after the passage of the wave fronts. One practical application, already mentioned, is to TEM prospecting, in which geophysicists measure the response of the conducting earth to a controlled current source in the search for buried ore bodies and oil deposits. This application has an extensive literature, which can be traced from the text by Wait [4]. Duvaut and Lions [1] have given an elegant existence proof for the case in which ε is non-zero, but their technique fails in the quasi-static limit. Our approach is to deal directly with the equation for E, namely &formula; (2) which holds under our assumptions that μ is constant. We apply the Laplace transform to equation (2) and solve the resulting elliptic problem, &formula; (3) where the lower-case e and k denote the Laplace transforms of E and K, and s is the Laplace transform variable. The solution of (3) satisfies a bound &formula;, where &symbol; and &symbol; denote the minima of ε and σ. This bound is well behaved as &formula;, and so enables us to pass to the quasi-static limit. An open and interesting question is what happens to the results if &symbol; is zero (with σ not identically zero)? Explicit calculations for the special case of a half space (ie. &formula;; &formula;) show that the solution is not &symbol;, so that one expects solutions in weighted Sobolev spaces in general. The classical boundary conditions are that the tangential components of e and the normal component of σe should be continuous across any section, &copgamma;, of the interface between two regions, &symbol; and &symbol;, with different constitutive parameters. We use elliptic regularity to establish differentiability of e away from an interface and then in order to analyse the boundary conditions, we resolve e into its transverse component &symbol; and longitudinal component &symbol; &formula;. We then show that &symbol; lies in the Sobolev space &symbol;, which implies that all components of &symbol; are continuous. Next we show that &formula;, where n is the normal to &capgamma;, is continuous in the sense that the traces of &formula; on &capgamma; from &capomega; and &capomega; are equal as distributions in &symbol;. Together, these results establish the (weak) continuity of n x e across &capgamma;. Lastly, we show that &symbol; is continuous across &capgamma; in a similar sense. Whether stronger continuity results are possible we leave as an open question. We do not distinguish notationally between scalar and vector fields on &symbol;, nor between spaces of such fields. Thus, &symbol; will denote the usual Sobolev space of r times weakly differentiable functions on &symbol; with the inner product &formula; and corresponding norm &formula;, as well as the similar space of vector functions on &symbol; with inner product &formula; and corresponding norm &formula;. When r = 0, we will omit the subscript from both the norm and inner product. All other notation is standard and follows, for example, that in reference [1]. 2. Existence Our proof of the existence theorem follows the traditional approach in which the initial-value problem for Maxwell's equations is converted into an elliptic equation, after Laplace transformation of the time coordinate. In order to be able to guarantee that the Laplace transform can be inverted, we have placed fairly strong smoothness conditions on the source of the electromagnetic fields. In fact, these conditions are too strong for the most commonly used model of the source current, namely, a square current pulse. However, the conditions can be weakened but only at the expense of introducing distributional Laplace transforms, with attendant notational complications, which we felt unwarranted for this paper. A second feature of the proof is the division of the fields into longitudinal and transverse components. The significance of this procedure is that the longitudinal and transverse components have different regularity properties. We begin with the classical result of Helmholtz, which asserts that any vector field can be decomposed uniquely into longitudinal and transverse fields. Let &symbol; and &symbol; denote the projections on &symbol; defined by: &formula;, &formula;, &formula;, where &symbol; denotes the Fourier transform. Then in fact PL is an orthogonal projection on &symbol; for any &formula;. To see this, note that &formula; and so if u is in &symbol;, then the right-hand side is finite, which establishes that &symbol; also lies in &symbol;. For any &formula;, we let &formula;, and call &symbol; and &symbol; the transverse and longitudinal components of u. It is easy to check that these components satisfy &formula; and &formula;. In order to formulate the existence and regularity results we need some technicali+ties. The first of these we record as LEMMA 1. &formula; if and only if &formula;, &formula; and & Formula;. To prove this, use the identity &formula; to give &formula;. Consequently, &formula; if and only if all terms on the right are finite, that is &formula; and &formula;. We now turn to the Laplace-transformed version of the operator in equation (2), namely, &formula;, where &formula;, and A is the operator defined as follows. Let &formula;, and let A denote the operator on &symbol; with domain D(A) and action &formula;, &formula;. Note that Lemma 1 shows that D(A) has an alternative characterisation: &formula;. We shall show that the equation &formula; has a unique solution u in D(A) for any f in &symbol;. From this solution we shall construct the solution of Maxwell's equations by inverse Laplace transformation. To do this we need a second technical result, namely that A is non-negative and self-adjoint. The former is easy, since for any &formula;, &formula;, so A is non-negative. We prove next that A is closed. Suppose that &symbol; is a sequence in D(A) which converges to u in &symbol; and that &symbol; converges to υ in &symbol;. Because &formula;, and because &formula;, we see that &formula;. Consequently, &formula; and &formula;. Hence A is closed. Now let &formula;. Then the form &formula; is certainly continuous for all &formula. For such u, &formula;. Thus, &formula; from which it follows that &formula; and &formula;. Since A is symmetric, this establishes that &formula;, and hence that A is self-adjoint. We may now state the main result of this section. THEOREM. Let &formula;. and require that &formula;. The equation &formula;, (4) has a unique solution for any f in &symbol;. If &symbol; and &symbol; denote the minima of ε and σ, then &formula;. (5) Lastly, if f is holomorphic in s in the region &formula;, then so too is u. Proof. The proof uses a Galerkin approximation and relies on the positivity of A, ε and σ. Let &symbol;, &symbol; be a basis for D(A) and suppose that &formula;, where &symbol;, &symbol;, &symbol; are chosen so that &formula;. (6) Note, firstly that &formula;. Indeed, if this were not so, there would exist &formula; such that &formula;, and hence that &formula;. (7) Since A is positive, equation (7) implies that &formula; (8) and &formula;. (9) The only possible solution of (9) is &formula;, since &formula; and &formula;, which is inconsistent with (8). Returning to equation (6), we find that &formula; so &formula;. (10) Since &formula;, we obtain &formula; (11) and &formula;. (12) Because ε, σ and α are all positive, β and imag(u,f) must have the same sign. Multiply (11) by α, (12) by β and add to obtain &formula;. Hence, &formula;. It now follows that &formula;, from which we obtain &formula;. For each m we may construct in this way a solution of (6), which we now denote by &symbol;. The sequence &symbol; is bounded, so we can select a subsequence &symbol; such that &formula; weakly as &formula;. Consider the equation &formula;. Then &formula;. In the limit as &formula;, &formula;. Since this holds for all j, we have &formula;, so the form &formula; is continuous on D(A) in the &symbol; topology. Thus &formula;, and &formula;. This shows that u is a solution of &formula;. Clearly, &formula;. Since (q + A) is an entire function of s, &formula; will be holomorphic wherever it exists: in particular, &formula; will be holomorphic for &formula;. Thus, if f is holomorphic for &formula;, so too will be u. A corollary of this theorem is the existence of a unique solution of (2), provided that the source current density K is sufficiently well behaved to permit the inversion of the Laplace transform. COROLLARY. Suppose that the &symbol; valued function K has the following properties (1) K has support &formula;; (2) K is infinitely differentiable with respect to t; (3) K is Laplace transformable for real s > 0. Then the equation &formula; has a unique solution with the same properties. REMARK. At the cost of quite considerable notational complexity, one could use the same argument to prove existence and uniqueness for sources K which are distributions in the variable, provided one also invokes results on distributional Laplace transforms. J23 2001 words Power Play - Essays in the Sociology of Australian Sport Australia - this sporting life By Jon Stratton This chapter is a discussion of sport in the Australian context, that is to say, it is concerned with the position that sport holds in what might be called the Australian world-view. It is often argued by Marxist theoreticians that there is no such thing as a socially based world-view. Such arguments emphasise the importance of class-based ideologies as the loci for analysis. Althusser, on whose ideas much recent Marxist cultural analysis has been based, summed up his position like this: As a first formulation I shall say: all ideology hails or interpellates concrete individuals as concrete subjects, by the functioning of the category of the subject. By this he meant that the individual is always already in ideology. S/he can only think in and through ideology. At another point in the same essay Althusser sums up his delineation of ideology by writing: It therefore appears that the subject acts insofar as he is acted by the following system (set out in the order of its real determination): ideology existing in a material ideological apparatus, prescribing material practices governed by a material ritual, which practices exist in the material actions of a subject acting in all conscience according to his belief. Althusser is arguing, as he puts it, that ideology has a material exis+tence. Ideology, in other words, exists in practice, indeed practice is ideology. In modern Marxist theory this formulation is opposed by the `cultural studies' approach of writers such as Richard Hoggart, Raymond Williams and E.P. Thompson. In his outline of the debate between these two positions Richard Johnson has described the group of cultural studies writers' definition of culture like this: Cultural studies inherits [the ways-of-life conception of culture] and expands it further so that it contains matters as heterogeneous as language-in-general, the specific output of the mass media, the literary text, the values implicit in forms of working class collective action, the styles of sub-groups and the general political discourse. As Johnson goes on to indicate there is a tendency on the one hand for the Althusserian formulation of ideology to overgeneralise, taking in all actual behaviour, whilst there is an equivalent tendency on the other hand for the `cultural studies' formulation of `way of life' to as+similate the category of ideology. Both these theoretical positions tend towards an elision of the awareness of the specificity of cultural pat+terns. Idological themes, even if manifested in material practices, may be manifested in different practices in different socio-cultural orders. Reformulated from the `cultural studies' position it can be sug+gested that a way of life may embody a variety of values and beliefs but the `way of life' itself consists of certain behaviours and not others. A distinction needs to be drawn between the ideological theme and the cultural materialisation of that theme. We need to recognise that there are, here, two levels of analysis. First, there needs to be discus+sion of the specific organisation of the cultural order. Second, there is the more `micro' analysis (which the tools of semiotics can help us with) of the ideological themes implicit in the meaning of cultural manifestations. We may well be able to discuss `middle-class ideology' as an aspect of the production and reproduction of capitalism, but the specific, lived formulation of that ideology is mediated through cultural con+cerns which are specific to particular socio-cultural orders and some+times to specific groups within a socio-cultural order. Thus the articulation of ideological themes such as egalitarianism or individu+alism occurs in the context of, and is inflected by, broader cultural preoccupations which structure the uniqueness of a particular socio-cultural entity. John Hargreaves has expressed this well. He has written: ... culture is both constituted by people consciously making choices and evaluations of their experience AND simultaneously, because cul+ture is also inherited from the choices and evaluations people have made in the past as tradition, it is also constitutive of choice and action, and therefore culture can also, though it never does entirely, act as a powerful constraint on understanding social life in appropriate terms and on taking appropriate forms of action. Hargreaves' argument implies a randomness to the production of cul+ture. But the constitution of particular society's cultural order, the structure of meaning which, from the point of view of the individual who lives it we might term a world-view, is based on the negotiation of material conditions and social formations which come together in specific historical conjunctures. Culture, like ideology, is an holistic concept. The difficulty which it poses for Althusserian-influenced Marxism lies in its relation to the idea of practice. Ideology may be conceived as being structurally ar+ticulated but this is because ideology is conceptualised as thematic. Culture may be understood as the material practice through which ideology is mediated and manifested. As a consequence, the category of culture tends towards the reintroduction of the human subject through the necessity of accounting for the `random' signs which go to make up a society's cultural order. For the lived subject culture is not organised randomly. It is the product of ongoing historical, ideologi+cal and material determinations. It is also, in a specific sense, a product of invention. For example, whilst cricket at a specific histori+cal moment might manifest a particular ideological theme or themes, we need to recognise that criket itself was not inevitable in other socio-cultural orders, while other games may manifest the same ideo+logical themes. This rather arid discussion needs to be taken further - but not here. It would be possible to take sport in general, or indeed one par+ticular sport such as cricket, and explain the material and ideological conditions surrounding its production in a specific socio-cultural order such as that constituted by Australia. Equally, it would be pos+sible to examine some of the cultural myths surrounding sport, or par+ticular sports, in, let us say, Australian culture. In this Chapter I will do a little of each. However, my main purpose is to bring both these analytical positions together in order to discuss the circumstances which produced an image of sport as an important aspect of Aus+tralia's structure of culture. The structure of culture refers to those ideas which form an essential part of the matrix (or framework) of the Aus+tralian socio-cultural order. What I want to argue is that the last part of the nineteenth century was the crucial period in the production of the Australian image of sport and its positioning in the structure of culture. Throughout this article there will be an interweaving of these two concerns. In the context of the deployment of an Australian structure of cul+ture one of the most important factors was the historical conjuncture which produced a conception of the un-naturalness of the Australian environment. Bill Mandle has already had something to say about this in the context of developing attitudes towards sport in Australia. It is worth elaborating on his argument. In his article Mandle notes how, in the latter half of the nineteenth century, an anxiety about the quality of the Australian race developed from two sources. The first, which is not of concern here, was the question of the extent to which the convict origins of many Australians might provide the basis for the development of a degenerate people. The second source lay in a per+ception of the degenerating qualities of the Australian environment, including its climate. Mandle notes that, as Australian cricket teams started beating English teams during the 1870s: Almost overnight the mood changed from one of doubt and relief to one of confidence, and the part that cricket played in generating that confidence cannot be underestimated. What we need to investigate here are, first, the changes which went on to produce cricket as what late nineteenth-century society understood as a sport (something I will return to later) and second, how cricket was being used within the Australian structure of culture (specifically how and to what extent it contributed to `national confidence'). In order to do this we need to understand how sport was coming to be structured into the English midlle-class's view of the world. Below I want to say more about the qualities, such as manliness, attributed to sport. Here we need to consider briefly how physical exercise came to provide the basis on which these qualities were articulated. Bodies and bourgeois values The late eighteenth century in England saw the rise of what is usually called the Romantic movement. One aspect of this was a celebration of the environment, of the natural world as being natural and, indeed, for being natural. In more general, cultural terms the English nineteenth-century intellectual middle-class had a certain revulsion against the growing industrialised urbanism and found in nature a nostalgia for a lost pastoral past. The human (male) body, an articu+lation of the natural, but carrying within it the mind - the basis of civilisation - lay at the intersection of the urbanised (and civilised) world. The deployment of the category of sport originated from with+in the English public schools, most obviously as a part of Thomas Arnold's reorganisation of Rugby which Simon has summed up like this: ... [Arnold] provided a form of education designed to fuse aristrocracy and bourgeoisie, to make the aristocracy more useful and the bourgeoisie more polished - one which corresponded exactly with, and in turn helped to form, the aspiration of the Victorian upper-middle class. The practice of sport, in the form of institutionalised and delimited physical activity, provided a training for the `natural' body and a dis+cipline which was a part of `civilising' the mind. The body became the site of a complex resolution. On the one hand there was the attempt to eradicate nature in the form of the `natural' child through the incul+cation and internalisation of bourgeois values. On the other hand, however, nature as a general concept was valorised over the `un+natural' depredations of city life. In practice, in the context of the child, this was represented in the celebration of exercise as the way to health. These contradictory positions were reconciled through the argument of `mens sana in corpore sano.' A new, natural bourgeois man would be developed as the mind, full of bourgeois values, was har+monised with the physical body of nature. The nineteenth-century arguments about such things as the vio+lence of football were carried out in precisely these terms. Dunning and Sheard note, for example, in relation to the debate over the acceptability, or not, of hacking - a debate which played a large part in the formation of the Rugby Football Union - that: ... Rugby supporters were the most persistent advocates of a rougher and, as they saw it, more `manly' game. However, a growing body of opinion, inside as well as outside Rugby circles, regarded practices such as `hacking' as barbaric. The young middle-class male's body became the site for a set of argu+ments which amounted to a debate about what the synthesis between nature and bourgeois values was to be and how it was to be articulated in practice. With this background we can now appreciate how much impor+tance the Anglo-Australian middle class would have placed on sport. In England sport mediated and reconciled the natural and the civi+lised. The natural, however, was implicitly associated with the British (and European) environment. As Richard White notes: Such attitudes raised intriguing questions about the development of new types from British stock. When transplanted to other parts of the world, did the Anglo-Saxon racial type continue to progress, or did it degenerate? In Australia this question was asked against a backdrop of the per+ceived `enervating nature of our climate' and the experienced alien+ness of the environment in which, for example, Flinders abandoned his attempt to use the Linnean system of classification, whilst the Reverend Sydney Smith simply thought that here nature `seems determined to have a bit of play'. In Australia, then, sport did not mediate and reconcile the lived-in nature with civilisation but rather provided a bulwark, a protection against this new, un-natural en+vironment. J24 2008 words Sociology, socialism and organizations By Stewart Clegg Introduction The world of scholarship constitutes many facts which are "inconvenient" for deeply held values as Max Weber (1948,p.147) remarked in "Science as a voca+tion". Some disciplines may well imagine they manage this tension by ignoring it, opting for either the empiricism of facts or the canonical role of Tradition. Some practitioners of sociology clearly share one or other of these phantasies (which, in fact, always reduce to the latter). I should say at the outset that I can+not imagine the luxury of such views, any more than could Weber. As is well known, Weber never anticipated that, whatever the probability of its achievement, the value of "socialism" could ever be an antithesis to the fact of bureaucracy. Despite his opinion and through his legacy, in recent years a number of scholars in the field of sociology have been involved in the develop+ment of what have come to be called "critical" perspectives on organizations. The critical challenge has been to empiricist and conservative conceptions of the field. Instead of simply reporting evident "facts", these critical scholars have increasingly turned to a study of the structures and processes taken to underly the existence and non-existence of certain possible facts, in enquiry whose method is somewhat similar to Umberto Eco's (1983) puzzle-solving method of "abduction". Sometimes, however, puzzles may be solved too readily, evidence found too close at hand or "inconvenient" facts avoided. Critical sociology, socialism and organizations Critical sociology of organizations has been critical of the practice of ortho+dox organization theory in its central concerns. These have been with the design and rational structuring of organizations (Donaldson 1985; Benson 1983). Cha+racteristically, drawing on marxist perspectives, "rational structuring" in organ+ization has been critiqued as an effect of capitalist domination. Autonomy, posed as a laudable goal, has been seen as emancipation from that which dom+inates. It has frequently been argued that, in practical terms, this requires some+how overthrowing "capitalism"; theoretically it requires overcoming the limits to an imagination held captive by a knowledge whose constitutive interest is in the "control" of objects (Habermas 1971). This argument is not unproblematic. In rejecting the concern with "rational structuring" as itself a delusion of "capi+talist theoretical hegemony", little space is left in which critics might rationally re-construct organizations in practice. Critical organization theory, then, in spite of its real achievements, has not yet contributed to a generalizable alternative practice of organizations. Some justi+fication exists for this negativity. An essential objective of the critical exercise is to alert us to the unexamined and implicit assumptions of existing frameworks. It was in this way that a certain eminent victorian left-hegelian, for whom "critique" was rarely absent from the title page, developed his own analyses. However, Karl Marx, in a famous thesis, advises us against merely negative dia+lectics; indeed, a warning against analysis without transformative application is engraved upon his tombstone. This should alert us to a second meaning of "critical", as being decisive with respect to outcomes, in which some positive alternative does require proposal. A major reason for the shortcomings of marxist critical theory in organization analysis is that its critique is far too narrow. Its deficiency in this respect has two aspects, both relating to Marx's lineage from utopian socialist thought. On the one hand, classical marxism and its derivations have been subjected to a crit+ique both by utopianism and for utopianism, as Anderson (1983,p.97) has not+ed. With respect to contemporary marxism, utopian critics most frequently fo+cused on its narrow and utilitarian development in Eastern Europe after 1917 (although in a modified form the same change surfaces in accusations against the reformism of social democracy), while Western Marxism, since Lenin, with its characteristic concern with aesthetic and cultural products rather than the so+cial relations of more material and mundane production, may similarly be characterized by default as "utopian". The cleft stick of marxism's development is, of course, explicable. Classical marxism, as it developed around the twin vec+tors emerging out of the revisionism debates in the Second International, lost the practical utopianism associated with the thrust of Luxemburg's, Pan+nekoek's and Gorter's commitment to "council communism" (see Bricaner 1978; Smart 1978; Carchedi 1985). Only in Gramsci's involvement with the Turin workers council movement of 1921 did it retain a momentary flicker, one which, in his Prison Notebooks, remained unquelled even while imprisoned by Fascism (Gramsci 1971). On the one hand, so it seemed, social democracy, Bernstein's heir, developed a narrow, utilitarian form of political calculation premised on an accommodation and management of capitalism. On the other hand, Bolshevikism simply incorporated the crudest aspects of capitalist organ+izational practice in Lenin's enthusiasm for Taylorism and its subsequent degra+dation into Stakhonovitism. Faced with this situation, some of the generation who were learning their so+ciology and their politics in `68, not surprisingly, attempted to return to Marx to find some way out of the conjuncture of a stallled de-stalinization in the East and an aborting "long boom" in the West. However, Marx was of little help. In the few remarks in his work on the organization of a socialist society the residues of an impractical utopianism were all too apparent traces. Themes chacteristic of French utopian socialists such as St Simon or Fourier, which imagined over+throw of complexity and divisions of labour, were reproduced therein. As Perry Anderson (1983,p98) has remarked "The conviction of an inherent simplifica+tion of administration and production, economy and polity alike, found its most passionate expression in the pages of (Lenin's) State and Revolution where any cook could run the state". And despite a renewal of interest in "self man+agement" and "workers control" as solutions to the increasing failure of capital+ist enterprises such as the Lip watch factory in France and the Triumph motor works in England, Gramsci's (1971) cryptic notes on "workers councils" re+mained primarily an academic concern. In the East, "socialist construction" under Bolshevik tutelage, where it ad+dressed questions of organization at all, proffered solutions learnt from the most ruthless of capitalists such as Henry Ford but applied them with an even more effective regime of terror than Ford's Pinkerton Agents. In the West, more or+thodox marxists could ignore organizational questions as they waited for capi+talism to collapse. It was only Bernstein, and the real heirs of the German SDP, the Swedish Social Democrats, who linked "socialist construction" and organ+izational issues in any effective way. It is worth recalling here why Bernstein in particular took upon himself the odium of challenging "orthodox marxism" in the international marxist move+ment, for we would argue that present-day marxist theorists may be caught in the same intellectual bind and political limbo as the old orthodoxy (even if they have done more than their forbears to raise their predicament to the level of an art form!). Working from deterministic theses about inevitable class polariza+tion and crisis under capitalism, the orthodoxy announced three "guarantees" of history - capitalism's self-destruction, the working classes coming demo+graphic dominance, and, given continued agitation and propaganda, socialist political dominance on that demographic basis (Salvadori 1979). For the ortho+dox, be it noted, it was capitalism's macro economic irrationality that would precipitate the terminal "crisis" of mature capitalism: at the point of production the bourgeoisie ran a tight ship whose presumed technical sophistication and organizational efficiency would fall like ripe fruit into socialist laps. In hindsight, this last point was an astonishing and self-defeating concession, one that denied the necessity to mount a practical challenge to capitalist organ+ization of the enterprise and thus develop "the material conditions" for the res+olution of the contradiction between forces and relations of production. For western labour movements this concession has left the bitter and enduring leg+acy of defencelessness against economic-liberal policy, with which it shares the implicit assumption that capitalist organization spells effective enterprise (Higgins 1985a; 1985b). Secure in the belief that the final, cataclysmic crisis of capitalism was only just around the corner, "orthodox marxism" went even fur+ther to argue against any form of intervention in aid of progressive public pol+icy or of political alliances to support it. In each of these spheres its fatalistic vi+sion led inexorably to the politics of abstention. Bernstein demolished the "guarantees of history" to make way for a new in+terventionist socialist politics. His classic Evolutionary Socialism, though con+cerned mainly with an argument about social democracy's wider political role, contains suggestive obiter dicta on organizational questions. Having defined so+cialism as a movement towards - or the state of - an order of society based on the principle of association (Bernstein 1961, p.96; my emphasis), he has this prin+ciple depend on democratic organizational forms: "Trade unions are the demo+cratic element in industry. Their tendency is to break down the absolutism of capitalism, and to procure for the worker a direct influence in the management of industry" (pp. 139, 163). But Bernstein stopped halfway. His attack on determinism did not extend to upsetting the orthodox assumption that capitalism had still to mature - that is, still had a progressive future - before it would be meaningful to propose trans+formative (as opposed to ameliorative) policies. Pending this mystical matura+tion reformist interventions such as social policy or industrial democracy rested on a merely ethical-liberal basis. In other words, Bernstein stopped short of a critique of capitalism's organizational effectiveness and, thus, could not forge the link between democratization and economic renewal. This is precisely the link that Ernst Wigforss, Swedish social democracy's for+mative theoretician, latched onto in the 1920s. Armed with Marx's con+ceptualisation of capitalism's "irrationality", Wigforss imbibed the lessons of the then ongoing "rationalisation movement" which uncovered - albeit sym+pathetically - the organizational roots of industrial dislocation and inefficiency in the capitalist enterprise. Two of the themes which the movement articulated drew Wigforss' attention. First, forms of financial calculation in the enterprise conflicted with the technical and organizational preconditions of an efficient manufacturing process. Second, typical authority relations and reward systems tended to produce inefficient work practices. Wigforss concluded that these dis+orders were systemically induced, flowing inescapably from two aspects of pri+vate ownership of industry - the profit principle and the necessarily authori+tarian forms in which the outside owners' interests and prerogatives were im+posed on a working collectivity. Here, then, was a whole new dimension of "critique" in addition to the critique of capitalism's macro-economic irration+ality. Where Bernstein had talked about "organized capitalism", Wigforss (later joined by a close colleague, Gunnar Myrdal) repeatedly took up the cudgels against capitalist "disorganization" (especially Myrdal 1934). For Wigforss, these considerations completely reversed social democracy's programmatic pre+suppositions. Capitalism had no progressive future and socialists had no busi+ness tinkering with ameliorative reforms while awaiting the great day of matura+tion (or "crisis") and leaving capital in control of the enterprise and resource al+location. The former had now to be democratized and the latter brought under social control. Socialism, in his celebrated phrase, had to be brought forward as "the working hypothesis" of day to day policy-making. Transformational re+forms had to go on the immediate agenda. In arguing for industrial democracy (and later, economic democracy through collectivized ownership of capital), Wigforss thus brought together the issues of organizational effectiveness and control. Moreover, he broke with the merely re+productive reformism of social democratic revisionism. "It is a curious blind+ness" he wrote, "not to see that the organization of economic life is at the same time a question of forms of control" (Wigforss 1981, Vol. IX,p.63). In a parallel development in the twenties, leading elements of the Swedish union movement, who also had one foot in the rationalization movement, began to develop a union "production policy" (de Geer 1978; Hadenius 1976). They saw union par+ticipation in industrial organization as necessary to overcome elements of capi+talist disorganization in industry if the latter was to meet union aspirations for employment and wage levels. Both these developments came down to this: capi+talism constituted a deteriorating basis for the organization of the modern in+dustry it itself had created. The labour movement presented itself not simply as a challenger to capital's control of the economy and enterprise, but more parti+cularly as the bearer of sounder organizational principles and social priorities upon which to place a more advanced economy and enterprise. J27 2002 words Mankind - April 1986 Aboriginal Australian net hunting By L. D. Satterthwait Game capture in nets was a common practice in many parts of Aboriginal Australia. The nets used for this purpose varied considerably in size and form, were employed in a variety of environ+mental settings and were applied to the procurement of a major proportion of the terrestrial, aquatic and avian prey species available on the continent. Because net hunting was so prevalent among hunter-gatherers around the world, Aboriginal net hunting can be regarded as an Australian manifestation of a worldwide phenomenon. The care-free bands of birds. Beasts of the wild, tribes of the sea. In netted toils he takes. The Subtle One. Sophocles, Antigone Carleton Coon (1971:98) once observed that the use of nets to capture game on land was `so rare among hunters' that he was able to locate only three examples in the available literature: the Mbuti of Zaire, the Birhor of India and certain Queensland Aborigines. The latter reportedly used nets to trap wallabies, but there were `neither details nor verification' for this. Net hunting was, however, an exceed+ingly common practice in Australia, where many Aboriginal populations - like hunter-gatherers elsewhere - used nets to procure birds, terrestrial game and aquatic mammals. Although it has received men+tion in regional ethnographic reconstruc+tions, there has been only one previous survey of the continent-wide extent of net hunting in Australia, and this in the con+text of a broader examination of the hun+ting techniques used in Oceania (Anell 1960). My purpose in the following is to bring together and update the information on Australian net hunting and to provide a summary account of its distribution, the materials and techniques employed in net manufacture and the uses to which hunting nets were put. Australian net hunting is also briefly considered in relation to net hunting among other hunting and gather+ing peoples. Detailed analysis of hunting techniques and examination of the con+siderable social and economic implications of this practice are complex subjects in their own right and will be the concern of separate papers (Satterthwait 1985a, b). Net hunting in Australia on any large scale seems to have ceased early in this century, in part because it was most preva+lent in those regions subjected to the earliest and most destructive phases of European colonization. Consequently, the record of Aboriginal net hunting is scat+tered over a number of sources, including the accounts of explorers and mission+aries, the diaries and reminiscences of early colonists, local histories, popular accounts of life in the colonies, the reports of government officials, informants' re+flections*re+lections, museum specimens, and even newspaper articles. Although dispersed, sometimes cursory and occasionally pre+senting problems of interpretation, these sources nevertheless amply show net hun+ting to have been a significant Aboriginal production activity. The Distribution of Net Hunting in Australia Localities where net hunts reportedly occurred are shown in Figure 1. The sour+ces cited in Anell's (1960) review of hunting and fowling methods in Australia and Oceania provide the primary basis for this map, augmented by further evidence available from the following: List Because of the paucity of information on net hunting in the arid centre of the continent, it has been regarded as absent from this region (Anell 1960:4, Lawrence 1969:232). However, the tangible evidence of three nets in the Museum of Victoria, one (No. 44547) provenanced to the Peter+man Ranges and the other two (Nos 134 and 135) identified as `South Arunta' wal+laby nets (Spencer 1901:42), suggests that net hunting was in fact pursued in certain parts of the Centre and this has been denoted in the figure. Although the information summarized in Figure 1 is undoubtedly incomplete, the map does demonstrate that net hunting was a common practice over much of the continent. The largest region of net hunting extended from the riverine eastern margin of Central Australia to the eastern sea+board, and from southern Victoria and South Australia to the base of Cape York Peninsula (Within this region, however, nets were evidently not employed in the southern highlands of New South Wales [Flood 1980:86] and possibly other cir+cumscribed areas as well.) Another major region of net use appears to have extended in a band across Western Australia, from the southwestern interior to the Pilbara coast. Unfortunately, net hunting in West+ern Australia is less extensively documented than is net hunting on the eastern side of the continent. In this respect, while the map clearly indicates the major regions of net use, it is not necessarily a reliable indicator of the relative frequency of such hunts. The greater number of reports for eastern Australia is very likely a product of the greater intensity of early European exploration and colonization in this area. A notable feature of the distribution of net hunting is that it was not co-extensive with the distribution of net fishing. In at least two areas, Central Australia and northwestern New South Wales, hunting nets were used, but fishing nets were not (Reid 1886-87:178). On the other hand, fishing nets are used by the Aboriginal peoples of Cape York Peninsula, Arnhem Land and the central coast of Western Australia, but there is no indication that net hunting was practised in these areas. In Tasmania neither hunting nor fishing nets were employed, although woven basket-traps were evidently manufactured for the capture of birds (Robinson 1966:722). Another important feature of the dis+tribution of net hunting is its disjunct charac+ter, with large areas for which there are no reports of net hunting bracketed by or adjacent to areas in which it was prevalent. Where net hunting was most widespread, there appears to have been a close asso+ciation with riverine settings or better watered coastal districts. This reflects one of the environmental contraints on net hunting. Because nets cannot be projected any great distance, they are generally stationary, or nearly so, when in use. Hence they are applied to the capture of either stationary or slowly moving prey or to moving prey which travel into the net. As a result, nets are most successfully used where game are plentiful, concentrated and, above all, predictable - conditions that more readily ensure that net and prey will come into contact with one another. This probably accounts for the lack of reports of net hunting in most of the desert regions of the central and west-central interior. It also suggests why the evidence for net hunting in the Centre associates it with areas of upland terrain and the capture of wallabies. In contrast to the plains, desert ranges provide more reliable sources of water to which game are attracted, while also furnishing the habitat for such animals as euros and rock-wallabies, animals that tend to be more localized in distribution and which follow established runs among the rocks. It is not surprising then, that in desert regions the more involved hunting tech+nologies tended to occur among popula+tions with access to substantial areas of elevated terrain (Satterthwait 1980b:271-274). Environmental constraints do not ac+count, however, for the apparent absence of net hunting in the more productive and seasonally reliable habitats of northern Australia and the coastal southwest. Here the explanation may reside in the use of similar, but alternative means of game capture, such as basket and wickerwork traps (Roth 1901a:29, 1901b: 15, 1903:47), or in the broader socioeconomic con+comitants of net hunting, particularly when such hunts were co-operative in nature. Since in many cases areas of net use bordered areas of non use, differential diffusion would not seem to provide an explanation for the pattern of distribution. Net Manufacture Hunting nets were constructed in a range of shapes and sizes, from sack-like devices less than a metre in diameter to long, planar structures several hundred metres in length. Diversity in form was matched by an equal degree of diversity in materials. Materials reportedly used in net manu+facture are listed in Table 1. It appears that the materials most widely used in nets for large game, emus and kangaroos, were kurrajong and hibiscus fibres, and for waterfowl, fibre derived from reeds. Other birds and mammals were taken in nets made from a range of materials, in+cluding Triodea spp., Ficus spp., Psoralea spp., grass fibres and sinew. Unfortuna+tely, many early observers only vaguely*vagely identified net materials or used then pre+vailing common names. Where possible, scientific names have been included in Table 1; otherwise the relevant entry is limited to the common name given in the original source. List A notable feature of Aboriginal net making is that both plant and animal materials were used. The animal materials employed include sinew and string made from human or animal hair, although there is a doubtful reference to the use of kangaroo `thongs' (Puxley 1923:156). Sinews require relatively little preparation for use. Once removed from the tail or hind limbs of an animal and cleaned, the sinews were wound on a stick or section of bone, where they dried and would keep for some time. Their use required only that they be made supple again by mois+tening in the mouth and chewing (Roth 1901b:8). In contrast to animal sinews, the prep+aration of plant fibres for the making of cordage was a much more involved process. Depending on the plant species, fibre ex+traction involved various combinations of the following procedures: soaking in water; carding with the teeth or hands; drying in the sun; beating or rubbing with sticks, stones or clubs; and peeling, stripping, scraping, chewing and teasing (Bundock 1978:262, Colliver and Woolston 1966:27, Eyre 1845, vol. 2:311, Helms 1895:396, Kerwin and Breen 1981:289, McPherson 1978:249, Parker 1905:107, Petrie 1975:67, Roth 1901b:8). An alternative to maceration as a means of separating fibre from pith was to bury the plant stems or stalks in the ground until the non-fibrous tissues had rotted away (Hale and Tindale 1925: 48). Some species were baked or steamed in earth ovens prior to separation of the fibre (Beveridge 1889:73, Bulmer n.d., Parker 1905:107). In at least one area, fibre was obtained by collecting the quads of fibre ejected by eaters of roasted Typha roots (Krefft 1862-65:361). The prepared fibre was next spun into string or rope by rolling the fibres together over the thigh with the palm of the hand (Beveridge 1889:71-72), Bulmer n.d., Col+liver and Woolston 1966:27, Eyre 1845, vol. 2:311, Fairholme 1984, Parker 1905:107, Petrie 1975:67, Roth 1901b:10). In some areas the process was assisted by the use of a simple spindle - a hooked stick or stick with short cross-pieces attached near one end - which was rotated over the spinner's thigh while the fibres were fed onto it (Brokensha 1975:54, Kerwin and Breen 1981:289, Roth 1901b:7, 8). Doubling the fibre strand back on itself and spin+ning it again resulted in two-ply cord, the type used in hunting nets. Existing museum specimens indicate that completed net cord ranged in diameter from one mm (Australian QE1781, both bird nets) to nine mm (a dugong net, University of Queensland An+thropology museum 24362), depending on the intended use. All hunting nets were made with the `netting stitch' or `knotted netting', the most widespread netting technique used in Australia (Davidson 1933:257-258, 268-271, Nunn and West 1979:8, Roth 1901b:13-14). This technique results in a series of mesh knots variously known as sheet bends, weaver's knots or reef knots. When used, netting shuttles and needles took the form of sticks, sections of wood or lengths*lenghts of reed (Eyre 1845, vol. 2:310, Kerwin and Breen 1981:290, McPherson 1978:249, Roth 1897:97). It seems that gauges for obtaining consistent mesh sizes were not generally employed in Australia, the fingers or, in the case of large-meshed nets, the feet being used in their place (Beveridge 1889:76), Bulmer n.d., Eyre 1845, vol. 2:310-311, McPherson 1978:249, Roth 1897:97). A possible ex+ception is Petrie's (1975:67) comment that the Aboriginal people of the Moreton Bay region `used to measure to get the correct size of mesh'. Unlike fishing nets, which were often painted with ochre and grease or even tanned in bark solutions (Lamond 1950:169), there seems to have been little further treatment of hunting nets after their completion, although some nets were smoked prior to use (Angas 1847a:100). J28 2010 words Social Psychology By Callen, Gallois, Noller CHAPTER 8 ANGER AND AGGRESSION While anger and aggression are used in everyday conversation as though they mean the same thing, there is a clear distinction between the two. Anger is a basic emotion. Aggression, on the other hand, is a pattern of behaviour which may or may not occur at the same time or following anger (Singer, 1982). Being angry is usually accompanied by universally recognizable facial expres+sions (Ekman, 1980; Ekman, Friesen & Ancoli, 1980), and also by muscular and physiological responses. The fact that a person is displaying the facial expression of anger, however, does not necessarily mean that he or she is angry. They may be pretending to be angry in order to have a particular effect on others, such as getting something they want. In addition, while anger is often aroused by extreme, persistent frustration or a failure to cope, this anger does not necessarily lead to aggressive behaviour. The fact that anger and aggression do coexist in many situations does not mean that, like Laurel and Hardy, the presence of one automatically includes the other (Tavris, 1982, p.35). As Tavris points out, it is possible to feel angry but to express anger in nonaggressive ways. On the other hand, a professional assassin may behave extremely aggressively for payment, without feeling anger toward the target. As the term `murder in cold blood' implies, extreme aggression can occur in the absence of the `heat' of anger. Aggressive behaviour can be classified in a number of different ways. Singer (1982) distinguishes between direct aggression, such as violence or threats of vio+lence or assault, and indirect aggression, which involves insulting words, telling someone you wish harm would come to them, slandering someone, and the more passive aggression behaviours of lying and deception. Other writers (Feshbach, 1964; Rule & Nesdale, 1976) distinguish between hostile aggressive behaviour and instrumental aggression. The primary aim of hostile aggressive behaviour is to inflict injury or harm on another person, and it is generally accompanied by anger. Instrumental aggression is aggressive behaviour which has as its aim some nonaggressive goal. The goal may be personal, such as making money, achieving status or fulfilling an ambition. In addition, the goal may be social, such as stopping the Vietnam war, banning the bomb, prohibiting nuclear ships from entering Australian ports, or saving rainforests or baby seals. Often during television news broadcasts, we see people engaging in very aggressive behaviours in the pursuit of prosocial and nonaggressive goals. Methods of studying aggression Aggression is studied mostly in laboratory studies, and occasionally in field stu+dies. In laboratory studies, a confederate of the experimenter may provoke the subjects in some way in order to elicit an aggressive response. A confederate may unfairly accuse subjects of cheating (e.g., Zillman & Cantor, 1976), or insult subjects without any justification (Rule & Percival, 1971). A variety of aggressive responses have been studied including punching (Kelley & Hake, 1970), administering a loud noise (Mann, Newton & Innes, 1982), or administering an electric shock (Milgram, 1963). Aggressive responses may be made to an actual person present in the same room, to a person who can be seen in another room, to a person who cannot be seen or even to an inanimate object. In one field study (Goldstein and Arms, 1971), researchers measured the aggression of male spectators before and after watching a football game. Their levels of aggression were compared with male spectators interviewed before and after witnessing a non-aggressive sport (a gymnastics competition). Results indi+cated that hostility increaed significantly after watching the football game, but there was no increase in hostility for spectators of the gymnastics meet. Determinants of aggression Theories about the determinants of aggression and aggressive behaviour fall into three main categories: biological/genetic theories, frustration theories, and social learning theories. Biological/genetic theories Both Freud and Darwin saw aggression as an inevitable part of human nature, a consequence of basic innate drives. Each emphasised different aspects of the aggressive drive. Freud focused on the negative aspects of aggression - violence, danger and destructiveness. Darwin concentrated on the evolutionary (and to some extent positive) aspects of aggression - its self defence and adaptive func+tions. In general, it appears that there are times when aggression is adaptive, and times when it is destructive. The situation in which the aggression occurs and the function of the aggressive behaviour are crucial. Freud described the person as having two basic drives: eros or the drive to love, and thanatos or the drive to death and destruction (see Chapter 2). The latter drive accounts for aggressive behaviour. According to Freud, people have an innate tendency to behave aggressively in every situation, and people are constantly in conflict and at the mercy of these warring instincts. As Tavris (1982) comments: Yet in the dark Freudian schema, so much unconscious rage and aggression! Everyone, at every age, is unwittingly furious with everyone else. Infants, for maternal abandon+ment. Toddlers, with the same-sexed parent who forbids incestuous lusts. Adolescents, for having to grow up and forgo childhood pleasures. Adults for having to work and repress their instinctive passions (pp. 37). Freud's picture of the libido or energy system was a hydraulic one, with a finite amount of energy moving around within the system. When there is any blocking of this energy because aggressive drives are not discharged, then the energy must find release or the level will reach a critical point, and highly aggressive behaviour will result. Lorenz (1966, 1974) also proposed a hydraulic model of anger and aggression. For Lorenz, aggression has an instinctual basis, and aggressive energy accumu+lates if it is not discharged. Overt aggressive behaviour occurs when there is a build-up of aggressive energy - rather like steam from a kettle. Lorenz acknowledged that aggressive behaviour in humans usually involves both this build-up of aggressive energy and some appropriate cue for eliciting aggressive behaviour, such as the presence of an enemy. Like Darwin, he emphasised the evolutionary survival value of the aggressive instinct. Nonetheless, he noted some clear differences between humans and animals in the way the instinctual drive is expressed. First, animals have natural inhibitions against killing their own spe+cies, but humans do not seem to. Second, human ingenuity has created numerous ways of inflicting injury on another person. Many of these methods, such as bombs and explosives, tend to distance the aggressor from the targets of aggression, and make it easier for humans to aggress against one another. Third, Lorenz believed that human society allowed for insufficient discharge of the inev+itable build-up of aggression. As a consequence, people are forced to suppress their anger, with sometimes dangerous results. He argued that people allowed to engage in minor aggressive episodes would be less likely to be involved in major acts of aggression (more on this later). Lorenz's view can be criticised on at least two counts. In the first place, there is no clear experimental evidence for the claims he makes about aggression in humans. In the second place, he seems to have ignored the tremendous amount of variation in aggression that occurs between cultures and sub-cultural groups. Some cultures seem to indulge in frequent displays of aggression, while other cultures allow little fighting and aggression. Moreover, there is a great deal of variation within a culture, with some people frequently behaving aggressively, and others rarely or never acting aggressively. Instinctual theories cannot easily account for such between-group and within-group differences. Some researchers have tried to explain within-group differences by looking for chromosomal abnormalities in highly aggressive people like convicted criminals. In fact, some studies have found males with an extra Y chromosome (XYY instead of XY) overrepresented in prison populations (Jarvik, Klodin & Matsuy+ama, 1973). In a Copenhagen study, Witkin and his colleagues (1976) studied 4,000 men to examine further this chromosomal effect. Only 16 men had the extra Y chromosome, while the rest had the normal XY pattern. Seven of the 16 (or 42 per cent) had been convicted of a crime, while fewer than ten per cent of the other group had been convicted of a crime. Yet men with the extra Y chromosome were not more likely to have committed crimes of violence than normals. Thus, it seems unlikely that the extra Y chromosome is an explanation for violent behaviour. More probably, XYY men are overrepresented in the prison population because their low levels of intelligence mean that they are more likely to get caught (Baron, 1977). Electrical stimulation of certain parts of the nonhuman brain had elicited aggressive responses. For example, Delgado (1967) isolated the involvement of the hypothalamus in aggressive behaviour. While electrical stimulation seems to lead to the emotional state of anger, the way anger is expressed depends on social and environmental factors. For example, the monkeys in Delgado's studies, even under the effects of electrical stimulation of the hypothalamus, did not behave aggressively towards animals who were higher in the dominance hierarchy. Such cultural and environmental influences on aggressive behaviour are discussed fur+ther in a later section. Frustration and aggression Dollard and his colleagues (1939) proposed that frustration (interference with a person's goal-directed behaviour) is the primary determinant of aggression. Early versions of the theory claimed that frustration always leads to aggression, and that aggression is always a product of some kind of frustration. Aggression, of course, can be disguised, delayed or displaced onto some less threatening or dangerous target, provided that the target has some similarity to the original target. Miller (1941), a close colleague of Dollard, modified the theory by main+taining that frustration has the potential to produce a number of responses, one of which is aggression, although he still saw aggression as the natural or most likely response to frustration. From studies with animals, Miller (1948) enumerated a list of principles which predict the displacement of aggression onto targets other than the source of the frustration. He found that 1. aggression is more likely to be displaced onto a target which is similar to the original target; 2. aggression is more likely to be displaced onto a target where there are fewer inhibitions against attacking that target (for example, a lower status target); 3. aggression if more likely to be displaced onto another target when the aggres+sive drive was very strong in the original situation, and it was inappropriate for the aggression to be directed at the original target (for example, I might lose my job if I do). Figure 8.1 depicts a common sequence involving the displacement of aggressive behaviour. In his study of aggression, Berkowitz (1962) has emphasised the role of anger in the connection between frustration and aggression. He maintained that frustra+tion leads to anger which, in turn, serves as a drive increasing the likelihood of aggressive behaviour. Whether aggressive behaviour occurs or not depends on the presence of environmental cues such as weapons, or factors likely to disinhibit aggressive behaviour such as violent films or alcohol. Both of these factors will be discussed further in a later section. In one test of the frustration-aggression hypothesis (Kelley & Hake, 1970), subjects were allowed to choose between an aggressive response (punching) and a nonaggressive response (button-pressing). They preferred the aggressive response following frustration, although they had preferred the non-aggressive option in earlier trials where they were not subjected to frustration. Thus, the more frustrated subjects are, the more aggressive they are likely to be. Rule and Perci+val (1971) found that subjects were more aggressive to partners (delivered stronger electric shocks to them) following either frustration or an unjustified insult. While frustration can lead to aggression, it is not the only prerequisite to aggressive behaviour. Social learning and aggression Bandura (1976) has argued that people learn to be aggressive either by observing models who are aggressive or by being rewarded or reinforced for aggressive behaviour. Exposure to aggressive models: As a test of model effects, Bandura, Ross and Ross (1961) exposed children to two types of models. First, an adult behaved very aggressively towards a bobo doll (a large blow-up doll weighted in the bottom so that it bounces back when hit). J31 2015 words Dreams and the search for meaning By Peter O'Connor 5 MEETING THE DREAM Aristotle claimed that `the most skilled interpreter of dreams is he who has the faculty of observing resem+blances'. This statement is still valid today, since `resemblances' lead us to think in `as if' terms; that is, in metaphorical terms. As Jung said: `Every interpre+tation necessarily remains an "as if", simply because psychic images are not necessarily images in the ordi+nary sense of the word, rather are psychic images, images as metaphors, resemblances. The dictionary says that metaphors transfer meaning, so the image, as metaphor, transfers meaning from the outer world to the inner world. Thus, if we for a moment return to the idea of image as not what one sees, but a way of seeing, then to see imaginatively, which is what a dream does, is to see resemblances, to see things, people, or events as `as if' rather than `is'. Therefore, images and imagination, the stuff of dreams, are not unreal, as Corbin reminded us, but, on the contrary, they are another reality, an `as if' reality. So, if we are to follow Hillman's dictum, repeated several times already in this book, to `stick to the image', then in practical terms it means that we must stick to an `as if' way of dealing with images and dreams and avoid literalising them. We could easily and readily detect signs of literalisation in such phrases and words as `is', `it's only natural', `surely you would agree', or `if this, then that'. All these phrases, in particular the word `is', point outwards to the literal world of events, the world of salt, to use the alchemical metaphor, a concrete view of the world. This mode of viewing, the concrete, is the most dangerous way to approach an image or a dream, because it pulls, pushes, and badgers the dream out of the world of metaphor, out of resemblences, out of `as if', to `IS'. As the dream does not exist there in the literal world, it can be denigrated and scoffed at only when it tries to be there. Thus the literalists can once again reinforce their concrete view of the world as the one and only view of it, and another round of `seeing the world as flat' is commenced. The literalists or pragmatists among us, sometimes referred to as the people having `lots of common sense' (the emphasis ought to be on the common), will collude with the intellectual (mind) and demand that we provide proof for the dream, or that we demonstrate evidence, cause, and effect. Again, the dream, like poetry, does not exist in the realm of positivism, but in the realm of metaphor - soul is a metaphor and dreams are the language of the soul. Repeatedly I find that when the imagery in a dream makes a person anxious, the more anxious they become, the greater the tendency is to literalise the dreams. `Oh. I know why I dreamed of John B. last night, it was because I was speaking to him only yesterday' or `I know why I dreamed that, it was because of my poor relationship with my mother.' Here we see the intellectual literalist (mind or sulphur) at work, telling the dream what it means, in order, I contend, to contain his or her anxiety about what the dream may actually mean. So long as we can tell it, then we can maintain the illusion that we are in control: all is well and in order. Yet Jung reminds us that `The mystery of dreams [is] that one does not dream, one is dreamt'. Another way in which we damage the images of dreams is to approach them with rational interpreta+tions, mind interpretations, instead of soul: `Oh. That is my shadow' or `That is my animus.' Having identi+fied it by a nice Jungian term, we can then sit back and feel safe, safe from having been touched by the dream. When we lose our contact with the metaphor+ical quality of a dream, its imagery, then we lose contact with soul and tend to call into operation either body, in the form of a body of fact, or mind, in terms of theories and concepts. One classical way of losing touch with the metaphor is through using the body of facts we call personal history. By reducing the meaning of a dream back to our personal history, back to a specific event in our childhood, we are liter+alising it by facts, and have lost contact with the metaphor. Hence the limitations of the Freudian reductive approach back to childhood. Alternatively, theories and concepts are the other flight away from the metaphorical perspective. Flight into rational thinking takes the very specific form of asking `Why?', inevitably a rational question, which is based on the assumption of something causing something else to happen. Then we can build an intellectual (mind or spirit) edifice and burn the dream images up with sulphuric reasoning, which leaves them parched and discoloured, but to our conscious relief, the threat of the dream's meaning revealing itself has at least temporarily been halted. Causality (and the intellec+tual seeking of causes) in relation to dreams is perhaps one of the major ways in which we incorrectly and destructively approach a dream. `Why?' is fundamen+tally motivated by curiosity, and curiosity turns the focus of attention into an object to be looked at, but not participated in and with. So the mind question `Why?' to a dream distances us from the dream, antisepticises us from the dream, but in destroying the bugs it kills the dream. Curiosity, the motivating force behind the question `Why?', also tends to lead us into interrogating the dream for its meaning, chas+ing after it in such a way that the dream has no choice but to elude us. Curiosity is a destructive way to approach a dream, because it usually springs from feelings of doubt and uncertainty, and therefore, instead of listening to the dream, we tend to want to make it conform with what we already know cons+ciously in order to alleviate our anxiety. Curiosity and asking `Why?' tend to rush the dream, want to move it on along too quickly, not allowing time in the unconscious mind, where soul resides or hides. To St Bernard of Clairvaux, whose Nosce Te ipsum describes the spriritual discipline of self-knowledge, the primary step off the path of self-knowledge was not pride, was not sloth, not lust - but curiosity! He speaks mainly of its destructiveness in terms of the harm the curious mind can cause the peace of soul and spiritual enlightenment. I have observed again and again this flight into mind via the question `Why?', and yet it is so destruc+tive a way to approach a dream. Some people have already asked the `Why?' before I see them and then produce a fait accompli interpretation of the dream, primarily to keep me and them away from it. But, as a rule of thumb, one can safely assume that if one knows what the dream is about, then one would not have had it! James Hall, a Jungian analyst who has contributed substantially to our knowledge of dreams, says: `If you already know what the dream seems to be saying, then you have missed its meaning.' Others simply begin the work on a dream - the work always being composed of a dialogue between dreamer and listener - by asking: `Why would I have this dream?' `Why would I dream of my aunt Joan?' The question is usually followed by `Oh. That's a stupid thing to have dreamed of' or `How silly of me to have dreamed of that'. In these simple statements one can see the denigra+tion caused by the anxiety of the dream, and the need to dismiss it that lies just behind the `Why?' When the `Why?' does not work as a way of avoiding meeting the dream, then denigration seems inevitably to come next. Intellectuals - or, in Jungian terms, thinking types - tend to denigrate the dreams more subtly by answering the `Why?' ques+tion. These are the people who find it most difficult to meet their dreams, because they want to meet it on their own ego-conscious terms, they want to tell the dream what it means and forget the fact that they and their intellects were asleep when they had the dreams. As Jung said: `It dreamt them.' Resorting to the body of facts or soaring up to the lofty heights of the intellect are two ways, two very common ways, in which we avoid a true meeting with our dream. This is simply because both these extremes do a violence to the `as if' quality of a dream. In other words, they de-soul the dream, remove its psychic quality. This is not to suggest that the psyche does not need both thinking (spirit) and concrete reality (facts), rather is it to make the point that both mind and facts are destructive when they assume a priority over the image and, as a consequence , take things at face value only, robbing them of their metaphorical value; that is, their soul significance. What we estab+lished in the previous chapter was that the transformation of an event into an experience was achieved through images, through psyche or soul. To rob the event of its metaphorical value, of its resem+blance, of its `as if' quality, is to sever the inner connection to the event, leaving it merely as an event with no meaning. The literalist is finally a destroyer of meaning, since she or he does not want events to be any more than they are and she or he is obsessed with is and detests `as if'. Thus, for the literalist, it is either `is' or `is not', an attitude that is totally contradictory to the world of dreams, since the meaning of a dream is never exhausted, even if it seems completely understood. Having discussed some of the ways in which we ought not to approach a dream or meet the dream, the task remains to outline some positive or useful techniques for approaching a dream. To do this, we must first briefly return to the nature of images as they appear in dreams, since this will establish the world we are approaching. Having established it, then one can discuss what sort of conscious attitude to adopt towards the dream. By now it has become clear that dreams are composed of images, but what one also knows is that these images in a dream are not linked together in a linear, straight line, cause-and-effect manner, they are linked together by connec+tions, almost like a painting or a piece of sculpture. The parts form coherences, because no part or image has priority over the other. Patricia Berry has called this connective form the `full democracy of the image'. That is, all parts have an*a equal right to be heard, and there exists no privileged positions such as we would have in an ordinary cause-and-effect model. The images also in part depend on each other for mean+ing, so we cannot take one bit of a dream and interpret it in isolation without doing some violence to the complexity of the dream itself. Calvin Hall confirms this viewpoint when he asserts: A dream is an organic whole; one part of a dream should not be lifted out of context and interpreted for itself alone. The dream should be interpreted as a whole, because it reflects an interconnected network of ideas in the mind of the dreamer. Another way of speaking about this is to say that images in a dream seem to appear simultaneously; that is, no part precedes or causes another part of the dream. So, in a way, it does not matter which part comes first, since as in a painting all is given at once. It is only when we need to narrate the dream that we impose order upon it. Yet, even then, one can find oneself saying: 'While this or that was going on, so was this and that.' J32 2020 words Australian Journal of Linguistics - 1986 Structural change in language obsolescence: some eastern Australian examples By Peter Austin 1. INTRODUCTION The phenomenon of `language obsolescence' or `language death' was first discussed in Swadesh 1948 but has only come to the attention of linguists in the last decade, especially as a result of the work of Nancy Dorian (1973, 1978, 1981). In 1977 the International Journal of the Sociology of Language devoted an entire volume (Dressler and Wodak-Leodolter 1977) to the topic of language death. Other recent papers include Voegelin and Voegelin 1977 and Hill 1980; the latter work contains an extensive bibliography on the subject. Much of the material published to date on language obsolescence has dealt with the sociolinguistic aspects of language contact, acculturation, and changes which have occurred in the speech community as language usage and preferences have changed. There has been a small amount of published research on the consequences of language obsolescence for the structure of the languages involved and the ways their phonology, morphology and syntax have changed (see Dorian 1973, 1978, 1981; Dressler 1972; Dixon 1984; Hill 1973, 1980; Schmidt 1983, 1985). The present paper is a set of observations, based upon my own work and the grammatical descriptions of Donaldson 1980 and Eades 1976, documenting some of the structural changes which have taken place in a number of eastern Australian languages as a result of contact with and domination by English. 2. SOCIOLOGY OF LANGUAGE OBSOLESCENCE Kloss 1984 (cited in Edwards (1985:49)) identifies three ways that languages die: (a) language death without language shift; (b) language death because of language shift; and (c) nominal language death through a metamorphosis (e.g downgrading to dialect status). Most instances of language obsolescence or language death reported so far involve language replacement or shift, that is, descendents of members of a speech community no longer speak the former language but have switched to another one. Typically, the language of a socially and politically dominant group replaces the speech of a (numerically) smaller, less powerful group in the community. Many of the recorded examples are of major Indo-European languages (English, Spanish, French) superseding smaller minority languages (both Indo-European, e.g. Gaelic, or Breton, and non-Indo-European, e.g. American Indian, Australian). Typically obsol+escence follows a phase of unstable bilingualism and represents the terminus of a language shift. Extremely rare is the case of a language dying because of the death of its last fluent monolingual speaker, although Swadesh mentions Yahi, as spoken by Ishi, as an example. Much more common is for monolingual speakers to be replaced by bilinguals and finally by monolinguals in the replacing language. The replacement process can take quite a long time and the period of obsolescence or death may extend over many generations, making it difficult to say exactly when a language has died (in the sense of being totally extinguished). Dorian has identified two types of speakers to be found in the terminal phase of a dying language; to these we can add a further two found in the last stages in Australia and elsewhere: (1) fluent speakers - bilinguals showing linguistic and socio+linguistic competence in the dying language; (2) semi-speakers - bilinguals showing a reduction in their linguistic repertoire and range of usage vis-a-vis fluent speakers - semi+speakers can often produce words of sentences in the language but show limitations in structure and function. (Note, semi-speakers can often appear to have greater fluency than they do depending upon their sociolinguistic skills and ability to interact appropriately with fluent speakers); (3) former speakers - the last speakers of a language who may once have been fluent but because of a period of disuse (during which there has been no-one else to use the language with) show very limited ability to use their former language; (4) rememberers - those who are able to recall a limited amount of lexical material or fixed locutions in a language which they once heard spoken but never really learned. Rememberers may exist many generations after the death of the last speaker - for example, Tasmanian languages ceased to be spoken in the last quarter of last century but in 1972 Terry Crowley was able to tape- record words and phrases in Tasmanian from two rememberers whose mother had been a former speaker (see Dixon and Crowley 1981). The exact mixture of speakers in a speech community in which a language is dying varies tremendously from group to group. There are a number of sociocultural factors which interact to influence the fate of a dying language, affecting its learning, use and recall in its last stages of disuse. These factors are social, personal and historical and hence the actual process of loss may be quite different in different communities. In general, however, we find for dying languages: (1) a narrowing and reduction of the communicative situations in which the language is used, which leads to: (2) a narrowing of functional range within which the language operates, leading in turn to: (3) a narrowing and reduction in total linguistic repertoire. This is characterized by the loss of stylistic variation ("stylistic shrinkage" is Dressler's term) and, later, structural effects on the remaining single style, including: (a) lexical reduction (b) phonological levelling, with loss or confusion of earlier contrasts (c) morphological reduction and levelling (d) syntactic reduction and fossilisation, including a decrease in frequency or loss of strategies for producing complex sentences (subordination and coordination). In the following sections we examine some instances of such structural changes in Aboriginal languages of eastern Australia. 3. HISTORICAL BACKGROUND When eastern Australia was claimed in 1770 by the English explorer Captain James Cook there was probably an Aboriginal population of 300,000 divided into 600 `tribes' speaking 250 languages (Blake & Dixon 1979:1). In 1788 a colony was established at the present site of Sydney (New South Wales) and initially amicable relations between the original inhabitants and the white immigrant population were begun. Over the years and with the establishment of new colonies at Melbourne (Victoria), Hobart (Tasmania) and Perth (Western Australia) in the early part of the nineteenth century, tensions developed between the two groups and open conflict broke out. There were murders, massacres of large groups of Aborigines and extermination of whole tribal populations. Foreign disease introduced by the colonists also took its toll and the population fell dramatically to the point where the Aborigines were held to be a "dying race". By 1876 the last Tasmanian full blood was dead and it was felt that other groups would face a similar fate. The demographic situation reached its lowest ebb in the 1930's, since which time Aboriginal populations, especially in the north, have been expanding rapidly. There are currently about 150,000 Aborigines (including full and part Aborigines) living throughout Australia. The present-day linguistic situation can be divided into two areas. Firstly, in the south (including southern and central Queensland, New South Wales, Victoria, eastern South Australia and southern Western Australia) the languages are either extinct or remembered by their last few speakers. In the north, on the other hand, the languages are still spoken actively and for some the speech community is expanding (some of the smaller languages are being replaced by other Australian languages). Bilingual education programs are operating in a number of areas and the survival prospects of some of the languages are good, at least in the short term. Linguists working in the southern part of Australia, including myself, have too often in the past been concerned with recording the structures of the dying languages, usually from the oldest fluent speakers available, while ignoring the contemporary speech situation. Varieties of language spoken by generations below the oldest have been regularly ignored. The only notable exceptions to this lack of concern in Australia with whole community studies are Donaldson 1980 (see below), and Douglas 1976, which contains an interesting discussion of the Nyungar language and its contemporary variant "Neo-Nyungar", spoken in the south-west of Western Australia. Recently there has been an upsurge of interest in the range of contemporary language varieties, including styles being acquired and used by children and adolescents (see Bavin 1987, Bavin and Shopen 1987, Black 1981, Dixon 1984, Lee 1983, Schmidt 1983, 1985). As Australianists become more aware of the issues involved there may well be more and better discussion of both the sociolonguistic and linguistic structures of speech communities, not just of the isolated elders preserving the `pure' form of the Aboriginal language. 4. THREE EASTERN AUSTRALIAN LANGUAGES I will be concerned with three languages spoken in New South Wales, Kamilaraay (also known as Kamilaroi) from the slopes and plains around the Namoi river system (including as a dialect Yuwaalaraay - see Austin, Williams and Wurm 1980, and Williams 1980), Ngiyampaa (or Wangaaypuwan) spoken in western New South Wales near the Lachlan River (Donaldson 1980, 1985), and Dharawal spoken on the south coast near the Victorian border (Eades 1976). All three languages are on the way to extinction. Kamilaraay seems, from the available evidence, to be quite closely related to Ngiyampaa; probably belonging to the same subgroup as it (Austin, Williams and Wurm 1980). The exact relationship between this subgroup and Dharawal has yet to be determined. Hill (1980:2) points out that there are two possible approaches to the study of language obsolescence and death: (1) longitudinal - comparing text material of several known dates; (2) the simulation of time depth by comparison of contemporary speakers over a range of linguistic expertise. These approaches may be supported by contrastive analysis of the languages in contact to identify features in the dying language that have arisen from the process of shift, for example, incorporation of phonetic segments or syntactic structures from the dominant language. In the case of Kamilaraay and Ngiyampaa we have two closely related languages to which these methods of investigation can be applied: (a) for Kamilaraay we have good recordings dating back to the 1870's (Ridley 1875, Greenway 1877) together with records from trained linguists from 1955, when the last fluent speaker was still alive (Wurm 1955a), and 1975 (Austin 1975). For the Yuwaalaraay dialect we have Williams 1980 which is a descriptive grammar based on the speech of the last two fluent speakers recorded by her in 1975-78 (and by Janet Mathews several years earlier), together with Wurm's 1955 material (Wurm 1955b); (b) for Ngiyampaa there are poor early recordings from the turn of the century (Mathews, 1902, 1903, 1904) and Donaldson's detailed work carried out during 1973-77 (resulting in Donaldson 1980, 1985) with all members of the speech community then living, ranging from fluent speakers through to rememberers with knowledge of only a few words. We are thus in a unique position to document structural changes which have taken place in the languages over time. Eades' 1976 study of the remnants of Dharawal can be used as a comparative and confirmatory source. 4.1 Kamilaraay Earliest recordings of Kamilaraay date from the 1850's and include large amounts of material written down by the missionaries Ridley and Greenway. Around 1910 the amateur anthropologist R.H. Mathews recorded quite detailed information (unfortunately fairly poor phonetically) including texts from what seem to have been fluent speakers. In 1938 Tindale was able to collect a text in Kamilaraay from an old man who had spoken the language in his youth (see Austin and Tindale 1985). By 1949 Marie Reay found that: quote She also describes the process by which the use of the language came to be suppressed: quote As a result of this connotation of shame connected with the use of the Aboriginal languages they came to be more and more private languages used in the domain of the family. Children grew up hearing them spoken less and less, especially by their peer groups, and so the number of fluent speakers declined rapidly. By 1955 S.A. Wurm was only able to find one fluent speaker of Kamilaraay still living (he died within a year of Wurm's visit) and it is to him that we owe recent relaible phonetic transcriptions with a fair amount of morphological detail. Wurm 1955a consists of 44 pages of notes and is accompanied by a 13 minute tape-recording of 118 sentences and some songs. J33 2004 words Northern Territory pidgins and the origin of kriol By John W. Harris Travel by Aboriginal people to Macassar and to other parts of the South-east Asian archipelago Visits by Aboriginal people to Macassar are widely acknowledged in the literature. Substantial Aboriginal narratives exist, some of the most detailed being from Groote Eylandt and Elcho Island (Berndt and Berndt 1954:50-63). Detailed prau records from Raffles Bay in 1829 show that the Pattie Djawaija carried a crew of 37 `besides 4 black natives who were going to Macassar' (see Macknight 1976:130-131). Barker (1829:7 May) described these particular Aboriginal travellers in his diary. On an earlier occasion, he recorded that the crew of a prau had ... described a very good race of Blacks (in the Gulf of Carpentaria as well as I could make out) who ... spoke a little Malay. Several had been at Macassar, probably 100 and some were there now. (Barker 1829:2Apr.) This reference is almost certainly to Groote and Bickerton Islands. Any reasonable conjecture as to the population of those islands in 1829 indicates that a hundred visitors to Macassar represents a significant proportion of the population (J. Harris 1984b:114). Barker did not actually record any such voyages by Raffles Bay Aboriginal people, but some fourteen years later at Port Essington, Jukes (1847:35) observed that a prau ... brought back a native of Port Essington, who had gone away with them last year to Macassar. This, we were told was not an uncommon occurrence as the natives of Port Essington are very fond of going abroad to see the world. Formal concern was expressed about this practice in official correspondence during the 1870's at which time there seemed to be some doubt as to whether the Aboriginal travellers went to Macassar voluntarily or under compulsion. The matter was of particular concern to the official `Protector of Aborigines' and was a frequent subject of correspondence between him and the Government Resident in Darwin and between the Government Resident and the South Australian Minister controlling the Northern Territory. Cadell reported on the matter both from the north coast (SAA 790/1878/351) and from Macassar itself (SAA 790/1879/83), where recent legislation, requiring a deposit of 200 rupees per person for crew members recruited in Macassar, was making it difficult for Aboriginal people to secure return passages to Australia. The voyage to `Macassar', however, seems to have been considered to be a normal feature of the life of many of the younger Aboriginal men and of some women (Macknight 1976:86). The Aboriginal perception would appear to be that most of the voyagers returned with exciting travellers' tales to tell. Many of the black men went back to the Malay country with the returning fleets and stayed through the intervening season. There are a few cases of men who stayed permanently and married Malay women, but this was very rare. (Warner 1932:458) When people used to go from here to Macassar, they used to come back with stories about how they were treated there ... Our people liked to go there and see these different things ... where they made their dug-out canoes, and the beautiful cloth called liba, and their knives. (Lamilami 1974:70) The linguistic significance of this is that the Aboriginal people concerned would have been obliged to gain some fluency in the language of the prau crews and of the places where they lived, and they would have used these skills in communicating with the trepangers in the years after they had returned home to Australia. Clearly a significant number of Aboriginal people went to Macassar itself as the commercial home-base of the trepang industry, but it is also important to note that the term `Macassar' was used by Aboriginal people to denote south-east Asia generally. Many Aboriginal people travelled to and lived in places other than Macassar. Not only were there other ports of call for the praus returning to Macassar, but an unknown number of people had opportunities to travel even further afield (Berndt and Berndt 1954:50; Worseley 1955:5). An interesting example was noted by a semi-official survey party in 1875 which met an Aboriginal man at Caledon Bay on the Western side of the gulf of Carpenteria who had not only been to Macassar but also to Singapore where he had learnt, among other things, a small amount of English (SAA 790/1876/74). Tindale was able to record stories of such travels on Groote Eylandt within twenty five years of the close of the industry while people who had actually travelled away with the praus were still alive. Several old men of the Ingura (Anindilyakwa) tribe, as youths, made voyages with the Malays, principally of Macassar, who regularly visited the North Australian coast until about twenty-five years ago, and are familiar with the language of Macassar, with sometimes a smattering of other languages, such as Bugi and Malay ... One very old Bartalumbu man, Yambukwa by name, was taken away before initiation, and spent many years in various foreign places, returning as a middle-aged man ... He told us of woolly haired Papuans, of Timor Laut, Macassar, Ke, Aru, Banda, and many other places which I could not recognise by his names or descriptions. With the aid of one of our crew, a Macassar-Torres Strait half-caste, who conversed fluently with him, something was learned about the visits of the Malays. (Tindale 1925:130) This involvement of Aboriginal people in the trepang industry outside Australia, their travels around the archipelago and their sojourns in Macassar itself indicate that those who underwent these experiences would have had the opportunity to become familiar with the languages of the region. It has been shown already that they were members of multilingual speech communities and quite possibly had a tradition of using contact languages that stretched back for several centuries. They were what Bickerton (1977:51) calls `multilingual autodidacts' with well developed strategies for acquiring other languages and they would certainly have gained knowledge of a number of languages while overseas. (Urry and Walsh 1981:95) Firstly, they would have gained increased familiarity with the lingua franca of the ports, the `Portuguese-Malay' pidgin. The ease with which Aboriginal people seem to have been able to merge into the cosmopolitan life of the trading ports, when considered in the light of the sociolinguistic and historical-linguistic logic of maritime trade expansion, argues for the existence of a lingua franca which Aboriginal people first learnt in Australia, used and expanded in South-east Asia, and then brought back with them, thus enriching the local contact language. Secondly, those who remained for extended periods in Macassar itself would have become familiar with Macassarese. In the life of the port city of Macassar and in the Macassan households with whom they lived, Macassarese would have been the normal means of communication. On their return to Australia, these particular people would have retained reasonable facility in Macassarese. As particular praus tended to return year after year to the same locality, there to deal with the same groups, Aboriginal people who had returned from Macassar would have been able to maintain annual direct contact with their Macassan acquaintances. In these circumstances, it seems likely that Macassarese could sometimes have been used in communication between native Macassan trepangers and Aboriginal people on some parts of the coast. It must also be noted that specifically Macassan crews did not visit all parts of the coast and that relationships varied from locality to locality. There was obviously a degree of friendship in some places. The Groote Eylandters still speak of how welcome the trepangers were, how they were awaited each year with excitement, and how flags were flown to guide them to where their hosts were waiting. It was from places such as Groote Eylandt that Aboriginal people travelled away with the `Macassans'. On some other parts of the coast relationships were strained, in some cases quite antagonistic. Barker's diary shows this clearly. In such places, the sort of limited communications which would have occurred would most likely have been in a restricted form of the `Portuguese-Malay' trade language. Thirdly, Aboriginal people travelling around the archipelago in the multilingual company of other people involved in the trepang trade, would have had opportunities to learn something of yet other languages. There are a number of records of Aboriginal people stating that they could speak languages other than Macassarese, such as Buginese (Tindale 1925:130). Earl also made such observations including one, reported in Stokes (1846:61) in which an Aboriginal man spoke in `the New Guinea dialect' when addressed in that language by a Ceramese who mistook him for a New Guinean. The observation that some Aboriginal people knew and took pleasure in using a number of Austronesian languages when the occasion allowed it, does not detract from the fact that the situation demanded a lingua franca which, Urry and Walsh (1979:95-98) argue, must have been based on the `Portuguese-Malay' pidgin. It is not unlikely that the trepangers would have used this pidgin in their first attempts at communication with Aboriginal people. One cannot, however, ignore the predominance of people from Macassar on some of the praus and the visits by Aboriginal people to Macassar itself. These facts point strongly to the likelihood that in some parts of the coast, there was considerable use of Macassarese or at the very least, that the Australian version of the `Portuguese-Malay' pidgin contained a large number of lexical items of Macassarese origin. This view, however, must be balanced against the only piece of evidence so far located of the trepangers' perception of the language. According to Barker (1829:2 Apr.), the trepangers at Raffles Bay described Aboriginal groups further to the East who `spoke a little Malay'. This is a very important observation because unlike many references to `Malay', it is in the diary of someone who, as already noted, distinguished between `Macassarese' and `Malay' and who recorded the problems of communication with a trepanger who could speak `only the Macassar tongue'. It appears that it was not the language of Macassar but the `Portuguese-Malay' pidgin, the general language of the trade in the archipelago, which was perceived by the trepangers themselves as the language of the trepang trade in North Australian waters. The discussion so far has only acknowledged the linguistic input of the trepangers. In terms of what is normally understood to be the origin of pidgins, the language or languages of the trepangers certainly appear to have been the superstrate or target languages. The contact, however, spanned some centuries and the question of Aboriginal contribution to the language of the trade must also be considered. The strongest evidence of this comes from the widespread use of the `Macassan' Pidgin between groups of Aboriginal people. The development of a lingua franca between Aboriginal people As has been discussed earlier, Aboriginal people of the northern coastal regions belonged to multilingual speech communities and were quite able to communicate with all neighbouring groups. When, however, Aboriginal people used the raw materials of the languages of the trepang trade, which were common to widely separated groups, and made from them a lingua franca for use between themselves, it had far reaching sociolinguistic and cultural consequences. It may be presumed that the `Portuguese-Malay' pidgin, the trade language of the archipelago, formed the basis of the contact language of the trepang trade in this area. It may also be presumed, that in areas of intense contact with specifically Macassan people and with Macassar itself, Macassarese was also a language of communication. It should not, however, be presumed that Macassarese or even the `Portuguese-Malay' pidgin was simply taken and used, quite unmodified, by various groups of Aboriginal people in communication with each other. Urry and Walsh (1981:96) emphasise the necessity to distinguish between the language of the trepang trade and the local lingua franca. Not to do so is to deny Aboriginal people all creativity and linguistic innovation in the development of the `Macassan' Pidgin which was to become their own lingua franca, yet it is now extremely difficult to determine just what the Aboriginal or substrate contribution may have been. J34 2019 words Australian Review of Applied Linguistics Defining literacy: common myths and alternative readings By Audrey N. Grant This paper is concerned with crucial issues which need to be addressed in attempting to define literacy. Several persistent myths or common misreadings of the nature of literacy are critiqued, namely the myths of literacy as: an absolute, word perfect standard; a collection of functional skills; an autonomous, context-free and unified competence; and a means of economic benefit. Alternative definitions, differing radically from the myths in their reading of reality, are proposed. These argue for a broad, inclusive definition which takes into account two broad perspectives - (i) the essentially creative meaning-centred and relative nature of language learning or use, and (ii) the patterns of social and cultural contexts in which literate behaviours are learnt, developed, constrained by or act to constrain the literacy of others. A dual focus is argued for. First, a focus on individual learning and experience serves to highlight the essentially constructive, selective, purposeful nature of the literacy process and the organic relation beteen literacy, experience, personal growth and autonomy. Thus, liteacy is seen as transcending exclusively linguistic considerations and empowering its possessors to make sense of, to read and reread their experience, both to "take meanings" from the world and to act to transform that world. The second essential focus entails the recognition that socio-cultural contexts, including the nature, availability or distribution of information and printed materials in a society, are a vital part of the literacy process itself, shaping the meaning, values status and conceptions of literacy practices or competences. Hence discussion moves to the wider definitional framework for the analysis of literacies as social practices embedded in socio-cultural contexts of parent-child relationships, socialization patterns and ideologies. "I don't know what you mean by `glory,'" Alice said. Humpty Dumpty smiled contemptuously. "Of course you don't - till I tell you ..." "When I use a word," Humpty Dumpty said in rather a scornful tone, "it means just what I choose it to mean - neither more nor less". "The question is," said Alice, "whether you can make words mean so many different things". "The question is," said Humpty Dumpty, "which is to be master - that's all". (Lewis Carroll, 1985:173) Substitute the word `literacy' for `glory', and we have an apt account of the idiosyncratic and variously motivated definitions or uses of the concept of `literacy'. The attempt to define literacy is problematic. Varying definitions abound, both in theory and practice. Some emphasize the acquisition of basic communication skills or a level of competency required for effective functioning in a given society, some other definitions - such as "organic literacy" (Carozzi, 1974) - focus upon literacy as a process "at the heart of the growth of a person", and again others encompass sociological and political perspectives as central (Street, 1984; Levine, 1986). A further, common approach has been to ignore problems of definition altogether. Large scale surveys of literacy levels, such as in Australia in 1975, and the USA in 1986, and various media debates regarding literacy standards often assume that what it means to be literate in our society is clear cut, self-evident, uncontroversial and readily measurable. However, the difficulties of suggesting a simple but acceptable formulation of literacy are conveyed by Levine's (1986:22) metaphor of an indigestible cake .... what might appear to be an endless series of disagreements and controversies will be encountered which reflect the fact that we are dealing with a complex amalgam of psychological, linguistic and social processes layered one on top of another like a rich and indigestible gateau. Different varieties of academic specialists cut slices out of this cake with the conceptual equipment their disciplinary training has taught them to favour. Consumers of the cake (teachers, pupils, politicians, employers) have very different appetites and push and jostle each other to secure a wedge of a particular size and, if possible, try to get their preferred wedge defined as the standard helping for everybody else. The questions of `what is literacy?' and `what is literacy for?' are fundamental to the responsible and effective work of language teachers, educators, policy and curriculum designers, researchers and academics. Otherwise we are working in the dark, unaware of what informs and constrains literacy policy, practice and evaluation at all levels, and complacent about or blind to the rival conceptions represented by traditional mainstream and minority literacy practices in the community. Yet characteristically there has been academic neglect of these issues (Levine, 1986:3-6), or discipline-bound discussion, public confusion and misreading of the problems of literacy and illiteracy, and eclectic uninformed approaches applied in schools. The back-to-basics or know-nothing movement (as Goodman (1982) dubs it), the application of business or systems management, or cost benefit analyses to the school curriculum, the nationwide surveys of literacy levels of performance in schools and/or the community conducted in USA, UK and Australia, the media preoccupation with headlines - "1 million adult illiterates in Australia", and the recent Victorian Ministerial initiatives to introduce assessment of literacy levels in state primary schools - all represent inadequate definitions of literacy and its uses. As well, they can be seen as evidence for Spencer's (1986:442) claim that Concern about literacy and the competences of learners is strongest when the sociocultural functions of written language in a community are changing. That this is the case at present is another commonplace. A starting point for defining literacy is to clear the ground of tenacious, common literacy myths which have contributed to the notion of "the standard helping for everybody else". In particular, the persistence of these myths has closed off enquiry into two deeper issues: (i) the analysis of the socio-cultural practices in which all literacy learning is embedded, assigned value and becomes sociologically determining and constraining, and (ii) the analysis of the changing social functions of printed material in an increasingly technological society, which includes the emergence of other literacies of the future which are already gaining ground on the traditional mainstream literacy of the school. COMMON MYTHS AND ALTERNATIVE READINGS Five common myths are discussed below and critiqued in turn by the posing of alternative readings of reality. The myths have in common the conception of literacy as essentially technical, linguistic or skills based, instrumental, neutral and autonomous. Some of their appeal comes from their ability to enlist literacy to serve other causes, while sidestepping close analysis of the nature of literacy and direction of social change. The counter readings argue for a broader understanding of literacy that is more inclusive of learner purposes and experiences and more aware of prevailing social, cultural and political realities. These readings share the belief that language is inescapably social and that, therefore, a theory of language learning presupposes a social theory which goes beyond socio-linguistic considerations. It may be useful to quote here three shorthand definitions of literacy argued for in the literature which are consistent with the alternative readings I am proposing. By literacy I mean the ability to make and comprehend meanings in reading and writing in a particular context, for particular purposes, with respect to particular texts. (Boomer, 1983:2) I shall use the term `literacy' as a shorthand for the social practices and conceptions of reading and writing. (Street, 1984:1) .... a general definition of literacy as the exercised capacity to acquire and exchange information via the written word. Functional literacy can be [re]defined as the possession of, or access to, the competences and information requried to accomplish transactions entailing reading and writing which an individual wishes - or is compelled - to engage. (Levine, 1986:43) Myth 1: that literacy is the ability to read, write and spell correctly (the myth of literacy as an absolute or perfectable product). This myth defines reading and writing as word exact processes, and hence focusses upon the mastery of correct forms and the eradication of errors. Phonics and skills-centred approaches to language instruction rely heavily on this definition, fragmenting, structuring and sequencing language learning accordingly. Indeed such systematic approaches to language instruction seem part of the attraction: exponents can put their trust in ordered, manageable prepackaged lessons, defer to marketed instructional programs and reading schemes, test for mastery or remediation, and prescribe additional practice appropriate to the master plan. Moreover a line of common sense reasoning bolsters the myth - that those who can use the language correctly are literate, and that Standard English usage provides access to power denied to the less educated. Simple solutions have their appeal, thrusting aside disturbing questions about the nature and purposes of literacy, the life-chances of different social groups and the alarming pace and complexity of social and technological change. They also have their ideological base. The existence of fixed levels of competence and a word perfect standard is presumed, separating the literate from the `illiterate' or `sub-literate'. Many parents and adult literacy students rigidly adhere to such debilitating literacy myths, as Phillip (Grant, 1985) for instance admits after ten years in an adult literacy program. I can read and write a bit now, but I think you tell yourself you can't all the time, and you brainwash yourself .. branded meself as being slow or dumb ... But with me I've gotta be right or not at all ... If I'm not gunna be right I won't write at all .... because I don't want to make a fool of meself. Despite significant progress made in the tuition program many literacy students, like Phillip, continue to see themselves as `illiterate' and to insist on unrealistic notions of literacy as an exact, word perfect standard in reading, writing and spelling (Grant, 1985; Pollock, 1983). They often draw stark, absolute contrasts of literacy as for the `literates', `being right' all the time, otherwise one is stigmatized as `illiterate', `bad' and `wrong'. While the myth exacerbates social stigma and low status, the product approaches it promotes in schools are damaging in other ways. They are reductive of language as a meaning-making process, and of the child as a learner; to read becomes recognizing words or decoding correctly, to learn a second language becomes translating accurately, and to write becomes expressing and spelling conventionally. Programs, techniques and systems-oriented approaches cast the learner in a passive role of recipient dependent on the `reading expert' or instructional program. Literacy purposes are likely to be limited to information processing - the one way transmission or extraction of supposedly unambiguous information. It is assumed that a single, objective meaning resides in the text and that the reader's `comprehension' of it will be either right or wrong. This continues despite all the counter evidence that variation is the norm rather than the exception ... no concept has been more difficult for the [teaching] profession to abandon than this notion of language as a perfectable absolute. (Harste, Woodward and Burke, 1984:104). Thus individual variations in response, comprehension and interpretation of meaning are discouraged as divergent. Alternative reading 1: literacy is a creative, selective, meaning-centred process, and a relative concept, relative to different texts, social contexts and purposes. In reality, being literate entails far more than reading, writing and spelling correctly. Reading and writing - the recognized core of literacy - are creative, actively predictive and selective not exact processes. Hence achieving fluency depends upon taking risks in anticipating and constructing meaning and varies according to context, purpose and text (e.g. Smith, 1978:1983). Being literate is a relative concept, and not the attainment of a particular level of mastery. Accordingly, we are each more or less literate in different settings, for example we may be literate in respect to reading a literary text for pleasure, but not literate in respect to reading a physics textbook or the installation instructions in a home appliance manual poorly translated from Japanese. Moreover, the reader's active construction of meaning is a tentative and cumulative process. Meaning is not transmitted absolutely from text to reader, but is itself relative. It is relative to: the implied questions, purposes, ways of making sense of and taking sense from the world the reader brings; the context and nature of particular reading tasks; as well as to the demands and nature of the texts (Grant, in press). J35 2028 words Style in Australia: current practices in spelling, punctuation, hyphenation, capitalisation, etc. Colloquialism By Arthur Delbridge There seem to me to be two questions about colloquialism for this Council: first, what is it? Are there some characteristics of a word or a phrase that would let you say confidently this is a colloquialism, or is not a colloquialism? And supposing the answer to the first is "yes" - here's the second question: in what circumstances is the use of colloquialism either good or bad? What place does colloquialism hold in communicative competence? So let me start with the question of definition. And I shall work my way into this question first entirely as a lexicographer, concerned only with words and phrases as they may be listed and labelled in a dictionary. As you know, dictionaries often use colloquial as a status label, along with other labels like formal, slang, coarse slang, taboo, informal, vulgar, not in polite usage, deprecated, familiar etc. Now, where does colloq. fit in that list of status labels, if they can be put in order between the two extreme terms? The etymology of the word doesn't help much: Colloq. is an English form of Latin colloquium; the loquium part means "speaking", and col- is a variant of con, meaning "with". So colloquium etymologically is speaking together, conversation, conference. But the usual sense of colloquial (OED) is "belonging to common speech; characteristic of or proper to ordinary conversation, as distinguished from formal or elevated language". This definition suggests a dichotomy common and ordinary as against formal and elevated. Now formal and elevated have an old-fashioned ring. They put you in mind of the sort of journalism in which a policeman doesn't "go" but "proceeds", and the news reporter arrives transpiring at every pore. Or perhaps the words call up the parliamentary style of Edmund Burke, or the prose of Gibbon's Decline and Fall. That definition was written for the Oxford English Dictionary (OED) about a hundred years ago, and it has not been given any amendment in the four volume supplement in which the Oxford editors concentrated on twentieth-century English. But it's not hard to agree that the words used in an editorial in say, The Sydney Morning Herald (SMH) or the Melbourne Age are more formal than those of some columnists in the same papers. Among critical reviews written in those papers, the vocabulary of reviews of "fine" music concerts tends to be more formal than those of rock concerts. If you had the job of rating on a scale of formality from 1 to 10 all the pieces in a single issue of a modern daily newspaper, you'd probably have no difficulty in using up all or most of the numbers; and if you could calculate the median degree of formality for a number of different papers, it would be interesting to see if that bore any relation to their circulation figures. Even so you may be left with a feeling that formal is not quite the right word for the extreme right-hand end. It is impersonal, detached, neutral in tone, but it may well lack the sense of "front" that the word formal suggests. Nevertheless, there is that dichotomy expressed in the Oxford, and the colloquial is to be found on the lower side of it, a side which is itself subdivided in a graduated way with a set of labels like taboo, coarse slang, slang, colloquial. All else is on the higher side, as formal or elevated. This isn't very satisfactory, for it's so hard to find the basis of the categories. Let me illustrate with the OED's treatment of the word pull in the Third Supplement of the OED in (see The Age Monthly Review Vol. 2 No. 11 March 1983). This Supplement, which presents twentieth century usage, devotes seven and a half pages to recent uses of pull. We learn that pull off (as in "clever enough to pull such a thing off") now has its status amended: it had been slang in the Dictionary itself (that is, up to 1933); but the label is changed to colloquial in the Supplement, on the evidence of citations taken from Policeman's News (1918), H.G. Wells (1923), The Times (1968) and The Times again (1977). To pull down a salary is labelled slang, and to take a pull (at oneself) in the sense of pull oneself together, is colloq. (chiefly Australian). The various sexual senses of pull are labelled either slang or coarse slang, though it is not clear whether the distinctions are on linguistic or moral grounds. And there are many senses of pull and its phrases left unlabelled, (e.g. pull rank, pull the other one). One can't imagine that the OED editor is implying that these are formal or elevated; rather it seems that there must be a middle ground of words (perhaps accommodating the majority of all English words) which are neither colloquial nor formal in the senses suggested, but rather occupy a vast neutral ground between the two. If one must have a complete classification expressed in a range of usage labels, let's make it at least tripartite, with left to right separated by a large central neutral class that accommodates words like come and go, banana and apple, man and woman and (I suppose) person. Of course, it must be allowed that the same word might enter different parts of this classification, depending on its meaning. The OED says, charmingly, of the word bugger, that it is "found in decent use only as a legal term for a sodomite or one who commits buggery". That use of the word is not labelled. OED goes on to say that "in low language" bugger is "a coarse term of abuse or insult". For this sense it is labelled coarse slang. And so it is (though without any necessary sense of abuse or insult) when the meaning is just "something unpleasant or undesirable" (that's a bugger, What a bugger!). So it is, too, with the sense of "go away", as in I think you'd better bugger off, and with the sense of occupying oneself in a desultory fashion (bugger about), or the sense of "nothing at all", in bugger all. All labelled coarse slang. I think the OED is typical of English dictionaries in the confused attitudes it reveals in this sort of treatment. The Collins Dictionary changes the labels - coarse slang becomes taboo slang. According to Collins it is slang to say bugger about, but taboo slang to say bugger off. The Encyclopedic World Dictionary admits that it is not always pejorative to call a person or even a child a bugger: yet the label for this usage is taboo slang; the label for bugger as a verb (as in bugger it) for a strong exclamation of annoyance or disgust is the simple imperative: taboo, i.e. (according to EWD's definition of that word) "forbidden to general use; placed under a prohibition or ban". It was precisely this instance that led the Macquarie Dictionary team to look again at questions of definition and labelling, and not for "swear words" only, but for the whole vocabulary. If there is one thing that one learns from the study of sociolinguistics, or indeed from simply observing the way people choose their words in company, it is that there are many factors in such choosing. The intended sense is just a first consideration since it is usually important for it to be clear what you're referring to (usually but not always). But that's not the end: suppose you intended to say that something was good. According to the Macquarie Thesaurus you might consider choosing an appropriate word from a list that included amazing, bang-up, bonny (Scot.), bonzer, bosker, brave (Archaic), braw (Scot.), budgeree, capital, castor, copasetic (US), corking, crackerjack, cracking, crash-hot, daily, dandy, decent, desirable, excellent, extra, extra grouse, etc., etc. How the choice is actually made depends on three principal factors. Halliday's terms for them are tenor, field and mode. Tenor is the nature, the personal nature, of the people present in the speech event, including the speaker as well as those spoken to and those within hearing range, and their role in the present occasion. Field is simply what is going on: a feast, a funeral, a party. If a party, is it an apres ski, a bottle party, a conversazione, a soiree, a shivoo, a reception? Choice of words depends again partly on what role one has for this occasion: Are you host, guest of honour, old family friend? Are you held to be the life of the party? If so, do you want to fill the role in the expected way, or are you out to surprise people, even shock them? The third term mode relates to what part language is playing in the occasion. The choice is wide, whether you are using speech or writing, whether you read aloud from a prepared script of do some ad-libbing, but the range of choices is different for each medium of expression. I don't want to labour the point; there are many factors which may constrain your choice on particular occasions. You are aware of the constraints from your knowledge of the language norms of the community you belong to. The major constraints tend to lead you towards conformily with the norm, towards standard usage, towards being conservatively safe, correct; particularly in public utterance, tho' less so in intimate utterance. Nevertheless, your reaction to these constraints is individual and occasional: the existence of a lexicographical constraint, a label (like coarse slang or taboo) even if known about, may not influence your decision at all. The Macquarie team formed the view that there is little to be gained from using labels to create a dichotomy in the lexicon or of initiating a tripartite classification in typical dictionary style. Rather, we felt we should mark certain words to alert the dictionary user to the possibility of there being constaints of one kind or another operating in the community against their use at least in some particular situations. One could not specify the precise strength of the constraint or which type of situation the constraint applied to. All that could reasonably be done was to mark the word or phrase in a cautionary way. It was our decision, then, to mark all such word uses with the single label colloquial. And we defined colloquial as "appropriate to or characterisitic of conversational speech or writing in which the speaker or writer is under no particular constraint to choose standard, formal, conservative, deferential, polite or grammatically unchallengeable words, but feels free to choose words as appropriate from the informal, slang, vulgar or taboo elements of the lexicon". We've never regretted making that decision, and on the whole it has been very well received, because it did not pass judgement: instead it invited the user to consider in what degree the use of the word was appropriate to the speaker (or writer), the company, the roles involved and the situation. It made the user the master, like Humpty Dumpty, and it is the user, also like Humpty Dumpty, who pays. The user is responsible, as always. Now let me turn to the question of attitudes to colloquialism. These tend to be polarised: the colloquial is seen as either good or bad. I quote a note by Thomas Pyles, writing about George Santayana that "as might be expected of one with his cultivated use of English, he uses colloquial in the sense `familiar, easy-going, informal' (in Thomas Pyles Origins and Development of the English Language, second ed., p.17) the meaning which it still has among the highly educated. It is notable that in common usage the word has come to mean `regional' or `local'... Hence a word which for many denotes a quality altogether attractive and desirable (and in fact usually unavoidable) has come frequently to denote what is supposed to be bad." Well there certainly is, especially in well-educated use, a perception of "the colloquial" as naturally good. Daniel Jones in his English Pronouncing Dictionary said simply and without argument that his dictionary records "the pronunciation used by a considerable number of typical Southern English people in ordinary conversation". J36 2008 words Planning Federalism: Australian & Canadian Experience By Kenneth Wiltshire 1949 to 1961 From 1949 to 1961 the word planning almost ceased to exist in the vocabulary of the government. The Liberal-Country Party coalition had a strong free enterprise platform aimed at reduction of all forms of govern+ment intervention, and reduction of the size of the public sector. It was symbolized by Menzies' efforts to reduce the size of the Commonwealth Public Service by 10,000, a goal which was achieved over five years by nonreplacement of wastage. Clearly, this was an environment hostile to any form of planning, even if confined to the public sector, and Menzies and his colleagues went further, picking up the catch cries of the 1930s and reviving the old association between the word "planning" and totalitarianism, and doing it extremely effectively. The Australian economy was performing very well, especially as a result of the Korean war boom, America and Britain were progressing reasonably well without any elaborate planning mechanisms, and Australia, like most of the western world, spent the 1950s talking of industrialization, economic growth and development, exports, and even decentralization - all of this within the general emotion and economic environment of postwar reconstruction, free of the restrictions of wartime. Within the arena of federal financial relations Menzies retained the cen+tralized system of uniform taxation, and the 1950s saw most Premiers Con+ferences centering around often bitter pleas for the "return" of such taxing powers to the states. The Menzies government could see the benefits to themselves and to the people of a system ofone government imposing and collecting income tax at uniform rates across the nation, although in a fit of pique he once offered the states the return of the power only to find them politely declining the offer. A detailed examination of the federal conse+quences of uniform income tax is given in chapter 4, but it should be noted here that this created a profound vertical imbalance in the Australian federation which, from the point of view of the states, took away the largest single component of their revenue raising, and, they claimed, caused inevitable difficulties in forecasting and resource alloca+tion. The distribution of the income tax revenue became a frequent issue. Menzies made a rather uncharacteristic move in 1954. This is of con+siderable interest because it seemed to fly in the face of his opposition to both centralism and planning. He argued that, in relation to state public works for development, because the commonwealth was responsible for raising large sums of money, it ought to assume some responsibility for its expenditure. The 1954 policy speech contained this statement: quote (Interestingly, many of these concepts were repeated by Whitlam in the period 1972-75 and denounced as socialist and centralist.) As Curtis sug+gests, Menzies' notions struck at the very principle of a federal compact, and in particular the right of states to decide regional interests. (Commonwealth grants to the states for universities had commenced in 1950.) The idea of determining truly national priorities for public works projects was not new, and it had worked reasonably successfully on a more limited scale in relation to the Development and Migration Commis+sion, and for a short period, through the wartime national Coordinator of Works. Nothing much came of this new proposal, and it faded into the background, but it was not long before the same philosophical basis found its expression in various specific purpose grants to the states originated by the Menzies government a few years later. The decade of the 1960s produced in Australia quite a different situa+tion. In 1961 an overheated economy produced the response of a credit squeeze from the national government more severe than had been known hitherto. The political result was an election where the Liberal-Country Party Coalition came perilously close to defeat, winning by only one seat, and then only on Communist Party preferences. The Menzies government thus became concerned about the severity of economic fluctuation, and was persuaded to instigate a "Commmittee of Economic Enquiry" which was appointed in February 1963. The Committee had broad terms of reference and comprised an eminent and influential team headed by James Vernon (chairman). Other members were J.G. Crawford (vice-chairman), P.H. Karmel, D.G. Molesworth and K.B. Myer. The Committee submitted their report but the Menzies government refused to make it public, thereby fuelling speculation about its content. When it was finally released it became obvious that the Vernon Committeee had been extreme+ly impressed by the various indicative planning mechanisms in Western Europe, as well as the role of the Economic Council of Canada. It was the concept of interaction and dialogue between the public and private sectors, which these overseas examples had accommodated, which at+tracted them, although they were obviously impressed by the economic growth rates of those countries as well - especially France and the EEC in general. So the Vernon report placed strong emphasis on the need for economic growth but not as an end in itself; rather as a means to achieve other economic and social aims. Naturally the report contained many recommendations, but for our purposes the most interesting was proposed machinery for a permanent Advisory Council on Economic Growth, which was quickly construed as a desire for attention to forward thinking and appropriate resource allocation. The Menzies government managed to ignore the report, because when it was finally released, the economy had picked up quite well again and the concerns expressed by the Vernon Committee by that stage gave the appearance of being mere academic debate. The Vernon Committee believed that institutional changes since 1945 had helped to fill some of the gaps which had made a national economic policy difficult to carry out before the war, and they mentioned specifical+ly stronger, legally-constituted, central banking, the High Court ruling of 1957 on uniform taxation, cooperation between commonwealth and state governments, and machinery for government consultation with represen+tative bodies of the private sector in the formulation of both general and specific economic measures. In providing the Vernon committee with its terms of reference, the Menzies government stated its economic objec+tives as being "a high rate of economic and population growth with full employment, increasing productivity, rising standards of living, external viability, and stability of costs and prices". The Committee regarded economic growth as central to all the other objectives, but strongly em+phasized that the seven objectives stated by the government were inter+related in a very complex way. They were quite critical of the government's past emphasis on the short term and its attendant "stop-go" policies. In relation to government expenditure the Committee made this pertinent comment: quote But on public investment they presented a completely different picture: quote And in respect of the concept of planning: quote A little later the committee went on to stress the importance of govern+ment always taking long term trends into consideration in its decision making, and the experience of other countries was cited in this respect, but nowhere were the means of ensuring that this happened spelt out. Perhaps the nearest they came to this was the recommendation for an Australian Advisory Council somewhat similar to the Canadian Council. They did not comment on the form which such a council would take, but its principal functions would include: To report as required on particular subjects. To prepare an annual review of growth experience and long-term prostpects. To maintain a constant review of and advise on trends in overseas investment, developement problems and any other matters that might be referred to it for special attention. To undertake, commission and encourage research bearing on its field of responsibility, and to publish research papers. The committee saw the main advantages of such a body being that it would provide for a constant yet independent review of long term trends, leading to better public understanding of those trends, and the in+terdependence of economic factors which must otherwise lead to dissen+sion between various key economic interest groups in the community. The advisory council, they felt, should be comprised of people chosen for their ability and not as representatives of groups; it should be small; have no executive powers or responsibilities; with a strong secretariat; and con+fine itself to medium and long term matters. The Vernon Report also made a number of significant observations about public investment in Australia which went very much unnoticed. There were major problems in planning and organizing public investment in the Australian federation, they said. The root of the problem was that although state and local governments undertook eighty per cent of public investment, they were responsible for raising only part of this amount, because a large part of such funds was raised by the commonwealth under Loan Council borrowing programmes, as well as commonwealth money provided directly under specific purpose payments. They went on to make the following pertinent observation: quote The Vernon committee thought that because specific purpose grants took place outside the Loan Council, and involved the commonwealth directly in the problems of the state, they should therefore provide a basis for joint commonwealth-state planning of particular projects. However, this in itself was dangerous from an overall point of view, because a project by project approach increased the tendency to ad hoc bargaining and arrangements. Most of the public response to the Vernon report focused on the economic content, and little attention was directed to the machinery recommendations. Menzies labelled the suggestion for a special project commission as useless and an advisory council as antidemocratic but, as was pointed out by at least one author, the existence of these bodies would have reduced the government's options and forced it to justify taking any actions against those recommended by such bodies. Although the main attempt of the decade to propagate some thinking about economic planning had fizzled, there were a number of develop+ments occurring quite unobtrusively at this time in the public sector. The Defence Department, like so many of its counterparts in other countries, had moved to five year forward strategies, and the determination of annual fiscal appropriations in the light of those five year forward projections. The post office, late in the decade, introduced its own form of the Plann+ing Programming Budgeting System, and especially in the area of telephone installations, began quite sophisticated projections of popula+tion movements and associated industrial and domestic location patterns. Many of the intergovernmental grants and agreements (a lot of them established by the Menzies government itself) moved to either a quinquen+nial system (for example, roads and housing) or a triennial system (univer+sities) of resource allocation. Even in other areas, such as education and science, annual conditional grants were prepared in the light of longer term frameworks. These intergovernmental arrangements are analysed in later chapters but their planning perspectives should be noted here. Mean+while the Loan Council continued, as always, to regard annual public works commitments in the light of longer term lead times, although there is substantial evidence to show that capital expenditure grants by the na+tional government were influenced more by political pork-barelling than by any thought of efficient national resource allocation (especially after the various lessons of the near-election defeat in 1961 where it became clear that there was not a uniform spatial distribution of support for the national government). There had been some quite pronounced moves by almost all Australian states in the 1960s to promote industrialization, and in some cases decen+tralization, predominantly by means of carrots rather than sticks. Preferences were given by all state governments in their own tendering to "local" firms, a typical pattern being five per cent for firms in that state over interstate firms, and a further five per cent over international firms. State governments also fiddled with freight rates, road tax charges, and especially the provision of cheap land and government guaranteed finance, in an effort to move industry, but this met with very limited success. It seemed to take a long time for state governments to realize that secondary industry was not particularly mobile and that, in any event, tertiary in+dustry made almost two-thirds of the labour force, and the largest tertiary industry of all was the public sector directly under their own control. J37 2015 words Malcolm Fraser and Australian foreign policy By Alan Renouf Australia and the Soviet Union Before he became Prime Minister, Fraser was more hostile to China than to the other communist giant, the Soviet Union. He believed that through the Chinese populations of south-East Asian countries China could subvert the region near Australia, that China had been behind the uprising in Indonesia in 1965 and that she bore much of the responsibility for the defeat of the United States, and of Australia, in the Vietnam War. However, by the time he took office, Fraser had revised his thinking; he now saw the Soviet Union, rather than China, as posing the main communist threat. Admittedly, the change in Fraser's outlook was not highly apparent in the first six months of government - with one possible exception. On becoming Prime Minister, Fraser promptly withdrew the Whitlam Government's de jure recognition of the incorporation of Estonia, Latvia and Lithuania into the Soviet Union. Whitlam had believed that the incorporation of these states into the Soviet Union reflected a long-standing and irreversible reality and he had calcu+lated that, by recognizing the Soviet action, Australia would be better able to protect the interests of her citizens in the former Baltic states. Moreover, the Whitlam Government had granted recognition only after consultation with Australia's main allies, none of whom had objected. However, when people of Baltic origin inside and outside Australia criticized the Government's action (there was even a demon+stration against Whitlam at Niagara Falls), the Liberal-Country Party Opposition accused Whitlam of currying favour with the Soviet Union. Although a Liberal-Country Party Government had itself previously extended de facto recognition of the incorporation, the Liberal and Country Parties now promised that, once returned to power, they would rescind the de jure recognition. In these circum+stances, the decision taken by the Fraser government was not inter+preted as signifying any particular hostility to the Soviet Union. Although Russia anticipated that worse was to come, and said so publicly, this flowed more from intuition than from anything Fraser and his colleagues said or did in the early months in government. In his first foreign-policy statement to Parliament, Peacock condemned the Soviet intervention in Angola on the grounds that it was contrary to the rules of detente. But he allowed that the involvement possibly `grew with events and opportunity' and did not necessarily represent `an attempt to steal a march on and humiliate the United States.' Moreover, the Fraser government was concerned not to harm a trade that was greatly in Australia's favour; the government suggested a joint shipping enterprise with the Soviet Union and permitted the start of the scientific exchanges agreed during the Whitlam period. The moment of truth, revealing Fraser's real attitude to the Soviet Union, came with his major foreign-policy speech to Parliament on 1 June 1976. The manner in which this speech was prepared has been discussed earlier. Of more significance was the substance of the initial draft circulated by the Prime Minister. The finished product was, for Russia, bad enough but the first draft was even more antagonistic and vitriolic. The Prime Minister invited a select group to present views and consultation with this group led to some toning down of the text. Had the original text been pronounced, it is highly likely that there would have been a violent reaction from the Soviet Union, possibly a breach of diplomatic relations or at least a reduction of imports from Australia. Fortunately, Fraser contained his more extreme attitudes but he left no doubt about his basic antagonism toward the Soviet Union. After presenting a classic conservative approach to international relations (power is the major consideration and `we must face the world as it is and not as we would like it to be') and denying that such an approach was pessimistic, Fraser cited a number of factors to prove that peril lurked everywhere and that the world environment was `deeply dis+turbing'. His central theme was Russia's conduct. Although Fraser conceded that Russia was committed to the avoidance of nuclear war, he argued that `reasonable people can, however, reasonably conclude [that] the Soviet Union still seeks to expand its influence throughout the world'. According to Fraser, Russian actions were too often in+consistent with a reduction of tension. He instanced Russian policy in the 1973 Middle East War, in Vietnam, in Angola, the substantial growth of the Soviet Navy and the expansion in the last decade of her armed forces by a million men. The latter had produced a major dis+crepancy between the seventy divisions of NATO and the 178 of the Warsaw Pact (even allowing for the difference in the size of divisions), which eroded the advantage of the better equipment of NATO's armies. Fraser claimed that Warsaw Pact forces far exceeded the forces needed for the defence of Eastern Europe. Moreover, the Soviet nuclear armoury was now so large that it provoked doubt about Soviet motives - did it not display a desire for supremacy? There followed a denunciation of detente. The principal common interests of the United States and of the Soviet Union, Fraser con+tended, were limitation of the possibilities of nuclear conflict and an end to the wasteful arms-race. Detente has been hailed as an advance, as a genuine, overall relaxation and military tensions. Unhappily, reality had not lived up to the aspirations of detente and, Fraser concluded, `Negotiations will not succeed unless they are accompanied by a clear determination to maintain a balance of forces and are free from illusions about the effectiveness of unsupported goodwill.' Fraser's speech was avowedly one-sided. Clearly, the Soviet Union was still seeking to expand her world influence but this was normal for great powers and the United States was doing the same. In stressing Russia's expansionist ambitions, Fraser missed the main point; the most serious problems arose from the methods employed by Russia. Moreover, some of the instances that Fraser cited to prove Russia's culpability lacked validity. For example, Russia had attempted to pre+vent Egypt from starting the 1973 Middle East War and, once the war had started, attempted to stop it. Also, in Vietnam, the United States, not Russia, had intervened first. Fraser was on safer ground when he addressed the build-up in Russia's armed forces. However, his implicit conclusion that Western defences were no longer adequate was of doubtful validity and was not generally shared by Western analysts. The growth of Soviet forces was largely explained by Russia's need, since the 1960s, to secure her border with China where, in 1976, she maintained no less than forty-nine divisions. The Fraser Government made no allowance for this very significant change in Soviet strategic circumstances. To justify his government's concern, the Prime Minister empha+sized the increase in Soviet defence-expenditures. The American administration had recently estimated that the Soviet Union was spending on defence at least twice as high a proportion of GNP as the United States. Nevertheless, this did not necessarily warrant alarm as the Soviet economy was only slightly more than half the size of the US economy. Non-American, Western outlays far exceeded the non-Russian, Eastern outlays. Soviet defence industries were not as efficient. Furthermore, it was natural that Russia, a superpower with an empire stretching from the Arctic to the Pacific, should develop a `blue-water' navy. As to the possibility that Russia was pursuing superiority in nuclear weapons, even if true, there could be no ques+tion that the US would allow herself to be outpaced. Besides, a Soviet nuclear supremacy would be meaningless as long as the US retained the capacity to destroy the Soviet Union at least once (as she surely would). Fraser's criticism of detente was also unconvincing, although in line with the current fashion. He overlooked the fact that the policy of detente had originated many years before the Helsinki Agreement was signed in 1972 and that it had yielded substantial, mutual benefits. It had, for example, resolved the Berlin problem which he had predicted would cause endless crises. For Fraser, detente was the latest version of 1930s style appeasement, the disaster which had so much impressed him as a young man. However, the circumstances of the post-1945 period were vastly different and no such parallel could be drawn. The latter period had seen constant, largely effective resistance to Soviet expansionism, not surrender to it. This had led to the realization, with detente, that there was a means by which East-West competition could be kept within proper limits without resorting to confrontation, with all the waste and dangers that that implied. Shortly after his speech of 1 June 1976, Fraser visited China on his first offical visit abroad. The choice of China represented a major departure from previous practice of the Liberal-Country Party, whose Prime Ministers had always visited Washington and London first, and a radical change for a man who, not so long before, had been bit+terly critical of China. In Beijing, the Prime Minister found a large audience which relished his views about Russia. These views ensured the success of the visit. However, Fraser's Chinese hosts did not respond to his suggestion, indirectly expressed (and probably over+heard by `bugging'), that the United States, China, Japan and Aus+tralia should form a front, including a military relationship, against the common Soviet enemy. A further slight to Russia soon followed. On 30 June, James Killen, the Defence Minister, told a press conference that Russia's military build-up represented a direct threat to Australia. Strongly criticized in private by Peacock, Killen, within three hours, put out an `amplifi+cation,' denying what he had said. When this did not allay the public criticisms of his conduct (including a disavowal by the United States), Killen reverted to his original statement. His performance was so strange and his statement so evidently contrary to the views which the Government wished to uphold before the public that the Soviet Union let it pass. This unfortunate but revealing incident, together with some un+favourable media comment on Fraser's earlier speech, explains why, from this time until the end of 1979, the Fraser government adopted a more restrained public attitude toward Russia. There were two additional reasons for the Government's increased restraint. Firstly, at this time, the United States did not entirely share Fraser's hostile atti+tude. Secondly, Australian-Soviet trade, which the Country party especially valued, was flourishing. By the end of 1976, both Doug Anthony, the Deputy Prime Minister, and Peter Nixon, the Minister for Transport - both members of the Country Party - had visited Moscow. On returning to Australia, Anthony had broached the possi+bility of selling uranium to Russia and Nixon had publicly presented Russian intentions as non-hostile and non-aggressive. Indeed, Nixon announced an agreement to extend scientific and other exchanges as a mark of cordiality in the relationship. Evidently, the Government was resolved that, despite its leader's sentiments, Australia would do business as usual. On 15 March 1977, Peacock attempted to rationalize the hostility of Fraser to the Soviet Union and reconcile it with the attitude of Anthony and Nixon. Unlike Fraser, who talked as if the East-West relationship had regressed to a Cold War pitch, Peacock described the world situation as changed for the better. The previous twenty-five years, he said, had been dominated by superpower tension in an essentially bipolar situation. These years had been characterized by priority given to the ideological and military dimensions and by a high degree of political immobility, with Third World countries being treated as objects, not as actors. All this had now altered, Peacock claimed. The ability of the superpowers to control others and to deter+mine the agenda of international politics had declined and they now had to pay more attention to third parties. While the question of the military balance between them remained crucial, the conversion of military strength into political power and influence had grown more complex and uncertain. The potency of ideology had waned, prag+matism, scepticism and dissent had become more prevalent, alignments were less fixed and the Third World was more assertive. `In a less static, polarized and ideological world, we can afford to give less weight to ideology and more to a discriminating evaluation of national behaviour and capabilities'. J38 2011 words The Australian Journal of Politics and History - 1986 Social harmony and Australian Labor: The role of private industry in the Curtin and Chifley governments' plans for Australian economic development By Carol Johnson The Chifley government's unsuccessful attempt to nationalize the banks has given it the reputation of being a particularly radical and socialist-influenced Labor government. However, an examination of both the Curtin and Chifley governments' attitudes towards private industry reveals that in fact both governments believed that sections of private enterprise had an important role to play in post-war economic development. Much government policy was designed to assist private industry since industrial development was seen as playing an essential role in achieving Labor's wider social aims. Above all, both the Curtin and Chifley governments aimed to develop a humanized capitalist society rather than a radical socialist one. While Labor remained hostile to private banking and believed that the banks were holding back Australian economic development, other sections of business were seen as socially beneficial and as sharing common interests with the Australian people as a whole. While there might be competition between classes, their interests were not seen as being mutually incompatible. Rather, elements of social harmony belief underlay both governments' policies and strongly influenced their shared vision of post-war Australian society. Plans for Post-war Reconstruction The Curtin government had begun to prepare for its post-war tasks long before the war ended. It recognized that one of the major problems facing the government would be the lack of federal powers once the defence powers were no longer valid. In 1944, the government attempted to extend its federal powers by referendum. However, the powers were only to last for five years after the war ended. The government asked*ask for increased powers over fourteen areas which included employment and unemployment; organized marketing of commodities; companies; trusts, combines and monopolies; profiteering and prices; the production and distribution of goods; the control of overseas exchange, overseas investment and the raising of money and national works. The government argued that these powers were essential for a smooth transition from a war-time to a peace-time economy. Curtin emphasized that the government was not requesting excessive powers. On the contrary, `the states have all had these powers and have had them since last century. The British, South African and New Zealand Parliaments have these powers'. He particularly stressed that `no question of socialisation or any other fundamental alteration in the economic system arises'. In fact, the `Yes' case in the Fourteen Powers Referendum was largely justified in terms of the benefits it would bring to all sections of Australian society. The powers would prevent the Australian economy from sliding into a serious depression. They would ensure security of employment for wage and salary workers. Female workers would benefit from the continuation of the Women's Employment Board. Housewives would be saved from rocketing food and clothing prices and from exorbitant rents. Government pensions and benefits brought in during war-time would be able to continue. Farmers would benefit from guaranteed prices and be assured of a reasonable income. Regional development of industry would increase employment opportunities and expand local markets. Businessmen would benefit too. Small businessmen would benefit from legislation against monopolies and combines. The government would establish an aluminium smelting industry in Tasmania and assist the shipbuilding industry. Businessmen would be assured of necessary materials and machinery. The control of profiteering would not interfere with businessmen making `fair' profits but would merely prevent `extortionate' ones. However, the referendum proposals were defeated. Despite such assurances, the Opposition mounted a bitter campaign against them, arguing that the proposals involved `the perpetuation of policies which have struck at the whole root of freedom in Australia'. By voting `No', citizens would be `curbing the illegitimate authority of bureaucrats' and opposing a system of industrial conscription which would order people to go to jobs selected for them. The defeat of the Fourteen Powers Referendum was a major setback for Labor. Nonetheless, the government still believed that it could achieve its major aims and pressed ahead with its plans for post-war reconstruction. These plans were most clearly articulated in the 1945 White Paper on Full Employment. The proposals in the White Paper epitomized the dominant tendencies in Labor party ideology. Its Keynesian-influenced arguments provided a rationale for full employment, social welfare and an enlarged public sector which argued that they would benefit the community as a whole, including sections of private enterprise. In the words of the White Paper: Quotation The White Paper argued that the amount of employment possible at any particular time depended upon the volume of what was being produced, which in turn depended upon the demand for goods and services by private individuals, businesses, public authorities and overseas purchasers. Therefore, in order for full employment to be achieved, total expenditure had to be sufficient to provide a market for the goods and services being produced. Fluctuations in total expenditure had to be offset. For ease of explication, total expenditure was divided into five component parts: public capital expenditure; public expenditure on current services; private consumption expenditure; private capital expenditure; and expenditure from overseas. The White Paper argued that fluctuations in private consumption spending could be offset by achieving stability of incomes and employment. Fluctuations in overseas expenditure posed a major problem but could be lessened by international agreements and by overseas governments instituting full employment policies themselves. Fluctuations in private capital expenditure also posed a problem. However, the White Paper argued that these problem areas of expenditure could be largely offset by public capital expenditure. Public capital expenditure included expenditure by state, federal and local government on railways, roads, bridges, buildings, land development, power and light, irrigation and so on. Public capital expenditure had always been particularly important in the Australian economy but, traditionally, such expenditure had been reduced in times of economic depression. The White Paper proposed that this previous policy be reversed, arguing that a `relatively small' increase in public capital expenditure combined with an appropriate banking policy could be used to stimulate private spending. The increased government expenditure would `give additional employment and incomes to some producers; their extra spending will still further increase employment and incomes, and this process will go on for some time multiplying itself'. In short, as the White Paper summarized its own arguments: `The essential component of full employment is that public expenditure should be high enough to stimulate private spending to the point where the two together will provide a demand for the total production of which the economy is capable when it is fully employed'. Such a full employment policy would necessitate the `closest collaboration' not only between state and federal governments but also between governments, employers and trade unions. The White Paper argued that these groups would all collaborate since there would be benefits for all of them. In addition to the points mentioned earlier in this section, the White Paper argued that the government's policy would result in increased efficiency and production, due to increased expenditure on capital goods, and this is turn would lead to a higher standard of living. Rising living standards would not only benefit those on lower incomes but would also have benefits for business. For example, `provision by governments of benefits in social legislation permits a higher proportion of private income to be spent on consumption goods and services.' Increased consumption would benefit those businesses producing or selling the goods that were bought and would enable them to provide more jobs. Similar arguments were put forward regarding the quality of employment which should be provided. For example, `intelligent factory welfare provisions' could improve health and efficiency. Shorter working hours would have a similarly beneficial effect and any adverse effects would `be offset by consequent improvements in ... efficiency'. Underlying the White Paper generally was the view that the interests of all classes in capitalist society are interconnected. Business would benefit from full employment and government welfare benefits because more people would be able to buy more of the products which business produced. The working class would benefit from a healthy business sector because private enterprise would provide economic growth and higher standards of living. In particular, the government would support private industry's major role as an employer, rather than challenge it. As the White Paper summed it up: `Full employment will restore a sense of security to workers and businessmen, and will ensure a revival of enterprise that will in turn, ensure production of the goods and services wanted by the community'. It is noticeable that the White Paper took the workings of a capitalist economy largely for granted. Large sections of the paper revolved around the role which government expenditure could play in stimulating private capital expenditure and compensating for any drops in private investment. The desirability of private capital investment playing such a crucial role in the economy was never questioned. Rather, it was assumed that capitalism could work fairly efficiently and relatively equitably as long as the government engaged in minor tinkering with its economic mechanism. There was no discussion of the fact that private investment depends on adequate profits being made and is not decided on the basis of social utility. There was no discussion of whether the government could be successful in encouraging socially beneficial private capital investment given that it had no control over the levels or areas of such investment. Similarly, the implications for wage levels of the need to ensure adequate levels of profitability were largely ignored. Significantly, early drafts of the White Paper had contained sections arguing that wage rises should be restrained in order to ensure that they did not outstrip productivity increases or contribute to a cycle of boom and bust. The widespread introduction of piece-rates had been suggested as one way of overcoming this problem, but this suggestion had met with strong opposition and had therefore been removed although Chifley was to advocate both piece-rates and wage restraint later on. Keeping a capitalist economy functioning smoothly was to have its price. Privately, a few left wing critics in both the government and the public service pointed out the obvious fact that the White Paper was clearly a blueprint for managing a capitalist economy rather than a plan for radical social change. However, such comments seem to have had little effect, given that that was precisely what most members of the government appear to have wanted. The White Paper was also a relatively conservative document in other ways. It should be noted that the White Paper was largely a full employment policy for men. Although the White Paper often uses the term `men' in a very ambiguous way, an informed reading suggests that the term `men' usually meant precisely that. Curtin and other male politicians tended to assume that most women would wish to stay in the home in the post-war period and the government was only advocating full employment for those seeking work. So central is the concern with men as the subjects of the White Paper that the question of what would happen to women thrown out of work by returning ex-servicemen was not even addressed. Yet women were only employed in `male' jobs during the war on the understanding that they would be replaced by men when the war ended. In 1941 Cabinet had approved `the extensive employment of women in industries where men were not available in sufficient numbers to attain the scale of production approved as a war objective'. However, the government had guaranteed that `all women employed under the conditions approved shall be employed only for the duration of the war, and shall be replaced by men as soon as they become available'. Senator Cameron had comforted male trade unionists concerned at this development by arguing that he `would far rather run the risk of additional women in industry than of allowing Japanese to land on our shores'. One would therefore have expected the issue of women's employment to be discussed in some detail, but this was not the case. The White Paper was to remain the most detailed overview of government plans for Post-War Reconstruction. J41 2032 words The National Economic Review - June 1986 Prospects for the Australian economy 1986-87 By Dr Barry Gray Overview A mixed picture of economic performance is expected to unfold in the coming financial year. Assuming no further sharp depreciation of the Australian dollar, inflation should continue to decelerate throughout the course of the year, under the influence of lower petrol prices and weaker growth in import prices, to reach a level of 6.5 per cent in the first half of 1987. Aggregate economic activity, which is estimated to have contracted in the first half of 1986 and is expected to grow only slowly in the second half of the year, should resume a more rapid growth rate in early 1987; in year-average terms, nevertheless, non-farm GDP growth is forecast to fall to half that expected to be achieved in the current year. Seasonally adjusted unemployment rates are also expected to rise in coming months to levels of about 8.7 per cent of the workforce but should then decline to 8.3 per cent in early 1987. Finally, on the side of optimism, is the likelihood of some further falls in the level of interest rates in coming months, resulting from the recent declines in international rates brought about by downward revisions to inflationary expectations in the wake of the collapse of crude oil prices. What, then, of the pessimistic side of the picture? Inflation, though improving, will remain at rates double those of the major OECD countries, leading to a substantial erosion of the earlier depreciation-induced improvement in competitiveness. Further, the underlying rate of inflation - exclusive of health care charges and the depreciation impact - is likely to exhibit little variation from 1984-85 to 1986-87. Moreover, accelerating labour cost growth during 1986-87 might limit the extent of any further improvement in inflation beyond the end of the coming financial year. And, unemployment remains at unacceptably high levels. But overriding all else is the prospect of only a limited improvement in the balance of payments in the coming year with the current account deficit remaining about $12 billion, equivalent to more than 4.5 per cent of nominal GDP. In order to attract the required capital inflow and to avoid the impact of another strong depreciation of the $A on inflation and debt repayments, the present downward trend in interest rates is likely to be reversed later in 1986. This prospect, together with the possibility of continued contractionary fiscal policies, is thus likely to limit the extent of the anticipated recovery of early 1987, throwing the growth prospects of 1987-88 into considerable doubt. The strong growth in employment and production of recent years has been achieved at the cost of increased overseas debt and a continued rise in external debt as a means of supporting increased employment cannot be sustained. The constraints on domestic economic activity imposed by our current balance of payment situation suggests a substantial deceleration of growth rates is in prospect in the short term. To avoid a prolonged period of substantially lower growth than that to which we have recently become accustomed will require a significant strengthening in the competitiveness of our manufacturing sector in both domestic and international markets, combined with a favourable internal market situation for investment in increased productive capacity. This does not imply the desirability, in isolation, of a further sharp depreciation of the $A; such a move has adverse inflationary consequences and would aggravate our debt repayment problem. In the present circumstances continued wage moderation is essential and, in the absence of accepted practical alternatives, will be best achieved by amendment and refinement of the principles embraced by the Accord. A repeat of the 1981-82 situation - in which a substantial wage round was conducted in the face of an impending slow-down in activity, thus aggravat+ing the situation and being an important element in deepening the subsequent recession - is the last thing required. An indication of the success of the Accord to date is evident in that growth in wages and total unit labour costs since mid 1983 have been lower than the levels experienced in any of the comp+arable recovery periods of the 1970s and early 1980s. The key factor in achieving balance of payments adjustment and maintaining economic growth will be the performance of the Australian manufacturing sector in increasing its share of both domestic and international markets. Consideration of policies impacting on the entire range of factors affecting international competitiveness is thus required. Industry policies have an important role to play in achieving structural change in the Australian economy, in complementing macroeconomic policies, and in reducing the pressure to sacrifice growth as a means of accomplishing balance of payments adjustment. These policies are aimed at improving the productivity and competitiveness of Australian industries and embrace not just import competition, exports, investment, technology and innovation, but also labour market and education policies. Many of the individual components of a total industry strategy are already operating. What is required is a coordination of these measures with a view to making explicit the key objective of improving the international competitiveness of Australian industry. However, it will take time to achieve these adjustments. In the meantime, it appears inevitable that the constraints imposed by our present balance of payments difficulties will lead to a markedly slower growth outcome in the coming year. And the very grave danger exists that this situation could be prolonged throughout the remainder of this decade. A summary of the forecasts The factors impacting on this outlook are briefly summarised in this overview, and discussed in some greater detail in the accompanying sections. The forecast numbers are summarised in Table 1.1. The Table 1.1 contribution of various components to GDP growth is presented in Table 1.2, and the contribution of the major expenditure components to growth in domestic demand is shown in Table 1.3. Growth in real GDP, both in aggregate and in the non-farm sector, is forecast to slow appreciably in 1986-87; the forecast year-average growth for non-farm product, at 2.5 per cent, is half that achieved in 1984-85 and anticipated for the current year. Contractionary influences on economic growth in 1986 include the fiscal policy stance adopted in the August 1985 Budget and the further restriction on growth in real budgetary outlays anticipated in the coming budget, as well as the lagged impact of the interest rate increases of 1985. The main expansionary influence during 1986 will be the depreciation-induced improvement in international competitiveness, though this is expected to be substantially eroded during the course of the forecast period and its impact on import volumes will thus be more limited in the first half of 1987. At that time, reactions to the recent declines in interest rates and the net effect of the foreshadowed tax changes of September 1986 will be key influences in strength+ening private sector demand. The contribution of various components to GDP growth is evident in Table 1.2. Domestic demand growth continued to provide the main source of overall growth in the current financial year, though itself decelerating as a result of weaker growth in public sector expenditures and of the impact of high interest rates upon availability of finance for housing and such interest-sensitive areas as expenditure on consumer durables and private equipment investment. A turnaround to a modest positive influence is evident in movements in net export volumes, with growth in import volumes slowing markedly in response to weaker domestic demand growth and earlier improvements in compet+itiveness. However, movements in stocks continued to exert a small negative influence on growth, as farm stocks were depleted to support export sales and as weakening growth in sales and the impact of high interest rates limited the accumulation of non-farm stocks. Similar trends are anticipated in the coming financial year. Domestic demand, though still easing in growth, will again provide the main stimulus. Net export volumes will again exert a modest influence on growth, with weaker growth in exports being matched by a small decline in import volumes. Stock changes are also expected to detract from growth, with farm stocks again being depleted and non-farm stocks being accumulated at a lower rate. Table 1.2 A feature of the forecasts is the continued weaker role to be played by public sector expenditures. Growth in real government final consumption expenditure is forecast to ease to 2.5 per cent, after rising by 6.5 per cent in 1985-86 and by 7.5 per cent in 1984-85. Public sector capital expenditures are expected to fall in real terms by 0.5 per cent, after rising by 1.3 per cent in 1985-86 and in direct contrast to the strong growth of 12.8 per cent achieved in 1984-85. The major influence on this impending slow-down in the public sector is the more restrictive stance with respect to budgetary expenditure assumed to be implemented by the Commonwealth government. Growth in total budget outlays of 8.7 per cent has been assumed, resulting in a Commonwealth budget deficit for 1986-87 of $5245 million, similar to the anticipated outcome for this year. This deceleration will be achieved by restricting growth in the Commonwealth's own net current expenditure on goods and services and by the continuation of weak growth in transfer payments to the States, Northern Territory and local government authorities. In particular, it appears unlikely that the earlier agreement for a 2 per cent real increase in 1986-87 financial assistance grants will be fulfilled. These restrictions will impact directly upon real Commonwealth consumption expenditure on a payments basis and, on the deliveries basis of the national accounts, should be supplemented by a much weaker contribution from the overseas adjust+ment for defence item, arising from a variation in the timing of delivery of defence equipment relative to prepayments. Slower growth in consumption expenditure of state and local government is also in prospect, as growth in their current account income is slowed by the restricted growth in real current purpose grants from the Commonwealth and by the impact upon indirect tax collections of weaker wages and salaries growth and of weaker economic activity in general. Capital expenditure by Commonwealth public enterprises should decline, as the completion of the aircraft re-equipment programme of Qantas is replaced by a lower level of spending by TAA. Expen+ditures by state and local government authorities will continue to be constrained by a further decline in real terms in Commonwealth grants from capital purposes and by a limit on borrowings. Reflecting the improvement in the Commonwealth budget deficit, the overall level of public sector borrowings has probably fallen by close to $2 billion this year to a level equivalent to 4.5 per cent of nominal GDP. However, little improvement in nominal terms is anticipated in the coming year, with a similar deficit outcome in prospect for the Commonwealth budget and with no change likely in the global limit on borrowings of public authorities. As a ratio to nominal GDP, however, a decline to 4.1 is inferred. In aggregate, the growth in private sector demand components will continue to weaken as compared to the experience of the previous year. However, some compositional shift is in prospect, with private business investment being one component expected to accelerate in growth. Growth in real private consumer expenditure is expected to ease to 2.5 per cent in 1986-87, compared to an anticipated outcome this year of 3.5 per cent. Household receipts are likely to grow more slowly, as weaker employment growth offsets some strength+ening of average earnings growth and as the current trend of falling interest rates and an easing of the rental market reduces the growth of non-wage incomes. However, the introduction of changes in personal income tax scales in September 1986 will be sufficient to enable an unchanged rate of growth in nominal household disposable incomes and, since inflation is expected to improve, an increase in real disposable income growth. However, a considerable portion of this improvement can be attributed to the commencement of the superannuation round which is likely to be reflected in the form of forced savings. Also, the non-farm saving ratio is likely to be stimulated, particularly in the second half of the financial year, by the resumption of rising interest rates and by lags in the reaction of consumption to increases in disposable incomes arising from the tax changes. J42 2024 words The Economic Record More or less equal? Australian income distribution in 1933 and 1980 Ian Mclean and Sue Richardson Utilizing information in the 1933 census we estimate several measures of individual and household income inequality for that year. Allowance is made for the effect of the Depression on the 1933 income distribution, revealing a clearly adverse impact. Comparisons with recent years indicate marked declines in aggregate income inequality. I Introduction The pursuit of an egalitarian ideal has a long history in Australia. A widely shared objective during the colonial period was the creation of a society free of extreme disparities in wealth and income and of the rigid divisions of class that had prevailed in Britain during the 18th and l9th centuries. These aspirations found expression in the assertions of the miners' rights on the goldfields, the squatter-selector conflicts of the 1860s to 1880s, the rise of the trade union movement and Labor parties, and in the innovative regulatory and social welfare legislation that dates from the depressed years of the 1890s. Since Federation, policies to reduce perceived inequalities have been part of the social and economic program of all governments, State and Federal. What has been the result? Our knowledge of trends in economic inequality over this century is fragmentary, despite the social, political and economic significance of the subject. The principal impediment to an improved understanding is the limited amount of survey information available on either income or wealth. An income question was included in the special 1915 wartime survey of private wealth holding (Knibbs, 1918). The 1933 population census was the first to include a question on income: such a question was not repeated until the censuses of 1976 and 1981. No official surveys were conducted between 1915 and 1933, or between 1933 and 1969, though an unofficial survey of household expenditure was conducted in 1967 which collected details of income. Beginning in 1969 the Australian Bureau of Statistics began surveys of income distribution that have been repeated in 1974, 1979 and 1982. And in 1976 it conducted a survey of household expenditure which also sought details of income. Thus evidence for the period since the late 1960s is abundant relative to that available for any earlier period, and the 1915 and 1933 censuses acquire considerable significance as sources of information about long-run changes in income distribution. This last-mentioned source has been totally ignored in previous inquiries, yet it provides the only opportunity to observe the distribution of income directly and in a comprehensive manner in the half century between 1915 and the late 1960s. Although serious obstacles face would-be users of the income-related information in the 1933 census, our contention is that these obstacles are surmountable. It is the primary purpose of this article to estimate the distribution of income for 1933 in a manner that permits comparisons with the official estimates for recent years. Brief comparison is also made with the less reliable measures based on the 1915 war census. In addition, we report an attempt to take account of the different economic conditions that attended the 1933 and recent censuses, namely, to estimate the degree of inequality that might have existed in 1933 had the economy at that time not been in severe depression. The paucity of survey evidence regarding inequality in Australia has not prevented speculation about long-run trends. In 1970 Encel wrote `the distribution of income appears to have remained largely unchanged during this century' (quoted in Jones, 1975, p. 21). In the most thorough and frequently cited empirical assessment of this judgement, based on the evidence of male incomes in the 1915 war census and 1969 ABS Survey, Jones concluded, `It would require a mind peculiarly resistant*resistent to evidence to deny that over the last half century there has been a significant reduction in inequality of income distribution among men' (Jones, 1975, p. 32), and estimated that the Gini coefficient had declined from 0.420 to 0.338. One purpose in constructing income distribution estimates for 1933 is to assess whether or not this decline has been continuous. For three reasons our prior expectation was that the decline occurred primarily after 1933. The major expansion of redistributive social welfare programs dates from the 1940s; unemployment has been lower in the post-war than inter-war decades; and if Australian experience paralleled that of the United States, it may be noted that marked declines in American income inequality this century have been confined to the 1930s and 1940s (Williamson and Lindert, 1980, Chap. 4). In the next section we briefly describe the 1933 census information regarding income. We then report our procedures for estimating the distribution of income in 1933 (Section III). In Section IV the 1933 distribution is compared with those for 1915 and recent years using as a basis individual male and female income recipients. In an effort to remove the effect of the Depression on measured income inequality, we `re-employ' part of those recorded as unemployed and the hidden unemployed in 1933, and then re-estimate the distribution of income for that year (Section V). There follows an attempt to convert the 1933 income data to a family rather than individual income unit basis, and to compare family income inequality trends between 1933 and the present (Section Vl). II 1933 and the Census Either 1931 or 1932 marks the trough of the Depression, depending on the choice of economic indicator, with some recovery evident in most time series by 1933. For example, the trade union based estimates of the unemployment rate peaked in the June quarter of 1932 at 30 per cent, and over the ensuing 12 months had fallen to 26 per cent (Commonwealth Year Book, 1934, p. 739). The general unemployment rate similarly declined from 21.4 to 19.3 per cent between 1931-32 and 1932-33, while over the same period real GDP rose by 6 per cent and total employment by 5 per cent. The census on 30 June 1933 thus occurs at the end of a year in which a strong recovery in the economy commenced. In his report on the census of 1933 the Commonwealth Statistician, Roland Wilson, states that the decision to include an income question for the first time was in part `actuated ... by the special interest in the effects upon the pattern of distribution produced by more than three years of severe Depression'. But in addition to the special circumstances of the time he indicates a more general appreciation of the value of such information for the study of inequality in Australia: he cites `the increasing need for recurrent and comprehensive statistical measurement, in the place of occasional and partial measurement, of income distribution throughout the community' (Wilson, 1940, p. 332). We share the same twin interests in the long-neglected evidence he decided to collect. The income question did not ask for actual values but for an indication as to the class into which the respondent's income fell. It follows that there is no census estimate of total income either within any income class or for all classes. There were seven classes: zero income; £1 to £51; £52 to £103; £104 to £155; £156 to £207; £208 to £259; and £260 and over. The basic information with which we must work is thus the number of income recipients in each of the seven income classes, cross-classified by such characteristics as sex, age, marital status, grade of occupation, industry, religion and State or territory of residence. The absence of precise income data makes difficult enough the task of estimating means and distributions within any closed income interval; it raises special problems for the open-ended upper income group - problems to which we return in the next section. The advice given on the census form concerning the definition of income or earnings is worth quoting: all income for the year ended 30th June, 1933, by way of salary or wages or from any business must be included plus any income from property or other sources. The value of board and lodgings, rations, or other allowances received from an employer must be included. In every case the income to be stated is the total income for the year without deduction for household or domestic expenditure. Allowances received by wife from husband should not be included by wife as income nor should allowances from surviving parents or other relations be stated unless received as payment for services rendered. A strict interpretation might exclude some forms of income (or imputed income) that the survey was meant to capture. The Statistician notes, for example, that maintenance and allowances in money or kind received from persons other than employer (for example, from family or charities) might be omitted. He also notes that there is likely to be understatement of the imputed value of primary produce consumed on farms (Wilson, 1940, p. 334). Two further comments on the census are warranted. First, among those responding to the census, 2.4 per cent of male breadwinners and 5.8 per cent of female breadwinners did not state their income class. Whatever uncertainties surround the accuracy of the recorded figures, comparatively few respondents failed to answer the question. Second, for purposes of comparison we treat the term breadwinner as equivalent to income recipient, as this term is used in contemporary ABS publications. In doing so, we acknowledge the possible inaccuracy arising from the exclusion of dependants who receive an income. III Estimating the 1933 Income Distribution As mentioned, it was necessary to estimate mean incomes for the seven income intervals, and this posed particular problems with the open-ended, highest income class of £260 and over, and to a lesser extent with the interval that covered the range of £1 to £s;52. For the other five (closed interval) income classes we have simply adopted the mid-point of the range as the average. For the bottom income interval of £1 to £51 Clark and Crawford assign an estimate of £46.4 for average income (1938, p. 9). Since the source of their estimate is unpublished, we sought an independent assessment of this figure. From information in the census regarding the occupational composition of those recorded as receiving between £1 and £51, it was possible, separately for males and females, to allocate them into five occupational groupings: unemployed; self- employed; wage and salary earners (full or part time) and apprentices; pensioners, persons of private means, and persons engaged in religious and benevolent institutions; and employers. This provided a set of weights to apply to estimates of the average income of each group. The weighted average incomes thus derived for those earning less than £52 were £39 for males, £45 for females and £41 for persons. Two approaches were adopted in the estimation of the average income for those reporting incomes of over £259. The first was simply to impose a top-tail distribution (we are dealing with the top 14 per cent of income recipients) drawn from more complete censuses. This was done using the 1915 war census and the 1979 income distribution survey data. Insofar as some secular reduction in inequality was thought to have occurred over this period, these alternative top-tail distributions would be expected to produce upper and lower bound estimates respectively of measures of inequality in 1933. The second approach was more direct. In principle it is possible to adjust national income estimates to obtain a measure of total personal income of residents consistent with the census definitions. Subtraction of the estimate of total income attributable to those earning less than £260 leaves a residual amount which then can be divided by the number of income recipients recorded in the census as earning over that amount. In practice the procedure is hazardous. The most widely accepted and secure national accounts estimates for 1932-33 (Butlin, 1962) have been compiled from the production rather than the income side. For national income figures derived by the latter approach it is necessary to turn to the contemporary estimates of Clark and Crawford (1938, p. 13). No direct assessment of the reliability of these is possible in the absence of alternatives; indirect assessment is feasible, however, by comparing other, production-based national income figures Clark and Crawford arrived at with those of Butlin. J43 2014 words Civil litigation: a practice guide for advocates. By Peter W Young LLB Chapter 13 Preparation for a Personal Injury Case On 26 March, Butterworth received two briefs to settle statement of claim in respect of the accident in which David Daniels died, one for Carol Carson and one for Elaine. It was accompanied by a statement from each of the plaintiffs, reports from the doctor who treated them, discharge summaries in respect of each from the hospital and the depositions from the inquest and particulars of expenses. He realised that there was no such thing as a standard statement of claim to be used in all cases, knowing that each case was different and had to be prepared individually, so he mastered the facts and thought deeply as to what should be done. There were a variety of claims that could be made. Elaine, for instance, not only had her own claim for personal injuries, but also may have one under the Compensation to Relatives Act provided that it could be shown that someone other than David Daniels was at least partly responsible for his death. All that need be shown was a very small degree of negligence by someone else because in a Compensation to Relatives action, contributory negligence by the deceased is completely irrelevant. (See s 10(4) of the Law Reform (Miscellaneous Provisions) Act 1965 and Versic v Conners [1968] 3 NSWR 770; 88 WN(NSW)(Pt 1) 332.) But Butterworth knew that there were some problems in sheeting home liability to someone else, the only "someone else" there could be would be the driver of this unidentified motor vehicle. He noticed that the solicitor had done all the right things in respect of a claim against the Nominal Defendant who, under the Motor Vehicles (Third Party Insurance) Act, 1942, could be sued for all damage caused by unidentified motor vehicles. The solicitor had put advertisements in the paper and in newsagents' windows, all appealing for anyone who saw the accident and who had not given his name already to the police or to the plaintiff's solicitors, to do so. Butterworth looked at the medical evidence with respect to Elaine. She was then only nine years of age. He knew that it is always extremely difficult to know just what damage a child suffers in a motor car accident. With an adult who has commenced on his career, one can say, for example, that the man is a schoolteacher and that, normally speaking, he would have remained one until he was 65 years of age and his wage is $X per week; the wage for a car park attendant, which is all that the plaintiff can do now, is $X minus $Y per week; accordingly one merely takes $Y per week for the appropriate period and, after applying the appropriate discount rate, one has a fair idea of future economic loss. However, with a child it is difficult to know whether that child will qualify for a professional or semi-professional career, or whether he or she will be employed at all. However, there was no real purpose in speculating about these matters in Elaine's case, because these were problems in every case of an injured child. All that could be done was to bear them in mind and to concentrate on the hard facts of the present case. The main problem was trying to settle it because it was so difficult to put a figure on what a court would award such a young child. There was some protection here, though, because all infant settlements had to be approved by the court under the Damages (Infants and Persons of Unsound Mind) Act, 1929. Butterworth turned to the reports that were in his brief. It appeared from what was said by Carol Carson that Elaine formerly had been almost top of her class, but now was finding great difficulty in concentration. That matter made him see a red light and to make a note that Elaine should be assessed by a psychologist to see if there would be educational problems as a result of her accident. In most motor car accident cases, not only are the treating doctors called, but also consultant doctors who are used to giving evidence. Most lawyers have a list of these people in their various specialities who constantly give evidence for a plaintiff or for a defendant. He thought that this was a case where Elaine should be seen by a consultant and made a note of that as well. An important question was whom to sue. There was no problem at the present stage because the rule of practice in personal injury cases is to sue anybody who could possibly be liable as defendant. Accordingly, Butterworth made a note that Carol Carson, the registered owner and the Nominal Defendant should be the defendants. However, he had another thought that if he sued Carol Carson, would the third party insurer contend that, because Elaine had been struck, not by the motor vehicle, but by a wheel that had become detached from the motor vehicle, her injuries did not arise out of the use of a motor vehicle. If so, then the third party insurer (and the registered owner as well unless the driver's agency for the registered owner was established), would escape liability. Because of a possible problem with insurance, Butterworth also added Dawn Daniels as executrix of David Daniels as an additional defendant, who could be dismissed from the proceedings later if the authorised insurer did not take any technical point on liability. When one has problems of this nature there is no substitute but to go back to the Statute which creates the liability, and look at the exact words used. Here, s 10(1)(b)(i) of the Motor Vehicles (Third Party Insurance) Act, 1942, indicated that a third party policy covered "death of or bodily injury to any person caused by or arising out of the use of the motor vehicle ...." The question was then, what was meant by "use of the motor vehicle"? If there is a similar problem of construction, it is no use just making up one's own mind as to what one thinks the word means. It is almost certain that there has been some decided case dealing with the topic. Usually, the first place to look in this type of situation is an annotated Act, and for motor vehicle work New South Wales lawyers look at Leslie and Britts Motor Vehicle Law. Butterworth took out the volume and looked at the notes to s 10. Doing this, he found a reference to Harvey Trinder v GIO(1964) 82 WN(Pt 1)(NSW) 201, with a note that it had been approved by the High Court in (1966) 114 CLR 449. He checked the annotations to the New South Wales Acts of Parliament put out by both law publishers. These gave him some other cases including a note in (1966) 40 ALJ2, discussing GIO v R J Green & Lloyd Pty Ltd (1966) 39 ALJR 429. Butterworth knew, however, that one could not content oneself with notes in textbooks or journals, but it was necessary to go the cases themselves. He read those cases, then went to the Australian Digest and made a note of all the other cases in which the Harvey Trinder case had been mentioned. This is known as noting up. Most barristers, as they peruse recent issues of the law reports, make notes in the margins as to how later cases have affected earlier ones. He had done this but always checked with the list of noting up in the Australian Digest Master Volumes and in the Australian Case Citator to make sure that he had all the references. Having read the Harvey Trinder case, he looked at the GIO v R J Green one. First, although the reference he had was to the Australian Law Journal Reports, he knew that it was prudent to see if the case had been reported in the "authorised reports" which for the High Court were the Commonwealth Law Reports. Although any law report made by a member of the Bar may be read in court, Butterworth knew that judges mostly preferred people to read the Commonwealth Law Reports in court rather than any others where High Court cases were concered. Looking at the reports and the annotations, he found more recent cases including Shortland County Council v GIO [1973] 2 NSWLR 257, which held that injury occurring when a vehicle was unintentionally started in the course of testing arose out of the use of a motor vehicle, and Stewart v Sydney County Council [1973] 1 NSWLR 444, in which it was held that injury to an electricity serviceman by the door of his van swinging to while he was getting equipment out of it, arose out of the use of a motor vehicle. In view of all this he felt fairly sure that a court would hold that Elaine's injury arose out of the use of a motor vehicle but he thought he should record his researches clearly as it could well be that the authorised insurer would take the point at the trial or in some interlocutory proceedings. In respect to Elaine, he settled the draft limited to her personal injuries as a result of being struck by the wheel. He named both Carol Carson and the Nominal Defendant as defendants. The next problem was in which court to sue. Formerly, all large claims in motor vehicle cases were brought in the Supreme Court, but nowadays many people, if they believe the case will involve up to about $50,000, sue in the District Court. The jurisdiction of that Court is $100,000, but it can be increased by consent on filing a memorandum of unlimited jurisdiction pursuant to s 51 of the District Courts Act, 1973. By filing such a memorandum one eliminated the risk of the plaintiff's health deteriorating between issue of process and trial which might mean a verdict of in excess of $100,000. In the instant case, Butterworth considered it appropriate to commence both sets of proceedings in the Supreme Court. The only penalty that would be paid, if he had wrongly assessed the situation, would be that all the costs of the action would not be recovered, while an error the other way could mean deprivation of a large amount of damages. He turned to the draft with respect to Carol Carson. She had three courses of action, (a) for her own personal injuries; (b) under the Compensation to Relatives Act for herself and Elaine if, and only if, negligence on the part of the Nominal Defendant or someone else than David Daniels could be proved; and (c) on the same proviso, an action by the estate of David Daniels in respect of any loss he suffered before he died. Therefore, it was essential to investigate further whether there was any real likelihood of the court accepting that there was an unidentified motor vehicle involved in the accident. Butterworth read carefully through the depositions from the Coroner's Court. The only person who said anything about an unidentified motor vehicle was Carol Carson, but he noticed the peculiar feature of the depositions that did not seem to have been cross-examined on before the Coroner, namely, the lack of clothing on the part of the driver. Although Butterworth had spent some time on the matter, he thought that he should get more details before finally proceeding to settle a statement of claim. He wrote a memorandum suggesting a further medical examination of Carol Carson, and asking the solicitor to obtain a full statement from her as to how David Daniels came to be dressed the way he was at the time of collision. He could, of course, have merely asked the solicitor for a conference, but his experience was that it was better to have the client make a statement to the solicitor and hold a conference later to go through the statement. It is quite surprising how people remember much more each time they have to go over a statement. J45 2008 Australian Family Law Cases [¶91-626] In the marriage of LEE STEERE, C.P. and LEE STEERE, T. Full Court of the Family Court of Australia at Perth. Judgment delivered 12 August 1985. Full text of judgment below. Family law - Property - Principles applicable to farming properties - Correct approach to sec. 79 application - Contribution as a homemaker and parent - Inherited property - Financial resources and needs - Inclusion of legal costs in assessment of financial resources - Effect of proposed order on earning capacity - Family Law Act 1975, sec. 79. The husband and wife were married in 1975. At the time of the marriage the husband brought into the marriage a farming property transferred from his father and an interest in an adjoining property. The wife brought about $2,000 into the marriage. Throughout the marriage the husband ran the farm. The wife had the responsibility for rearing the children of the marriage and running the home. In addition she gave the husband assistance on the farm when required. The parties separated on 14 May 1983. The wife filed an application in March 1984 in which she sought the sum of $180,000 by way of settlement of property and lump sum maintenance together with $100 per week maintenance for the children. At the time of trial the husband's net assets amounted to approximately $670,000. The wife's assets totalled $10,500. In addition she had a credit of $42,751 from a family trust. Her liabilities, including estimated legal costs, were about $16,000. The trial Judge made orders for the payment of $70,000 to the wife and child maintenance of $85 per week. The wife appealed as to the lump sum-awarded on the basis that the trial Judge had erred in that: (i) he had approached the matter partly on a needs basis and partly on a capacity to pay basis, and that this was not a permissible approach under sec. 79 of the Family Law Act 1975; (ii) the wife's contribution to the family and the property should be recognised in a substantial and not a token way; (iii) even on a needs approach the trial Judge's views were inappropriate; (iv) the trial Judge had disallowed the wife's liability for legal costs in considering her needs. Both parties agreed that, should the Court reach a conclusion that the trial Judge had incorrectly exercised his discretion, the Full Court should exercise its discretion and substitute an appropriate figure rather than remit the matter for further trial. Held: Farming properties (a) In relation to farming properties, as in relation to all other assets be they business assets or suburban land, the ordinary principles of sec. 79 apply. There is no "farming case" exception to the ordinary principles applicable under sec. 79 (Magas and Magas (1980) FLC ¶90-885 followed). Correct approach to a sec. 79 application (b) An application under sec. 79 should first commence with the assessment of the contributions made by each of the parties under sec. 79(4)(a), (b) and (c). Secondly, the financial resources, means, needs of the parties and other matters set out in sec. 75(2) so far as relevant should be considered (Pastrikos and Pastrikos (1980) FLC ¶90-897 followed). Contribution as homemaker and parent (c) It is possible to arrive at the conclusion that in a marriage there has been equality of contribution by each of the parties within his or her own sphere - that of the wife as a good homemaker and parent, and that of the husband as breadwinner (Mallet and Mallet (1984) FLC ¶91-507 extensively discussed). (d) If the parties at the inception of the marriage acquire a farm for value and build it up through equal efforts in their respective spheres, the conclusion that the contributions are equal would be difficult to resist (Magas and Magas (supra)). Inherited property (e) If inherited or donated property was acquired before marriage, and especially where it was worked and developed by the party who received it before marriage, that is an important consideration. (f) The strength of a contribution made at the inception of a marriage is eroded, not by the passage of time, but by the off-setting contribution of the other spouse. Legal costs (g) In a realistic assessment of the financial resources of the parties it is proper to include any legal costs each of the parties may have to pay, subject to any reimbursement by way of an order for costs. This should not be viewed as a backdoor method of awarding costs. Earning capacity (h) Section 79(4)(d), which directs the Court to consider the effect of any proposed order on the earning capacity of either party to the marriage, is mainly relevant to the question of the ways and means in which the entitlement of a party can be met. If injustice can only be avoided by the sale and division of the business property then this must be done (Magas and Magas (supra)). The present case (i) The trial Judge did not correctly approach the issues in the case. He based his decision on the needs of the wife and the capacity of the husband to raise a sum while still retaining the farming assets. This was incorrect in principle and led to an inappropriate result. (j) Appeal allowed. The husband was ordered to pay to the wife the sum of $165,000, to be paid by instalments. Appearances: Mr M.H. Holden of counsel (instructed by Lavan Solomon) for the appellant wife; Mr K.G. Forrest of counsel (instructed by Ilbery Barblett & O'Dea) for the respondent husband. Before: Fogarty, Maxwell and Nygh JJ. Fogarty, Maxwell and Nygh JJ.: By Notice of Appeal dated 21 January 1985 the appellant T. Lee Steere appealed against orders 3 and 4 of certain orders made by his Honour Judge Anderson on 21 December 1984 after a hearing on 28-30 November 1984. Those orders were: "3. As and by way of settlement of property and lump sum maintenance the husband do pay to the wife on or before the 28th day of February 1985 the sum of $70,000. 4. From and including the 1st day of February 1985 the husband do pay to the wife interest on the said sum of $70,000 or so much thereof as remains owing from time to time at the rate of 15% per annum calculated daily. 5. The husband who resides at Elderslie via Boyup in the State of Western Australia do pay to the Collector of Maintenance at 45 St George's Terrace, Perth in the said State for disbursement by him to the wife who resides at Balga in the said State maintenance for the said children at the rate of $85 per week apportioned as to $30 per week each in respect of N and A and as to $25 per week in respect of M the first payment thereof to be made on the 21st day of December 1984. 6. The husband indemnify and keep the wife indemnified in respect of any income tax liability for the year ended the 30th day of June 1984 including any interest or penalties and thereafter keep the wife further indemnified in respect of any income tax liability including any interest or penalties arising out of income from any trust or partnership in which the husband and wife together participated. 7. The interest (if any) of the husband in the motor vehicle presently in the possession of the wife vest in the wife. 8. The wife do assign to the husband any interest she has in any partnership in which the husband and wife participated. 9. There be no order for costs of the proceedings against the wife." (By orders 1 and 2 the wife was granted the sole guardianship and custody of the three children of the marriage and detailed orders were made as to access. It is unnecessary to set out the detail of those orders.) The parties were married on 15 February 1975, their ages then being approximately 31 and 29 respectively. They finally separated on 14 May 1983, a period of approximately 8 years, but there were other short periods of separation during the marriage. During the course of the marriage there were three children born to the parties, namely N born on 6 March 1976 so that her present age is 9, A born on 5 October 1978 and now aged 7, and M born on 3 September 1980 and now aged 6. All of these children have lived with the wife since separation and it is anticipated that this will continue to be the case. In her application filed on 14 March 1984 the wife sought the sum of "$250,000 or such other sum as the Court deems fit in respect of property settlement and lump sum maintenance". At the trial the orders which the wife sought were that the husband pay to her the sum of $180,000 by way of "settlement of property and lump sum maintenance" together with $100 per week maintenance for the three children of the marriage, the transfer to her of a motor car which was then in her possession and an order that the husband indemnify her in respect of a tax liability. That claim by the wife was particularised during the course of the trial and was recorded by his Honour as follows: "The wife put in a statement that her immediate needs were: 1. A three bedroomed, low maintenance house in Morley/Noranda area $70,000 2. New or second-hand reasonable car 10,000 3. Liabilities, say 20,000 -------- $100,000 -------- The liabilities of $20,000 included an amount of $10,000 for the wife's anticipated legal expenses but this was subsequently reduced to $8,500. In opening it was stated that the wife's intention was to invest the balance and with the maintenance she would receive for the children, live on the income produced." The position adopted by the husband at the trial was that he should pay to the wife by way of settlement and future maintenance a total of $70,000 and pay a total of $60 per week maintenance for the three children. There was apparently no dispute at the trial about the orders in relation to the motor car or the tax liability. The cases of the parties also proceeded on the basis that the wife would assign to the husband her interest in a partnership in which they were involved and that is embodied in order 8. Neither party has appealed against the orders in respect of maintenance. The issue on this appeal was the correctness of his Honour's order under sec. 79 in awarding the wife the sum of $70,000. Before us both counsel conducted their cases upon the basis that in the event that the Court concluded his Honour had not correctly exercised his discretion and that the appeal for that reason should be allowed, the preferable course for this Court was to exercise its discretion and substitute an appropriate figure rather than remit the matter for further trial. Both counsel also agreed that the case should be conducted on the basis of an application of sec. 81 so as to encompass the wife's future maintenance. The facts as found by the trial Judge were not the subject of any serious challenge before us and consequently it is convenient to turn to the findings of the fact and the history of the matter as his Honour recorded them in his judgement. His Honour after setting out the background marital facts and the nature of the claims before him and after making some general observations to which we will return later dealt with the history of the parties prior to their marriage. So far as the husband is concerned, his Honour found that after he had completed two years at an agricultural college the husband commmenced working on his father's farm known as "Elderslie" in the south west of Western Australia, a property concerned in sheep, cattle and coarse grain production. His Honour recorded that "the husband is a farmer and has been for the whole of his working life. J46 2022 words Australian Law News Grave fears on lack of privacy safeguards for ID card scheme Some of the Law Council's constituent bodies had grave fears about the lack of adequate safeguards against invasion of privacy by an Australia Card system, Council representatives said in evidence at a public hearing by the Federal Par+liament's Joint Select Committee on an Australia Card. A member of the Council's Privacy Law Committee, Mr Hal Jackson, of Perth, said it was absolutely essential that for any support the Law Council may give the system there would need to be adequate and clearly spelt-out safeguards in place before the Australia Card was introduced. The Secretary-General of the Law Council, Mr Philip Hawke, told the com+mittee that four of the Council's con+stituent bodies had*has made submissions opposing the Australia Card, and he believed it was likely, if present trends in the constituent bodies' thinking con+tinued, that the Law Council at its General Meeting on April 19 would express opposition to the proposal. Mr Hawke and Mr Jackson were joined at the committee's hearing in Parliament House by Mr Russell Stewart, of Sydney, representing the Taxation Committee of the Council's Business Law Section. Mr Hawke said that the Law Council, in its formal submission to the committee, had not come to any firm conclusion for or against the Australia Card, and it would want to see any legislation which may be introduced before it did so. Mr Jackson, in answer to questions from committee members, said any Government would not be able to bind its successors. There was a fear that the Australia Card would be put to a wider range of uses than presently proposed, and evidence from all around the world showed that once the needs of efficiency and fairness were considered there appeared to be a need for more and more information. More and more departments would want to add to the bank of information, and State Governments would want to use information about citizens, Mr Jack+son said. He said there was a vast bureaucratic vested interest in not having controls over the use of the information that would be stored under the Australia Card system - controls which departments would see as interfering with their efficiency. Mr Stewart said the Taxation Commit+tee saw the Australia Card as largely bringing into the tax-paying community those people in the cash economy, but was not under any illusions that the determined criminal would still find ways around the system. The card was more likely to bring into the tax net those people for whom it became too much trouble to avoid tax. Mr Jackson said the card would apply to 15 million Australians who were not determined criminals, as well as those who were. The proposal had come up for serious consideration only at last year's Tax Summit and then in the context of tax evasion and fraud. Already the possible uses of the Australia Card had expanded to include detection of maintenance de+faulters, immigration matters, passports, social security and home loans. There were suggestions that State registers of births, deaths and marriages might be put into a central database. Mr Jackson said that there would be massive pressures for more and more information to be stored, and it was naive to believe that the system would be limited to its original purposes. The proposals had already moved well outside the tax area and the more central+ised information became and the more uses to which the Australia Card was put, the more unease the Law Council would have. In response to a question, Mr Stewart said the Taxation Committee would prefer to see an identifying number given to partnerships, trusts and other entities. Whether this should be the tax file number would depend on convenience and other factors. He said the Taxation Committee saw difficulties arising with the need for production of the card or to have some means of verification, and the extra steps that would be involved in real estate and other transactions. On the analysis so far able to be made of the proposals, these difficulties were not insurmountable. Mr Stewart said the body which con+trolled any identification system that was introduced should have the full confidence of the public as to its ability to maintain confidentiality. The Australian Taxation Office was held in high regard in this respect. Law Council submission In its written submission to the Joint Select Committee, the Law Council said: The Law Council of Australia was represented at the 1985 Tax Summit and there, along with many other participants, expressed qualified support for the general idea of an identity card scheme for certain purposes. In his address at the Summit, the then President of the Law Council, Mr Alan Cornell, said: "While there is a case for ID cards for recipients of government pensions and other benefits, the ID card proposal for taxpayers is controversial. Some in the Law Council see it as a necessary measure in the fight against tax evasion. Others are concerned that it will be extended into other areas and bring on the era of Big Brother surveillance. The task of the Government is to convince the doubters that this will not happen. If the Government proceeds in this manner we would want the opportunity to study the proposals carefully and to suggest appropriate safeguards to protect the rights of citizens." The matter subsequently was con+sidered in more detail by some constituent bodies of the Law Council. The Law Society of New South Wales, the Queens+land Law Society, the Queensland Bar Association, and the Law Institute of Victoria have made submissions directly to the Joint Select Committee. All opposed the introduction of ID cards. The Queensland Law Society has pre+pared further comments in the light of the Government's submission of 6 February 1986 to the Joint Select Committee. The Society's comments are attached to this submission. The Society points out that these comments were prepared under severe time constraints and do not purport to cover all the matters of concern to it nor necessarily to represent its final views. This submission takes into account the Commonwealth submission to the Joint Select Committee, dated 6 February 1986, and the subsequent Health Commission Planning Report. It reflects consideration of the Government's proposals by the Law Council's Privacy Law Committee and the Taxation Committee of the Council's Business Law Section. Introductory comments It is important to note that the Commonwealth has not made definite commitments on a number of important aspects and that various responses given previously may therefore need to be reconsidered in light of changing Govern+ment intentions. One example is the question whether a photograph is to be attached to the card. It is also important to note that Commonwealth estimates of the cost of setting up the scheme and the savings resulting therefrom have varied widely over the period since the idea was first seriously mooted at the Tax Summit. The Law Council of Australia is not in a position to challenge or affirm any of those costings or estimates. The latest estimate of the cost of establishing and operating the identification scheme has been reduced, illustrating again the change in costings. Further criticism has been made of the costings by Roger Clarke of the ANU on the basis that it does not include the establishment and compliance costs for the private sector. Savings to revenue over costs are said to be something like $3.5 billion over ten years. That is $350 million per year or about $20-$30 per annum per head of population. The question clearly becomes: Is this saving worth it, in view of the problems, uncertainties and civil liberty concerns involved in the proposals? Further, the ID card scheme cannot be taken in isolation from two other serious ongoing areas of debate. (a) The question of implementation in some form or other of the Australian Law Reform Commission's report on Privacy. The Commonwealth has at a late stage decided to proceed with the establishment of a European-style Data Protection Agency with a sub+stantial full-time Secretariat staff including in its membership the Privacy Commissioner of the pro+posed Human Rights and Equal Opportunity Commission. This is a substantial upgrading of the protec+tion for privacy formerly proposed by the Australian Law Reform Com+mission in its Privacy Report and goes in a direction hitherto unknown in Australia. The Australian Law Re+form Commission suggested that privacy at the Commonwealth level should primarily be protected by expansion of the role of the Human Rights Commission by creating within its structure a Privacy Commissioner (along the lines of the Race Relations Commissioner) and the legislative establishment of a complaints and educational role for the Human Rights Commission in that area and the promulgation of information privacy guidelines based on overseas (and particularly OECD) precedents. The Commonwealth apparently intends to proceed with the introduction of such legislation. However, details have not yet been made publicly available. The information privacy guidelines pro+posed by the ALRC were themselves a watered-down version of the OECD guidelines and if "gutted" by the Commonwealth bureaucracy may really come down to a meaningless level, leaving out all the crucial areas of concern to the bureaucracy. (b) In addition, it should be noted that the Bill of Rights contains privacy protection provisions based on the International Covenant of Civil and Political Rights, but these are ex+pressed in very general form and the Bill of Rights legislation itself has been criticised for not going far enough in various ways. Taxation uses The Taxation Committee of the Law Council's Business Law Section is, and has been since this issue was first raised in the pre-Summit Draft White Paper, of the view that it is appropriate and reasonable that persons opening bank accounts, purchasing shares or obtaining employment should be obliged to quote their tax file number or some other identification number so that the tax office can have a unique identifier of each individual and business entity to assist in preventing fraud and evasion. The Committee is and always was of the view that there is no objection to this unique personal identifier being in the form of a personal identity card as long as adequate privacy safeguards existed. The Committee is not in a position to express a view of what are adequate privacy safe+guards as that would be better done by experts in that area, but at least the committee felt that the minimum safe+guards would be: (a) that each individual had ready access to the information held on file under this number and the ability to correct wrong information and the ability to have the issue considered by an independent tribunal if there was a dispute as to the correctness of information; and (b) that each department had access only to information relevant to its own activities and subject to the secrecy provisions appropriate to that depart+ment, so that there did not exist in one place or able to be accessed by one person a total profile of an individual in respect of his relations with all government departments. The issue which caused the Committee the most difficulty was whether it should object to any specific uses proposed by the Taxation Office, particularly those which went beyond the uses earlier discussed in the Draft White Paper and at the National Taxation Summit. However, the Com+mittee believes that each of the uses proposed in the Government submission would be of positive and significant value to the Taxation Office in preventing evasion either by direct use of the information in determining a taxpayer's income or in selecting taxpayers for early field audit. Obviously, determined crimi+nals would get round the system but that would always be the same. For this reason, the final conclusion of the Taxation Committee, being a view which was supported by a substantial majority of the Committee but by no means unanimous, was that the Commit+tee could not reasonably object to the uses proposed by the Australian Taxation Office but that the extended nature of those uses, and the substantial possibility that further uses would be adopted in the future, made it even more essential that proper privacy safeguards be strength+ened. J47 2010 words Educology '86 - 10-12 July 1986 But who will sweep the streets? Seeking the real emerging curriculum issues By Kevin Harris The dominant body of theory which presently underpins research into educational issues, teaching training, schooling practices, and which supplies the rationale for the provision of universal compulsory schooling in the first place is idealist theory which mystifies and misrepresents the role of schooling within social relations and which creates tensions within schooling by positing noble and worthwhile goals which are in fact unrealisable. An analysis of the role of schooling in terms of production relations rather than idealist theory reveals that the achievement of universal liberal education within advanced corporate capitalist social relations is mythical, and that the most likely tendency for the future will be to offer less liberal education to fewer and fewer people. If societies are to survive in which universal liberal education is truly possible (and in which free educated citizens willingly carry out the necessary menial and instru+mental tasks) then a fundamental change in the economic base must first be brought about. Introduction In a recent paper Jim Christensen argued for a curriculum for freedom as an appropriate alternative to school curricula designed to enhance pupils' job prospects, insisting that we must come up with a viable alternative to the latter, and that finding a suitable alterna+tive is a serious contemporary challenge for professional teachers. I agree with him in principle. My immediate problem is that I would wish to take very strong issue with just about everything else in his paper, which I see as being misguided and misdirected mainly because of its basis in one naive social-economic hope and a series of mis+understandings of the place of schooling within social relations. One possible response, then, would be to mount a direct criticism of Christensen here; but I have never liked duelling in public, and so I shall choose a different response. Rather than make negative points I shall put forward a positive case concerning many of the same issues which Christensen has addressed: our analyses will not touch at many points but they will meet on a central issue, and taken together they may then form the basis for future constructive discussion rather than the public blood-letting which too many academics are much too fond of. But given the constraints of time and space I can at best outline my case and give small supportive argument here: full discussion must be sought elsewhere. My case is simply that educational practice, which includes curriculum issues - not to mention our youth - has been very badly served for a long time by an outmoded and inappropriate body of educa+tional theory, and also through failure to take necessary heed of a particularly valuable explanatory account of the labour market, labour relations and production relations - an account which demonstrates that universal liberating education cannot be achieved without a fund+amental change right at the very economic base of social relations. The Inappropriate Body: Idealist Liberal Educational Theory Educational practice - in its formal legal manifestation, schooling - is underpinned by theory: educational theory. Teachers consume large doses of it in their training period, they espouse it as practitioners and confront it in guides to their work such as curriculum preambles; government departments formulate their policy in terms of it; and all who have to do with education in general are accountable to it. And the vast bulk, if not the whole of this educa+tional theory which researchers presently generate, and academics presently teach, and teachers presently learn, and government depart+ments presently attempt to implement in schooling practice is what I shall call idealist liberal educational theory. It is theory firmly rooted in Plato, which has come down to us in a continuous line from him; and the roots are most manifestly obvious in the works of those who held the first chairs and lectureships when the monopoly on legit+imate educational theory shifted to universities and advanced colleges about a century ago, and who so set the tone for modern contemporary studies. But just as Renaissance scholars had to reconcile Platonism with Christianity, so the Victorian Platonist dons had their particular reconciliation to do too. Plato's social and educational theory was unashamedly elitist. However, more recently transmitted from the past were theories (rooted in changing material practices) of equality, egalitarianism, liberalism, and the `Romantic' belief in the worth of every individual person, which those such as Voltaire, the French Revolutionaries, Rousseau, von Humbolt and Mill had given expression to. Alongside this, industrial capitalism had brought about the great migration to the industrial and commercial cities, as well as the need, of which more will be said later, to school everybody. Thus the major problem confronting educational theory, as practised by its first academic professionals, was that of reconciling Platonic idealist elitism with liberal egalitarianism; and the legitimate educational theory which has since emerged as dominant is that which, while attending to the empirical data generated by the social sciences as well as such key concepts as `equality', `autonomy', `individual dev+elopment', `enlightened citizenship' and `democracy' along the way, has unsuccessfully continued to address itself to this task. Sad though it might be, (and this does relate to the street-sweeper problem) we have been riding a loser for a long time now. Why it is a loser will become evident as this paper progresses; here let me spell out first why I categorise the theory in question as `idealist'. Basically, dominant educational theory is idealist in that it denies, ignores, misconceptualises, and renders unproblematic certain important factors about the real world of daily experience and pract+ice. More specifically: a) it assumes, either explicitly or implicitly, an atomistic stance to social relations, and thus adopts a theoretic context which regards teachers as free, autonomous, individual agents and consequen+tly describes teacher practice within the terms of such a context. An emphasis falls on what the (independent, autonomous) individual teach+er can or might do for individual pupils, and then through dubious extrapolation closely resembling the committing of a category error, on the gains and transformations which are hoped for from the accum+ulative effect of large numbers of (independent, autonomous) indivi+dual teachers interacting with larger numbers of less independent and less autonomous but similarly individual pupils. The theory thus appeals to the aspirations and capabilities of teachers as individuals, and teachers are, of course, individuals in one sense (a sting in the tail is that it also attributes blame for failure to teachers as individuals), but it fails to account adequately, if at all, for the non-atomised social constraints which stand between the teacher-as-individual (and the pupil-as- individual) and the fulfilment of the prescribed ideals b) it conflates schooling with `education'. That is, a public concrete institution is confused and conflated with an abstracted ideal in much the same way, as Illich has noted, that hospitals and `health' and the police force and `law and order' have similarly become conflated. Now this is not to deny that schooling has some+thing to do with `education', but the nexus is a tenuous one and any+thing but the essentialist association which the once revered philo+sopher, R.S. Peters (in a direct line from Matthew Arnold) so commonly proclaims. Schooling, as we shall see, has much more to do with things other than `education'; and the nexus which has been consist+ently woven between the two thus falsely represents schooling to its agents (the teachers), its charges (the pupilis), and to its providers and beneficiaries. Theory which declares that the main business of schooling is `education', or simply blurs the distinction between the two, mystifies the function of schooling within social relations, and at the day-to-day level presents teachers with fine ideals, noble hopes, admirable aspirations, and large-scale failure when it comes to the attempted realisation of these things in practice (which does not mean that no teacher ever assists in the `education' of some pupils). c) it concentrates quite centrally on notions such as `democracy', `equality', and `personal autonomy', suggesting also in unproblematic fashion that the social formations in, to and for which the theory is meant to apply are democratic and egalitarian (or at the least are moving strongly in those directions), and that they are seriously desirous of promoting the type of personal autonomy spoken of among all. Now administrators, academics and teachers might believe in promoting democracy, equality, and personal autonomy, and strive as hard as they can towards these ends; but if in reality they are working within social relations which are quite undemocratic, based firmly on inequality, and threatened by too much personal autonomy, then clearly these people, and especially the teachers, must continually encounter restraints between what they are striving for and what they are able to achieve, or experience conflict between the theory which guides their practice and the actual outcomes of their practice - and conflict which, in the long run, is not adequately accounted for by the theory itself. d) it exhorts moral and intellectual prescriptions which, although possibly applicable to the best of all possible worlds, tend to emerge as somewhat empty rhetoric in the present historical con+juncture. It would be very nice if schooling helped all pupils `achieve the highest degree of individual development of which they are capable', led pupils as deep as philosophy and as high as art, or, to be a little less grandiose-sounding, developed the spirit of fraternity among all, encouraged cooperation, and promoted equality and justice. Concerns and ideals such as these, flowing freely from dominant*dominent educational theory, are a common basis of general teacher-endeavour which is surely directed towards `stemming the common tide in a wealthy and industrial community'. They are, however, very difficult concerns and ideals to fulfil in non-cooperative, unfratern+al, unequal, unjust wealthy and industrial communities which in real+ity cannot afford (both literally and figuratively) to stem the common tide, and in which someone has to sweep those infernal streets. e) it accounts for failure to achieve its own ends, predictably, in idealist terms; most commonly falling back on human nature (people are naturally lazy, greedy, evil etc.), and/or a naive a-historical account of `the way things are' and how they got to be that way which distorts and misrepresents causal relations, takes existing conditions as `given' rather than brought about, and most importantly fails to recognise that `existing conditions' are actively maintained, repro+duced and recreated in the present. In this way actual existing dynamic problems are confused with causal factors, and can thus be identified, and dismissed, as causes which have brought about the problems that we now face rather than as the problems themselves. An interesting example of such argumentation, combined with a retreat to human nature, is provided by the afore-mentioned R.S. Peters: In all social movements, whether they be religious, political or cultural [does this include, and if not can we add, `educational'?], there is always the problem of the majority who do not care... The explanation of this familiar phenomenon, as well as the inefficacy of advocacy [and `education' or schooling?], is not far to seek. The majority of men are geared to consumption and see the value of anything in terms of immediate pleasures or as related instrumentally to the satisfaction of their wants as consumers. And therein lies all the consolation necessary for anyone seriously endeavouring to put idealist educational theory into practice but somehow just not getting the results. f) finally, although not exhaustively, it either denies or is largely oblivious to the matter of production relations and the effects of production relations on all aspects of material practice; including, of course, schooling. And having noted this it would be wise, therefore, if we ourselves now gave ample consideration to production relations before returning eventually to the general problem of producing adequate educational theory and the specific worry as to who will sweep the streets. Production Relations and Education: Reality and Possibility It was noted in the previous section that one of the legacies or effects of idealist liberal education theory is that the assumed connection between schooling and `education' is almost universally taken for granted. J48 2048 words Industrial relations and state education in Australia CHAPTER 3 TEACHERS AND INDUSTRIAL CONFLICT Introduction Militancy is best considered as a capacity to take overt action of an aggressive nature in the quest for certain objectives. The mode of expressing militancy can range from the `posture', through the `threat', to the `action', and the action can range from `per+sistence in discussion' (negotiation) to `mass withdrawal of labour' (the strike). In extreme cases, revolutionary action may be the chosen mode of expression. The com+mon thread is the existence of conflict between individuals and/or groups and the origin of such conflict in basic disagreements of aim, method or process. Militant action is a response to the existence of such conflict. Australia's first teachers' strike occurred in 1920, in Western Australia. Teachers and some public servants struck for three weeks - this was the culmination of a campaign to secure official recognition as the union representative of the teachers in all negotiations. In New South Wales, the organisational strength of the NSW Teachers' Federation (NSWTF) was the foundation of a posture of militancy which, for many years, facilitated its direct dealing with the Public Service Board, the Edu+cation Department and the state Industrial Commission. The Federation pursued both industrial and professional interests in this direct manner, with concessions gained through the process of demand, discussion and acceptance of compromise solutions. Protest meetings and strike threats were part of the industrial armoury. In Victoria in the 1940s, a campaign by teachers to obtain a teachers' tribunal brought the Victorian Teachers' Union (VTU) close to strike action. A ballot on the question of a one-day stop work action was defeated by the narrowest of margins - 2587 (49.2 per cent) in favour, 2674 (50.8 per cent)against. The campaign was one of militant action that did not, because of the ballot, proceed to visible expression - the stoppage of work, the strike. Strong and deep feelings and the belief in the cause of reform caused the militancy to be expressed in political action and the teachers, together with the Public Service Association, campaigned successfully against the government of the day. It was not until 1965 that the first strike by Vic+torian teachers occurred; but the period did witness a strong campaign of action, though stopping short of strike action, by the Victorian Secondary Teachers' Associ+ation (VSTA) over the issues of first, the secondary margin and second, the reform of the teachers' tribunal and the right of the VSTA to be recognised and heard by that body. Militancy in respect of the secondary margin was also expressed in a union internal political campaign and ultimately in the formation of the breakaway union (which became the VSTA). Stages of teacher militancy - the Australian experience Examination of the historical development of teacher militancy indicates the exist+ence of four sequential, albeit overlapping, periods. A dominant causal thread runs through each period, and this identification of stages does not imply that issues cen+ tral at one time necessarily disappear at another. In the earliest stage, the dominant need (demand) was the right to represent, the right to bargain, the right to present a case, the right of access of teacher organis+ations to the decision-making process of the employer (the Department), and the right of access of teacher unions to independent authorities charged with determin+ing wages and conditions of employment. The expression of this need in Western Australia and in Victoria has already been referred to in this chapter. A campaign for recognition - the right to bargain - as the earliest base cause of militancy is not unusual within the totality of the historical or comparative per+spective of industrial relationships. It was such an action that was taken by the six farmers of Tolpuddle when they met and decided to seek collectively to discuss (negotiate) wages with their employer. The Tolpuddle Martyrs were charged under the Combination Acts, and sentenced to transportation in 1835 but they also became a symbolic point of the beginning of the modern British trade union movement. In 1935 the United States Congress passed the Wagner Act and established, among other things, the National Labor Relations Board and a process of government agency-monitored elections in work units, asking the question: `Do you wish the union to bargain on your behalf?' A positive answer meant that legal protection of the right to bargain was established. In 1904, the Commonwealth Conciliation and Arbitration Act in Australia provided for the registration of unions and consequent right of access by registered unions to the federal machinery of conciliation and arbi+tration. Constitutional questions precluded teacher unions (the State Teachers' Case of 1929) from the recognition provided by this statute, but the right to bargain was established for many other Australian unions. During the late 1960s, the momentum of militancy concerning issues related to conditions of education increased and became the central theme of disputation. The physical conditions under which teaching/education was undertaken was the basic cause, and the object of the action was the improvement of delivery (the busi+ness synonym would be the increasing of productivity), with the child, of course, as the beneficiary. The expression of this viewpoint was widespread, but was perhaps most clearly and strongly expressed by the VSTA as it `...developed a strike ideology which emphasises that industrial action is for the betterment of both pupils and teachers' (Bessant and Spaull 1972, p.82). Various general factors led to this second phase of teacher militancy. 1. Teachers' primary loyalties shifted from the employer to the union organis+ation, as post-war education became the responsibility of large unresponsive bureaucracies. There has been a corresponding breakdown in informal relationships between teachers and employers and an apparent lack of institutional democracy within the education system. 2. Schooling was increasingly politicised, where the issue at education had become prominent in public life and national economies had led to a sense of frustration, if not anger, among teachers, that public expectations concern+ing the importance of education and the teaching service were not matched by government policy. 3. Teacher militancy was an outcome of the inability of teacher unions to be involved in policy making. Unions resorted to electoral campaigns and dem+onstration stoppages, i.e. short strikes associated with a protest movement. 4. Teacher unions were beginning to extend their role-perceptions in the light of the above conditions and the strength in bargaining of trade unionism, so that they tended to see themselves as trade unions as well as, or instead of, professional organisations; as a result, they adopted the techniques and tac+tics of the traditional trade union movement, including the strike. It was a change in outlook, of `middle-class unionists acquiring working-class manners' (Spaull 1977). The central feature of this second stage is epitomised by the resolutions of the strike meeting held by NSW teachers in October 1968, when there were twelve resol+utions related to the theme of the quality of education. Nevertheless, the last of the resolutions did condemn the `... failure to reopen the current salaries agreements, thus denying a measure of salary justice to teachers and lecturers' (Mitchell 1975, p.202). There is just a hint - but no more, in this period - of the conditions of education being held as a legitimising device, either internally by the individual teacher or publicly by the organisation, to justify the action taken. However, the tran+sition to the third stage was under way. The third stage (1972 to c. 1982) is identified by increasing concern with salary/reward issues and with the broader issues of the employment, remuneration and living standards of the teacher. Strikes and militant political action are but two of the ways in which this source of conflict has had expression in recent years, in more than one state system. A fourth, and current, stage has been that identified with conflict and militant action leading from (and then intermingled with) protest and action about broader societal issues such as trade union rights, universal medical care, uranium mining, the peace movement and women's rights. Teachers and teacher unions have been both as individuals and as group members, deeply involved in militant action linked to such issues. Such action which has taken place to date may not have involved work stoppages, yet overt militant action has occurred - in public protests, in marches and deputations, on the floor at trade union conferences and in political action. Action such as this has been added to action on issues more clearly industrial or professional. The most recent manifestation of this has been the teacher unions' expression of solidarity through publicity and financial donation to the 1984 English miners' strike (the Technical Teachers' Union of Victoria (TTUV) donated $10 000) and to the sacked electric power workers in Queensland during 1985. Challenges have been to the closure of schools, to inspection and control of entry, to disciplinary action by management and to many other specific examples of incursions into the `managerial prerogative'. In fact, there have been increasing challenges not only to the right to manage, to authoritarian management, but also to a range of power blocs (such as developers and multi-nationals) and to the state itself. The teacher strikes in New South Wales during 1985 are an example of this challenge to authority. Emergence and Growth of teacher strikes since 1965 New South Wales Trainee teachers in New South Wales held a half-day protest against inadequate training salaries in 1951, but the first major strike did not take place until October 1968, when an estimated 65 per cent of membership stopped work after a salary award, perceived as unfavourable, by the Industrial Commission. A ballot in 1969 resulted in 9098 to 8090 against strike action, but a one-day stop-work was the response a year later to a ministerial request (instruction) that all teachers should take an extra period each week as a contribution to overcoming staff shortages. A one-day stoppage occurred in 1971 over general conditions in schools, and from that point there was an increasing readiness on the part of NSW teachers to resort to stop-work and strike action in campaigns over industrial and professional issues. Local and regional action, rolling strikes and state-wide stoppages have occurred throughout the period. In 1974, one newspaper's feature article (Australian, 1 April 1974) on the militancy of the NSWTF declared: Neither the federation's senior officers nor the NSW Minister for Education, Mr Eric Willis, disagree with the assessment that the federation is continually, and almost inevitably, in conflict with him and his department. In fact, it has a reputation for militancy that a Laurie Carmichael or a Jack Mundy wouldn't be ashamed of. For a white-collar union, even among the active Australian teachers' unions, it is pretty well in a class of its own. During a prolonged dispute in 1985, an Australian Financial Review editorial (11 March 1985) on public-service unionism noted that the cause of the teacher strike was the transferral of a teacher by the Department. `This is said by the union to be against its policy - as if a union policy were above the law and the executive discretion of government'. It also praised the stand of the Minister for Education, who: ... is under attack from his faction and the unions for being tough with the teachers. In questioning such unionism, however, he is at one with the more intelligent socialists else+where who realise that their ideals and crude unionism have little in common. The range and type of issues of NSW teacher strikes at state, regional and local school levels can be seen in Table 3.1, which represents a calendar of major NSWTF strikes over a ten- year period, 1968-78. TABLE Since 1980, this pattern of NSW teacher strikes has continued on a similar scale and with similar frequency. The types of issues on which teachers have been pre+pared to take industrial action have been extended and have resulted in a 2 1/2 day strike by Sydney secondary teachers in 1981 over proposed closures of several city high schools; strikes by infant- teachers and TAFE lecturers over teaching loads and working conditions in 1982; a two-day strike in 1984 by more than 4000 teachers in sympathy with a five-week strike by Migrant Education Service teachers; and a one-day protest stoppage in 1984, in conjunction with other state public servants, over government proposals to reduce benefits in the state superannuation system. J50 2009 words Education and Society - 1986 The control of schooling By F.J. Hunt Interests, Protagonists and the Control of Schooling The control of schooling is commonly examined in terms of the structures through which control is exercised, with attention given to ministries or departments and their divisions or sections, and possibly to associated or complementary agencies such as examination of curriculum bodies (Partridge, 1973; Salter & Tapper, 1981; Wirt & Kirst, 1982). Attention has also been given to their ideological character, recognising the influence of capitalism or some other prevailing modus operandi, and their rationalisations or ideologies for operating a society (Bowles & Gintis, 1976; Sharp, 1980; Apple, 1982). But typically the resultant interpretation is in impersonal structuralist terms, with people and groups portrayed as passive or at most mechanistically reactive. A major problem with such approaches is that in neglecting or minimising the dynamic activities of people they yield interpretations that are seriously inadequate both for developing understanding and as a basis for effective action. To direct attention to the activities of people, acting as individuals or in groups, is to recognise that they are dynamic and active in the pursuit of personal and social concerns - or interests, to adapt a well established conceptualisation (e.g. Plamenatz, 1964; Gideens, 1979:ch.5). Such an approach not only recognises conventional conceptions of shared concerns but it also accommo+dates conceptions of inherent thrusts to develop, whether to develop identity and move through successive psychological stages as argued by Erikson (1965), achieve self realisation and fulfilment as argued by Maslow (1968) and Rogers (1969), or competence, autonomy and independence as White (1959) argued or, in the terms used by Weber (1964:180-95), undertake a process of aggrandisement and raise one's status, wealth and authority. Thus the term can be used to include personal and social, inherent and acquired, subjective and objective, and a wide range of other concerns. In addition, while subjective preferences are fundamental in the selection of objectives and in formulating courses of action, identified forms and patterns of development provide basis for objective appraisals of the reality of development and achievement. And while it may seem that the term is used to identify too wide a range of phenomena, it is valuable because it identifies a common element in that diversity, namely, a stimulus for developmental individual and group activities. It is also evident that the concept of interest is not adequate by itself; necessary too are power and, I would add, justice. Power, meaning a capacity to achieve personal and social ends, even if to do so is at a cost to other people, and justice, meaning a concern for the entitlements of others, and so restraint in the pursuit of personal or social ends out of consideration for others, are both essential to an understanding of social activities and arrangements. For example, interest together with power may account for important similarities between social structures and also for their stability over time, despite efforts to change them. Conversely, variations in a sense of justice may account for important differences between them. As a consequence of differences in power, the pursuit of such interests by some can generate rivalry and conflict in struggles over limited resources and opportunities, and incidentally, limit development, achievement and aggrandisement for others. Hence emerge, too, particular forms of social arrangements, including coalitions with common or shared interests and, again following Weber (1964:155-91), structures of domination, direction and exploitation. Presum+ably, too, such structures persist while they serve the interests of more powerful individuals and groups. Concurrently, they incidentally constitute the social reality to which less powerful people accommodate. Such developments can be modified by a change either in the distribution of power or in the operation of a sense of justice. It is the exercise of a sense of justice that can moderate demands that would otherwise leave the less powerful in more parlous circumstances. Obviously, difficulties involved in teasing out degrees of power and justice operating in particular situations are considerable. In the first place, difficulties of conceptualisation or identification leave unclear what is meant by those concepts. Even so, there is a greater degree of agreement in respect of power, with Lukes (1974) offering a recent advance by identifying a third dimension. In contrast, disagreements about justice can be at the fundamental level of relative entitlements: some who regard particular individuals or groups as inherently unequal see a corresponding unequal distribution of rights and obligations as just; conversely, others see the same people as basically equal and so see such inequalities as unjust. Here the issue is refocussed by according all people comparable rights to develop, achieve their potentialities, and experience fulfilment and satisfaction. Such a position incidentally requires that the observer-interpreter be impartial as between people in attentiveness to opportunities and obstacles for all to develop and achieve. It is also a position that is quite difficult to uphold because it disregards power as a factor in establishing claims for rights and opportunities. A further problem of considerable significance in the examination of individuals and groups is the gathering of data about them. Any one group justifies extensive study, and a discussin such as this is the better informed to the extent that it draws upon such studies; unfortunately, however, they are few. Further, people and groups that seek to exercise influence are not always readily visible: indeed, some, and particularly the more powerful, are sometimes both concerned to limit their observability and effective in doing so. Nonetheless, effects of decisions and policies eventually have an influence, and although working back from impact introduces a time lag between formulation and examination, it still enables examination and interpretation to be undertaken. Again, the present is a particularly propitious time to study education in that changing and even worsening circumstances have challenged individuals and groups to act more vigorously and often more publicly to maintain or even continue to enhance their achievements and circumstances, so that they have been more observable and therefore more amenable to analysis and interpretation. Here, problems of data gathering have been met by undertaking a wide ranging study of documents and other material, including media sources, supplemented with interviews with spokespeople of organisations at both state and national levels. Finally, some degree of validation has been achieved by using opportunities to formulate interpretations and test them against the interpretations of other observers, including participants in the ongoing social activities. Ultimately, of course, examining and interpreting the contemporary, dynamically evolving scene can have neither certainty nor conclusiveness. Even so, it is an important task to undertake if understanding and action are to be reasonably adequate and soundly based. In essence, then, this discussion constitutes an attempt to examine the significance of interest groups in educational activity, using Australia as an illustrative case. A focus on the pursuit of interests by groups with differential power highlights processes and relationships such as conflict, dominance and subjection, and suggests the relevance of the conflict position elaborated by Collins (1971, 1975). In giving significance to the operation of a sense of justice in social activity, however, the possibility is raised of a necessity to modify such a position in order to deal with the practice of compassion and social concern. Interests and protagonists To consider interests and the protagonists who pursue them in respect of schooling is to consider a diverse array of groups related in a variety of ways to the operation of schooling. For example, not all operate from outside; some, such as teachers and administrators are fully employed within the structures. Nor are all relevant groups organised, articulate and able to express coherent points of view; such a level of operation is usually beyond students, for example, whose interests are served by default, to a degree, by parents, teachers, researchers and administrators. Nor is to be organised and articulate necessarily indicative of common interests: any group such as teachers, parents or employers combine sub-groups with different interests that compete so that there is rivalry and even conflict within an overall group. Nor is it possible here to be authoritative on the interest groups operating in relation to schooling; rather, such is the relative invisibility of some, and the absence of research on them, that they can be little more than identified and discussed from general observations. Nevertheless, in a survey such as this it is important to at least identify and raise questions about them. The first group, then, is the children who attend schools. Although the largest group associated with schooling, they rarely achieve an association to represent their interests, partly because they are organisationally inadequate and unsophisticated, partly because they are more transient in the school situation than others such as teachers and administrators, but largely because they lack the resources and facilities for sustaining a formal association to act on their behalf. In addition, students' shared interests can be very general and particular ones most diverse, so that a single association would have considerable difficulty in developing consensus around policies on many issues. Significantly, student associations have only been sustained at the tertiary level. Ironically, however, children are not without protagonists ready to act or speak in their name. For example, in debates on educational issues such as school funding, curriculum or school organisation, governance or assessment, proponents of very different positions often argue their positions as being `in the best interests of the child' or on the basis of children's rights. Again, the Victorian Institute of Secondary Education (VISE,1978:3-4) claimed that it is to offer assistance to youth moving between secondary schooling and employment or further study, but it is difficult to perceive how it serves children who are sorted `out' rather than `in', or how it is primarily helping children when its main task is to produce performance profiles of children for selectors, and offers nothing to children by way of profiles of places of work or further study. Still, again, administrators and teachers purport to have children's interests foremost while nonetheless preoccupied with running schools as places of order (e.g. Williams, 1981). Employers likewise express concern but of a kind that would have children shaped more appropriately to their employment requirements (Senate Standing Committee, 1981:3-10). Researchers have come but lately to catch children's experiences, perceptions and inter+pretations, and show schooling from their viewpoints (Campbell, 1976; Norman, 1980; Collins & Hughes, 1982). One point that is clear, particularly from research done in other societies (Willis, 1977; Woods, 1983), is that children can exercise some influence within the classroom and the school, although `troublemakers' can be isolated and manoeuvred out of schooling. However, in respect of any system beyond the school, children are weak and vulnerable as a social force, and largely dependent on the concern of others such as parents, teachers, administrators and researchers. An essential point is that in Australia, as elsewhere, the interests of children are real but not well articulated. That situation reflects their relative ineffectiveness politically and, in that circumstance, the interests of others are promoted energetically, and commonly have priority. Parents constitute a second group who, given the prevailing modus operandi of schooling, can reasonably be argued to be its clients. At the same time, parents' interests are not necessarily the same as those of their children. Hence, while able to interpret and act on their behalf, parents do not have a basis for claiming absolute authority to decide what is best for them. In addition, the activities of some parents on behalf of their own children can have consequences that are detrimental to the best interests of other children, as will be illustrated presently. A particular concern of many public school parents has been to gain greater influence in the operation of schools and some state education departments have responded with changes in the composition of school councils to enable parents to elect representatives (e.g. Fitzgerald & Pettit, 1978; Minister of Education, 1983). However, changes in styles of participation can take time to develop when parents have been virtually excluded from active and influential participation in schools since the state systems were established in the late nineteenth century. J51 2015 words The ends of philosophy: an essay in the sociology of philosophy and rationality By Harry Redner The Second Secession The second secession of the sciences from philosophy resulted from those transformations that ushered in the second phase of classical science. Decisive changes took place in the natural sciences which made them further removed from the previous epistemological metaphysics: physics moved towards greater mathematisation and abstraction; mathematics, too, developed the abstractions of non-Euclidian geometry and symbolic logic; chemistry became atomic and biology cellular. Of even greater importance for philosophy were, however, the new sciences of life, history, society, culture, or in short the sciences of evolution and Man. All this brought about the beginning of the end of metaphysics, or at least its transfor+mation into a form which no longer had any direct relation to tradi+tional First Philosophy. And, simultaneously, it brought about a transformation of Rationalism from its classical to its progressivist mode. Progressivist Rationalism is inherent in the post-Enlightenment ideal of rational Progress. Rationality is viewed in terms of one or another of the concepts of Progress, be it development, evolution, concrete realisation, or the stages of history or production. Progress is seen as inherently rational, and rationality is seen as the outcome of Progress; the one defines the other: Progress is the realised movement of rationality, and rationality is what is unfolded in the course of Progress. Thus the progressive unfolding of the stages of development of anything is always judged to be a rational sequence which, though not necessarily teleological, does move toward some goal or fulfilment. Rationality is inherent not so much in any ultimate culminating telos or end, as it would be in metaphysical thought, but in the very process of self-development, which is held to be governed by rational law. Rationality thus becomes subject to temporality; it is no longer manifest all at once, all there in the one ever-present order or structure; rather it presents itself successively over time through the propulsion of a creative Deed of ordering and structuring. It no longer simply `is', it `becomes': becoming, not being, is its quasi-metaphysical subject. It is sociologically apparent why this should have meant an end to traditional metaphysics. Progressive Rationalism negated every fixed order so that no unity of being could maintain itself in the face of universal development and change. The earlier epistemological Rationalism still maintained, though in a greatly altered form, all the old metaphysical principles of Being, God, Nature, Human Nature, Essence and Truth. With the onset of Progressive Rationalism, all these were set in motion - first subjected to continual transformation, then finally abandoned. Being became Becoming, God became Progress or History, Nature became raw material for human activity, Human Nature became Man the chief active agent, fixed Essence was abandoned in favour of existence and Truth was relativised in terms of sequential stages. According to Marx, this intellectual revolutionising process was brought about by the material revolutionary inroads of capitalism and carried through by the bourgeoisie: Constant revolutionising of production, uninterrupted distur+bance of all social conditions, everlasting uncertainty and agitation distinguish the bourgeois epoch from all earlier ones. All fixed, fast-frozen relations, with their train of ancient and venerable prejudices and opinions, are swept away, all new-formed ones become antiquated before they can ossify. All that is solid melts into air, all that is holy is profaned, and man is at last compelled to face with sober senses, his real conditions of life, and his relations with his kind. Among the ancient and venerable prejudices and opinions that were thus swept away, metaphysics would hold a prominent place. But the belief that such a clean sweep would force man to face with sober senses his real conditions of life rests on an historical empiricism that is no longer credible. We have learned to read the critique of ideology as itself an ideology. Marx's Progressivist Rationality is by no means the sober truth of historical reason. Despite evident differences, Progressivist Rationality is a mode of Rationalism; for even though it is rationality temporalised, it is as law-governed, ordered and inherent in things or processes themselves as the earlier classical Rationalism. It is also method-bound and analytic; and though no longer simply presenting tabular analyses outlining a structural order, it is itself, nevertheless, given to tracing regular sequences of development and drawing up tables of stages. The new Rationalism is also self-reflexive and critical, like the earlier. The laws of Progress function as the rational standards by which everything traditional may be criticised, as did the laws of Nature earlier. The very same laws apply self-critically to the thought or science that discovers them, so that all new knowledge is viewed as the rational culmination at once of Progress and of self-consciousness. This self-conscious philosophic conception of Progressivist Rationalism was first elaborated `idealistically' by Hegel, but it was eventually interpreted `materialistically' and much more scientistically by Marx and even Comte. Under the intellectual aegis of Progressivist Rationalism, there took place that disciplinary separation and definition of most of our sciences which we have called the second secession of science from philosophy. It was mainly carried through within the new German university system, which began with the foundation of Berlin University around 1806. At first it meant a greatly expanded role for philosophy, which temporarily became encyclopaedic, but the eventual outcome as one after another of the sciences broke away was the reduction of philosophy to the status of merely one among many other academic disciplines. As Ben-David and Zloczower see it, 'the German university system provided the basis for the great development of philosophy as a systematic discipline. But contrary to the intention of the philosophers, the university system made philosophy into just one of the academic disciplines, and added to it a great many new ones'. These authors go on to explain the sociological processes by which philosophy first expanded and then contracted as it was broken down into specialised disciplines, all of which were at first `closely connected with the ideological bias of German philosophy'. That philosophy was predominantly Idealism. Thus, in its opening phase it was not at all apparent that the second secession of the sciences from philosophy would also signal the end of metaphysics. On the contrary, it seemed as if Idealism meant the revival of metaphysics and speculative reason despite the earlier restrictions imposed by Kantian Critical Philosophy. The Idealist Naturphilosophie culminating in Hegel's Encyclopaedia was taken as indicative of the recovery of the hold of metaphysics over the sciences - an attempt at the comprehension and unification of all the sciences such as had not been seen since Aristotle. As we now know, all this proved short-lived and chimerical . Hegelian Idealism collapsed - though it did not disappear for reasons we shall explore later - and metaphysics was under attack as never before. The new varieties of sciences, above all the historical sciences of Man together with new evolutionary sciences of Time, were in the process of breaking away from philosophy and they eventually excluded metaphysics completely from any hold on reality. They did so precisely by occupying the intellectual space that had previously enabled Rationalist metaphysics to function: the epistemological ground of knowledge, method and rationality. This ground now became the province of the new sciences of the mind, logic, language, culture and society. It was precisely the field of epistemology, the locus of classical Rationalism, that was subjected to a new scientific understanding. Empiricism and Rationalism in philosophy were no longer needed. The formation of ideas was to be explained from now on purely scientifically by the new science of psychology. This at first took a purely mechanistic guise in Associationism, as in the work of Thomas Brown and Dougal Stewart (1804), but very soon became Phenomenological in the work of Goethe, and eventually spread over every area of human mind, including the unconscious. Its challenge to philosophy became total with the appearance of Fechner's `Psycho-physics' (1860), `which seemed to hold out the prospect of introducing into philosophical discussion the definiteness and methodical treatment which had done so much for the natural sciences'. A similar challenge to any metaphysics of ideas was posed by another presumptive science, that of Ideologie as founded by Destutt de Tracy (1804). This `science', castigated by Napoleon as the work of mere `ideologues', had little success until it transformed itself into ideological critique as part of Marx's science of historical materialism, itself established on the basis of a criticism of the new science of `classical' economics founded earlier by Smith and Ricardo. The social formation of ideas was also the subject of the new science of sociology founded by Comte. The almost simul+taneous foundation of symbolic logic by Boole, computation by Babbage and the non-Euclidean geometries by the pupils of Gauss had an equally decisive effect on all Rationalist metaphysics of deductive reasoning from indubitable axioms and of intuited laws of thought. But perhaps the innovations most destructive of every metaphysical epistemology were those of the new cultural sciences (Geisteswissenschaften), developed largely in Germany. By the early eighteenth century Vico had prefigured a thorough critique of the Rationalism of Descartes and the Empiricism of Hobbes by means of a cultural theory of language and the historical development of knowledge. Knowledge derived neither from abstract reason nor sensory experience, neither from intuited truths nor constituted ideas, but from the slow historical growth of cultural forms, above all, of modes of language. Vico's views were taken up by Goethe (who discovered his work in Naples on his first Italian journey) and also by Herder and Hamann, none of whom ever fully realised or acknowledged their debt to him. Together they laid the basis for most of our cultural sciences: from comparative literature to folklore, from philology to the history of knowledge, from cultural anthropology to a theory of world-history. The emergence of philology alone had manifold consequences for philosophy, and perhaps the first man fully to grasp this was Goethe's friend Humboldt. (We shall see how his folkish view of language as the primary communal expression of a people, with its anti-individualist bias, anticipated Wittgenstein's so-called private-language argument against the Cogito.) Humboldt decisively rejected the classical Rationalist view of language as a set of signs whose function it was to represent ideas through an arbitrarily estab+lished relation of association - a view which his contemporary, Hegel, still held and which de Saussure was partly to revive in the context of a new systemic linguistics. He propounded instead a theory of the word as an expressive element within a language seen as an organic whole charged with `energeia'. This Aristotelian notion, which he acquired through Leibniz and endowed with his own `activist' meaning, reveals lingering shades of metaphysics. Thus, activity, or the Deed, became explicitly the foundation of language, and so implicitly also of all meaning and reality, something which no philosopher at the time had yet formulated. To Humboldt and the other key figures of Berlin University, philology meant much more than the study of language in the sense that contemporary linguistics now propounds. Philology was for them the basic form of all humanistic scholarship; in his history of this period Merz makes apparent the importance of philology as the focus for scholarship throughout the German university system, a role that it has scarcely lost in Germany even today. Hermeneutics has continued to be its basic philosophical quasi-epistemology; from Schleirmacher, a contemporary of Humboldt at Berlin, it was passed on to Dilthey, who first formulated it as a `method'; from there it was taken up by Heidegger, and it is even now being continued by Gadamer, Ricoeur and even Habermas. Nietzsche, too, was trained in classical philology and its hermeneutic techniques and he taught rhetoric at Basel, all of which is clearly reflected in his first philosophic work, The Origin of Tragedy. Many of his later philosophic moves are strictly speaking philological: for example his questionable use of changing word-usage for evidence of the master-slave morality distinction, his more substantial linguistic critique of moral values, and also his suggestive remarks on the relationship between the philosophical categories and grammar, which we shall examine critically later. J53 2001 words Sophia - April 1986 Towards a new theology of transcendence By Ronald S. Laura In recent years it has become fashionable to suppose that the conflict between religion and science is more apparent than real. It has, for example, been argued by Max Charlesworth that there is no conflict between Christianity and science, only a conflict between a "certain fundamentalist form of Christianity and a certain philosophical theory about science". Charlesworth's suggestion is that the Christian scriptures about God and the world do not admit of literal interpretation and similarly, that the theory of science cannot legitimately be positivistically*psotivistically construed. Once the forms of Christianity and science are thus recast less parsimoniously, the tension between religion and science is deemed to vanish. There is, I admit, a strong temptation to reduce the conflict between religion and science to the terms of dispute so persuasively enunciated by Charlesworth, but I am bound, nonetheless, to urge that it is a temptation to be resisted. There is, of course, a truth in Charlesworth's formulation of the problem, but it is not the truth upon which the resolution of the relation between religion and science turns. The demythologization of Christianity has its limits, just as the de-positivisation of science has its*it limits. I thus incline to the view that there is a deeper level of tension between religion and science than we have discerned, and that it shows itself in the limits of religion and science, not in the forms of which the limits feature simply as one expression. We can demythologize Christian scripture, but we cannot demythologize the doctrine of God's transcendence which underpins it without destroying the essence of Christianity itself. It is either a literal truth that God exists or it is not, and transcendence is the mode of God's existence. Science is similarly delimited by the constitutive concepts which served to characterize it. Positivism is admittedly one and not the only form which science can take, but it is the essence of science that it cannot take just any form. The constitutive concepts of science preserve not positivism but an empiricist methodology by way of which the world is known through the quantification of its parts and the mensuration of their relations to each other. What there is, even in the framework of a science demythologized of positivism, reduces to what is quantifiable and mensurable. The degree of latitude in the methodology is a matter simply of the variety of ways in which it is possible to quantify and to measure. In this sense, the tension between the nature of belief in the God of Christianity and the logical character of science is fundamental. The problem of God's transcendence is, I submit, the recalcitrant problem which gives rise to the conflict between religion and science, more real, I should say, than apparent. In the remainder of this piece I shall be concerned to adumbrate a new theology of transcendence. My aim is to provide a tolerably coherent account of a possible interpretation of God's transcendence which neither exaggerates nor underplays the pressure which science places on religious belief. The theological disposition has regrettably, I believe, been to capitulate to science. The more science is alleged to explain of the universe the further we have let God be driven from it. The concept of God's transcendence of the universe has almost become an euphemism for his absence from it. Let us see if we cannot now redress the balance. Before the advent of modern science the concept of transcendence derived a certain sense from the idea of the universe as a spatially limited system. The finiteness of the world enhanced the infinitude of God. If the world were limitable, then the transcendence of God put him beyond its limits. It was Giordano Bruno, however, who in the sixteenth century challenged the concept of the universe as a spatially closed system. Following Copernicus, he affirmed the belief that the earth and planets revolve in orbits around the sun, but extended the view by postulating an infinite space with no fixed centre in which stars are independent suns, moving like our universe, through unending space. By expanding space to infinity, Bruno coincidentally robbed the word `beyond'. of its meaning, for the world was no longer finite space. Bruno had unwittingly challenged God's own territorial imperative in the theology of the times, and he paid dearly for his heresy, as it was then viewed, by being burnt at the stake in the year 1600. Since the time of Bruno, the concept of transcendence has become progressively more recondite as science has pushed back the frontiers of the universe ever further. I have elsewhere argued that it is a mistake to reject religious belief in the name of science, for the affirmation of scientific belief rests ultimately upon faith. It is no part of my purpose to rehearse that argument here, but one of its aspects is pertinent to the present consideration. Certain beliefs are what I have called `epistemically primitive' in respect of the enterprize of science. An obvious example of the sort of belief I have in mind is the tacit assumption, underpinning all science, that the future resembles the past. If a scientist did not believe that the future resembled the past, there would be no point in carrying out experiments, as one would have no way of connecting the results of one experiment with the results of another. That the future resembles the past is not itself, however, a belief that can be established by experiment, for it is a constitutive belief or experimentation. That the future resembles the past is a pre-condition, that is to say, of experimentation and thus cannot itself without vicious circularity be incorporated as its result. Inasmuch as this belief characterizes the way in which we test, by asserting the conditions under which testing becomes intelligible, it is what science must exempt for specific tests of science to be intelligible. There is a mordant irony in the fact that though the belief that the future resembles the past figures within science as epistemically primitive, the concepts of `future' and `past' are not themselves pellucid. Equally ironic is the realization that the whole concept of space- time to which tensed predicates such as future and past are wedded would itself appear to be fraught with difficulties. The problematic nature of the space-time manifold becomes theologically interesting when we are reminded that it is the spatio-temporal boundaries in respect of which God's transcendence is postulated. If there is conceptual confusion or incoherence in the articulation of these boundaries, as I suggest there is, the theological disquisition could well benefit from their discovery. Given that the spatio-temporal demarcation of the world in scientific terms has proved inimical to the theistic affirmation, it would thus seem imperative to link the analysis of divine transcendence with the analysis of the confusions attendant upon space-time categories. This is what I now propose to do. Part of the difficulty in getting clear about the concepts of space and time is that we implicitly enjoin spatial metaphors in the elucidation of time while explicitly denying temporal metaphors in the elucidation of space. Indeed, in solid geometry three-dimensional space is represented as timeless and all verbs as tenseless. Yet our ordinary discourse about time betrays a closer relation between space and time than one might at first suspect. Our metaphors for time reflect spatial references. We speak, for example, of time as a river in which events flow past us, like seasons which come and go, sweeping away the present moment into the ever more distant past. The passage of time metaphor creates the impression of time as a kinetic continuum. The focal points of time are events, and events possess the kinetic quality being future, present, and past, for they have not yet happened, are currently happening or have already happened. Events are ordered in time, in other words, by conceptualising time as a sequence of events whose position in the sequence is constantly changing. As the old adage would have it, `Time waits for no one'. To complicate matters further, time predicates are `token reflexive' or `indexical', being self-referential in respect of their utterance. While their connotation is fixed their denotation is constantly changing. Where one stands in the river of time (yet another spatial metaphor) will determine one's temporal relation to the specific event, whether it is past, present, or future or all three at the same time for different people in different times. The fall of the Roman Empire was for Caesar a future event, though it is for us a past event. When one considers that the `things' of which events are constituted are in ontological terms, `enduring substances', the paradox of the permanence in change becomes unavoidable. Since the same event is at different times future, present and past, we may feel there is less of a problem in the ascription of three incompatible temporal properties to it. After all, we do not ascribe temporal*termporal properties simpliciter; our temporal predicates are attributed by reference to a particular time. So at time `t' the event is future and at time `t2' it is past and so on. In this sense we could employ dates to characterize the river of time much in the same way in which we use longitude and latitudinal coordinates to locate places on the globe. In so doing, however, we have strengthened the spatial metaphor of time, for dates are now made to function as cartographical references on the river of time, measuring the distance between one event and another in terms of duration. Two peculiar difficulties emerge. The first relates to how time can be measured. Time flow entails motion through time, whereas time is what we use to measure motion through space. We talk, for example, of moving from point X to Y at so many metres per second. If we now shift the example to movement through time, we shift from metres per second to measuring the flow of time in terms of seconds per what? What we are deprived of is precisely the fixed frame of temporal reference against which the flow of time could be measured. There is, of course, another difficulty even less tractable than the first. We have tried to avoid the paradox of ascribing three incompatible temporal properties, i.e. future, present, past, to the same event by specifying the uniqueness of time of the ascription in respect of the event. Unfortunately, the general theory of relativity shows that there is no unique moment of individuation to which we can appeal to achieve this, for it turns out that simultaneity is itself relative. There is no specific time that could be nominated unambiguously as the present moment, since any two spatially distinct events can - relative to the movement of any two observers - be contemporaneous to one and yet sequential to the other. As Davies has aptly put it: Indeed, even the temporal order of such events is relative. It is therefore meaningless to wonder what is happening `now' on the quasar 3C273, because if the reader stands up and walks about, his minor change of motion will have shifted the moment of simultaneity on that distant astronomical object by some thousands of years. Similarly, distant aliens are disagreeing about whether 1979 on Earth is past or future according to whether they are sedentary or strolling! Our inquiry thus far has been intended to show that while contemporary science presupposes a four-dimensional space-time manifold, with three dimensions of space and one of time, there are serious difficulties inherent in its analysis. I have also intimated earlier that the issue of God's transcendence is not unrelated to the way in which science has relied upon its spatio-temporal model as ontologically delimiting. Having prepared the ground, the time has come to plant the conceptual crop, in the hope that we will yet have time for the harvest. The thesis I shall propose is as follows. J57 2016 words Blood from a stone: William Cooper and the Australian Aborigines' League By Andrew Markus Introduction The complexity of Aboriginal responses to the invasion of their land has strained, and in general eluded, European understanding. The act of phys+ical resistance was readily intelligible, although it was the fashion for social commentators and historians to belittle its extent, to discount the courage and ingenuity of its perpetrators. But it was another matter to fathom Aboriginal perspectives, to comprehend strategies of resistance and forms of accommodation beyond the rationality of the invader, a subject which has been explored by Henry Reynolds. Little understood by most white Australians distinctive Aboriginal values - in parts of the country a world view and way of life - continue to survive. Optimal conditions for survival of Aboriginal traditions were found in parts of the north and the interior: in areas regarded as unsuitable for Euro+pean economic activity, and in circumstances of slow European penetration and non-intensive land use which allowed Aborigines to maintain elements of their culture alongside casual employment within the European economy. Cultural maintenance was most difficult in the context of rapid European incursion, leading to the swamping of the existing population and its rapid numerical decline as a consequence of disease and physical conflict. The extent to which the remnant populations retained their traditional culture remains a subject of dispute. The long accepted view that they constituted demoralised, dispirited, amoral victims, caught between two worlds and fit+ting neither, has come increasingly under challenge from a new generation of historians. One approach to an understanding of these remnant populations is through a study of their attempts to influence the political system estab+lished by the British in Australia. It could not be maintained that such a study directs attention to the heart of Aboriginal existence, but it does have the virtue of engaging one aspect of their lives on which written ev+idence survives in relative abundance, and beyond its intrinsic interest it has the potential to furnish insights into questions of wider significance. To the present there has been little historical research into this aspect of post- frontier politics and a number of misconceptions are to be found in the general works which cover the subject. Thus a current Department of Aboriginal Affairs publication on the history of land rights can state that "the first public protests by Aboriginals" occurred in the 1930s; according to Lorna Lippmann the "first Aboriginal strike took place in 1945"; in Richard Broome's view it was not till William Ferguson and John Patten "penned a manifesto entitled `Aborigines Claim Citizenship Rights'" in 1938 that "the Aboriginal version of Australian history" was "set down on paper for the first time by Aborigines themselves". The influence of Aborigines on the British political process dates from the early period of British occupation. This influence stemmed from their physical resistance to "settlement" and peaked at a time when Aborigines were operating outside the British political system, often with limited or no understanding of its operation. It did not take long, however, for groups of Aborigines to attempt to operate within its terms, although not necessarily for ends sanctioned or understood by the British. One early focus for this activity was the attempt to obtain British title to land, with the objective of adopting a sedentary agricultural existence. Within the first years of British occupation of South Australia, for example, Aborigines made personal appeals for plots of land. In 1859 a deputation of Victorian Aborigines to William Thomas, the government official respon+sible for their welfare, was successful in obtaining land for cultivation. Additional land was set aside by governments and a subsequent focus for political activity was the attempt to secure acceptable management prac+tices and resources for development. Later again, extending to the present day, Aborigines defended themselves against attempts to deprive them of land reserved for their benefit. In the 1870s and 1880s Victorian Aborig+ines, most notably the residents of the Coranderrk reserve near Melbourne, were sufficiently familiar with the British political system to achieve ma+jor victories. Through their actions, which included strikes, petitions and deputations to leading politicians including the Premier, they provoked two parliamentary inquiries and numerous minor investigations and obtained what appeared to be secure title to the reserve. In the first half of the twentieth century Aborigines continued to suffer the lot of a dispossessed people who were relegated to, and some would argue adopted by choice, a place on the margins of the Anglo-Australian world. In this period the racial ideology which marked them as a stone-age remnant destined for extinction in the near future was further elaborated. Aborigines continued to wage battles for the retention and development of reserves, particularly in the south-east of the continent, although often with less success than in the nineteenth century. There was, however, a new prob+lem to be faced. While acts of physical violence against Aborigines became less frequent in the more settled parts of the country, a new feature of their relationship with Anglo- Australians was the imposition of legislation with potential to control practically all aspects of their lives: their freedom of movement and association, choice of employment, right to dispose of assets as desired, including wages, and to marry and raise families. While lack of bureaucratic and financial resources meant that legislative controls were not fully utilised, nearly all Aborigines were deprived of basic political rights, their personal freedoms were limited, and they were commonly discri+minated against by employers. Many lived in fear of government officials who had the power, most notably exercised in Queensland, to compel residence on reserves, and in most states to remove children by force. The interwar period, particularly the 1930s, marked the beginnings of change in policy towards Aborigines. Aboriginal spokespersons, and by the late 1920s a small group of whites, including clergymen, academics, female philanthropists, businessmen, and politicians, urged governments to accept that extinction was not an inevitability, that it was possible for Aborigines to `advance' towards `civilization' with the appropriate guidance. By 1934 white pressure groups, given favourable publicity in major newspapers, were of sufficient strength to force the commonwealth to halt an openly planned punitive expedition following the killing of a policeman in what became known as the Tuckiar case. During the second half of the decade there was reconsideration of policy at the highest levels of government. In April 1937 the first nationwide conference of administrators with control over Aborig+ines met in Canberra. Concerned with the significant rise in the number of people of mixed descent, the conference resolved that "the destiny of the natives of aboriginal origin, but not of the full blood, lies in their ultimate absorption by the people of the Commonwealth". In the following year the federal government, with responsibility for Aborigines in the Northern Terri+tory, announced new policy initiatives and was in the process of recasting its administrative structure when the outbreak of war altered priorities. While those involved in seeking to reform policies had reason for hope, there were also many disappointments and grounds for despair, a common feature of a time of change. On the one hand they received an increasingly sympathetic hearing, particularly from*form Commonwealth ministers, and new policies were being discussed and adopted; yet some states, including New South Wales, seemed to turn a deaf ear to suggestions for change while others, notably Queensland and Western Australia, continued to strengthen their discrimi+natory powers, broadening the definition of `Aborigine' to formalise control over those of even remote descent. A number of organisations attempted to influence government policy. While both Aboriginal and white Australians were involved there was a ten+dency for them to remain separate, one factor being the reluctance of white reformers to accept that Aborigines had anything to contribute. Thus the most prominent of the organisations, the Sydney based Association for the Protection of Native Races, was in practice exclusively white. The organi+sations formed by Aborigines were willing to accept assistance from white sympathisers but they generally attempted to prevent non-Aboriginals from acting as spokespersons. Aboriginal political activity in the inter-war pe+riod, often pursued on the British model in the south, was marked by a tran+sition from movements grounded in specific communities and with narrow, community-oriented objectives, to broadly based capital city organisations with interstate links and objectives designed to address needs throughout the country. In November 1926 Aborigines of mixed descent in the south- west of Western Australia, "tired of being robbed, and shot down, or run into mis+erable compounds", decided to form a union "in order to obtain the protec+tion of the same laws that govern white man"; in the words of one activist, Norman Harris, the objective was to "get a vote in the country also one law for us all that is the same law that governs the whites also justice for fair play". One of the movement's leaders, William Harris, had been active for over twenty years in protesting against the mistreatment of Aborigines. In March 1928 a deputation*depututation met with the Premier to request: That there be unrestricted admittance of educated aborigines to Perth. That aborigines from various tribes should not be drafted to settlements where they were likely to meet members of hostile tribes. That aboriginal police should not be placed in control of settle+ments. That aborigines should be allowed to carry firearms, as prohibi+tion prevented them from providing for their needs. That there should be no discrimination between full-blooded and half-caste aborigines under the act. That aborigines in the north should be subject to different con+trol from those in the south. That those educated up to the standard of white men should be exempt from the Aborigines Act. In New South Wales returning Aboriginal servicemen had petitioned in 1919 for "civic rights". Growing political activity led in February 1925 to the formation of the Australian Aboriginal Progressive Association. Under the presidency of Frederick Maynard the Sydney based association linked the activities of a number of communities, and by August 1925 claimed eleven branches and a membership of 500 people. It remained active till at least 1927. In the view of Heather Goodall its "first and major demand was ... for land, as an economic base and as a compensation for dispossession". In addition, it called for the halting of the forcible removal of Aboriginal children from their families, full citizenship rights, and the abolition of the Protection Board and its replacement by one composed of Aborigines, al+though with a government-appointed chairman. Aborigines were also active in Melbourne during the late 1920s, with Thomas James and his son Shadrach acting as leading spokesmen. Thomas James, regarded by the press as a "full blooded Australian black," was a European-educated Tamil from Mauritius. He had been employed as a teacher of Aborigines along the Murray, first in 1881 at Maloga Mission School and from 1888 at the Cumeroogunga reserve, and had married an Aborigine, Ada Cooper, in 1885. Following his retirement he moved to Melbourne where it was reported in June 1929 that he was leading a group of mission-educated Aborigines who planned to meet with the Prime Minister to ask for improved education facilities and opportunities for em+ployment. Their specific objectives included the transfer of control over Aborigines from the states to the commonwealth, increased provision of vo+cational training including the establishment of training farms, improved opportunities for Aborigines to obtain land, and the removal of restrictions to employment in Government departments. James's son Shadrach addressed the Australian National Missionary Council conference in April 1929 to call for assistance in persuading the commonwealth government to change its policy towards Aborigines. He was subsequently a representative at a meeting in the same month between the Minister for Home Affairs and missionary and welfare societies which was called to consider commonwealth policy in the Northern Territory. At this meeting James moved unsuccessfully for consideration of Aboriginal policy in a national perspective. In a newspaper interview at the time of the conference he praised the work of missionaries while highlighting the lack of opportunities available to his people and the discrimination under which they suffered; he called for "an aboriginal representative in Parlia+ment, and a native administrator working for us under the direction of the Minister". J58 2018 words Classicum Some questions on the economic and regional history of Sicily in the fourth century B.C. The historian of Sicily in any period of antiquity is confronted by the paucity of the surviving evidence. The written evidence tends to concentrate on the most distinguished individuals of the time. Even Diodoros, who sought to include a continuous account of the history of his native island within his universal history, with mention, when possible, of his hometown Agyrion, concentrates on these men. Since the leading figures of the fourth century were active in Syracuse - this is true of both the tyrants, the two Dionysii and Agathokles and of the liberators, Dion and Timoleon - we have a history of Syacuse rather than of Sicily. Archaeological evidence can go some way to remedy this problem since a great deal of excavation has been done in Sicily in recent years. But even here we are faced with the pro+blem of incomplete evidence. For example, the excava+tions conducted at Akragas have so far produced no material from the fifth century or the first half of the fourth. But literary evidence shows that Akragas was inhabited and prosperous, down to the Carthaginian sack in 406 B.C. The nature of the surviving evidence creates problems if one wishes to write the history of Sicily from any viewpoint other than that of the leading figures at Syracuse. Nevertheless, there is evidence, both literary and archaelogical, which throws some light on other aspects of Sicilian history. It is possible to draw some conclusions on the economic history of Sicily in the fourth century and on the way in which different regions of Sicily developed. Serious controversies exist, however, on a number of key issues which are central to the interpretation of this period of Sicilian history. The views of the excavators, Orlandini and Adamesteanu, on the dating of archaeo+logical evidence from the region of Gela have generally been accepted. However Navarra has made a wide-ranging critique of their conclusions and also casts doubt on other generally accepted views. He would see the site of ancient Gela at Licata rather than modern Gela (medieval Terranova) and identifies the ancient Halykos with the modern Salso rather than the Platani. But Navarra is forced to make several unlikely assump+tions. He concludes that Terranova was the site of the necropolis of Lindioi, even thought its citizens lived at Licata and that the Spartan prince Dorieus' colony of Herakleia was located at Terranova, and not, as is generally believed, near Eryx at the western extremity of the island. But in that case it is hard to see why the Segestans and the Phonicians should have attacked Dorieus' colony, or why the survivors should have fled to Minoa, closer to the Phoenician zone than Terranova. For our purposes Navarra's most significant argument is that the fourth century remains from Gela-Terranova, especially the coins, are of Agathoklean or later date and that evidence for habitation of the town in the Timo+leontic period is lacking. However Syracusan coins from the period of Timoleon have been found at Terranova. The coin evidence shows that the site at Terranova was inhabitated from the time of Timoleon into the early third century, when we know the Geloans were moved to the new city of Phintias. The evidence does support the dating and identification of the excavators. Pietrina Anello has challenged the accepted view that the widespread circulation of Corinthian pegasi in Sicily sarted with the Timoleontic revival of the second half of the century. She points out that the acceptance of foreign coins in general usage was more likely to have happened in the first half of the century, when only two Sicilian cities were still minting, rather than later in the century, when minting had been resumed by many cities. This is not in total conflict with the accepted view. For example, Talbert explains the widespread use of pegasi in Sicily, by their having entered a "coinage vacuum" where there was little coin in circulation. The important fact is the relative scarcity of pegasi in the hoards of the first half of the fourth century in Sicily. But it seems likely that the penetration of pegasi into Sicily on a large scale may have started before the Sicilian cities recommenced coining them+selves on a large scale, which would cast doubt on Talbert's conclusion that the process commenced only after the battle of the Crimisus. So we must take care in using the influx of Pegasi into Sicily as evidence on Sicilian history. A third issue on which there is modern controversy is the development of large agricultural holdings. Most writers have assumed that in Sicily, as in most parts of the Greek world in the fourth to the first century B.C., property became increasingly concentrated in few hands. This view has been most strongly argued for Sicily by Lukas de Blois, who sees an increasing concent+ration of wealth into a few hands, temporarily broken up by the Timoleontic colonisation and the process resuming again thereafter. But an important part of the evidence for this view is Diodoros' account of the slave rebellion in Sicily, which shows the island as dominated by Latifundia. But Verbrugge has shown Diodoros' account, in which the island is dominated by pastoral production is in+compatible with our other evidence, which shows cereal production to be the island's major industry. Verbrugge sees the story of the servile insurrection as cover for a provincial uprising. Some participation in the revolt by free Sicilians seems likely, though it is not clear why the Romans would have been willing to downgrade the nature of their victory from one over free provincials to one over rebellious slaves, as Verbrugge assumes. But for our purposes, what is important is not the nature of the late second century rebels, but the con+centration of wealth for which Diodoros' latifundia are cited as evidence. In view of the doubts raised over Dio+doros' evidence, it is hardly safe to use that evidence to draw conclusions on the Sicilian economy in the second century, let alone in the fourth. Verbrugge argues from Cicero's Verrines that even in the first century B.C. Sicilian agriculture was still domi+nated by small family farms. But II Verrines 3.27, which he cites as evidence shows us that at Agyrion farming was in the hands of local citizens - it does not tell us the size of their farms. Even without the unreliable evidence of Diodoros, a good case can be made for the concentration of farming land in a relatively few hands in Sicily after Timoleon's time. As early as Agathokles' time, we once again find an impoverished demos as a key factor in the politics of Syracuse. The concentration of population in Syracuse and Akragas at the expense of the smaller centres whose recovery Timoleon had promoted also suggests the re-emergence of a large class of absentee landlords, since family farmers need to live close to their livelihood. The fact that in Cicero's time land in the ager Leontinus was owned by only one family from Leontinoi and by numerous citizens of the free city of Centuripa suggests concentration of land ownership and absentee landholding on a large scale. We can see from the scattered evidence that there was no single pattern of change in land ownership through all Sicily, and we cannot tell precisely what happened in any given place. But it does seem clear that there was a tendency towards concentration of land ownership in Sicily after Timoleon's time, affecting different com+munities in different ways, but, contrary to Diodoros' account, not involving large scale Roman involvement under the Republic. Another general trend which can be seen in our evidence is the devastation of most of Sicily at the end of the fifth century and a renewal of prosperity in the second half at the time of Timoleon's settlement. Once again, there are local variations visible in the way these developments affected various communities, and we can rarely perceive the locally influential factors. The literary evidence is quite clear. The Carthaginians destroyed Selinous and Himera in 409 B.C. In 406 B.C. they sacked Akragas, while Dionysios forced the abandonment of Gela and Kamarina to save their popu+lations. In 396 B.C. the Carthaginian attack fell on the straits of Messina, to cut off Syuracuse from possible help from other Greek communities in Italy or the homeland, and Messana was also destroyed. Dionysios waged war with equal savagery, ravaging the Carthaginian province in 397 B.C. and sacking Motya. In south Italy he destroyed Kaulonia, Hipponium and Rhegion, while as late as 368 B.C. he was once again devastating the territory of Selinous and of Entella. This destruction was not total, as we find in the 405/4 treaty between Dionysios and Carthage that Himera, Selinous and Akragas were to be under Cartha+ginian rule while Gela and Kamarina were to be unwalled and pay tribute to Carthage. We find citizens of these places joining Dionysios in 397 and 384, Akragas revol+ting from him in 393 and those from the east of Minoa joining Dion on his march on Syracuse in 357 B.C. But these references do not necessarily show anything more than that a disorganised remnant of the original population was still to be found there. The ancient sources definitely depict the cities of south-central Sicily as deserted when Timoleon restored them and even Syracuse as suffering from a shortage of population. The literary evidence indicates a serious depopulation of Sicily for all the first half of the fourth century B.C., with Central Sicily as the worst affected area, although even there the depopulation was not total. But our literary evidence undoubtedly depends on the writings of Timaios, whom, we may recall, Polybios accused of exaggerating the deeds of his hero to make him appear unduly distinguished. Fortunately, we have archaeological evidence which confirms the general outline derived from Timaios. The information on Gela is the most detailed in the period between 405 B.C. and 338 B.C.; there are only the most limited signs of habitation, most notably two shrines of the goddess Athena, which would seem to have lain outside the original walls of the city and were in continuous use from the sixth century to the time of Timoleon. Built in Timoleon's time the hill of Gela was covered with newly built houses, extending to its western end. This area had not been inhabited in the fifth century, and the new town spread over an old fifth century cemetery. At the same time a massive circuit of walls was built to defend the city. These are securely dated by both pottery and coins associated with them to the Timoleontic era. After Agathokles' conquest of Gela in 311/10 B.C., the eastern section of the city was abandoned while the western part remained inhabited until the Mamertine destruction of 282 B.C. and the relocation of the Geloans by Phintias, tyrant of Akragas. Orlandini believes that the site was then abandoned until Fredrick II's founda+taion of Terranova in 1233 A.D. while Adamesteanu draws attention to a byzantine cemetery at the foot of the hill and suggests that some form of habitation existed on the site in this period. The evidence on Akragas is less extensive, as we saw above, but it is clear that there was extensive new building in the city in Timoleon's time and, as in Gela, this took place in areas not inhabitated even in the fifth century. Unfortunately, as even less of Akragas, than of Gela, has been excavated, we cannot tell whether this represents an enlargement of the inhabited area of the city or merely a relocation of that area. It has been estimated that the total inhabited area of Akragas would have held a population of 16,000 to 18,000 people. This represents a considerable concentration of popula+tion, but we cannot be certain that the figure applies to the Timoleontic (or any other) period. Similar patterns of devastation and resettlement can be seen elsewhere in Central Sicily. At Kamarina, for example, the fifth century walls were destroyed in large part and not replaced until the Timoleontic era. J59 2030 words The critical distance: work with photography/politics/writing Reinventing the Real: Politics and Photography Jocelyn Clarke Many art theorists would argue that the problems of photography are its own and bear no relation to those of the State and the economy. Many political scientists would agree. I shall argue that political scientists and art theorists are facing some of the same theoretical issues. Nevertheless there is very little dialogue between them. On the whole semiotics have passed political science by, and the new de+velopments in political science, which are perhaps less momentous, have passed art theorists by. As a political scientist I too suffer from the ignorance and one- sidedness I am complaining of, and no doubt this will soon become obvious. Most of us, even political scientists, have moved beyond the naivete which characterised the Family of Man school of photography and the early socialist photographers and critics who believed (without much theoretical foundation in Marxism for their view) that photographs of starving workers' children and bloated capitalists would raise the consciousness and stir the anger of the masses. The most cursory examination of the advertising industry indicates that the techniques of persuasion are not easy or direct and need to be grounded in an understanding of the whole culture and its codes. But the advertising professional accepts and re+inforces the culture as it is, wishing only to alter the customer's behaviour in one small particular, shifting the customer's preference from one brand or one product to another. The socially critical artist has the much more difficult task of somehow contesting or undermining the culture and the code. The artist may not wish to do anything so difficult but simply to present some small vision or insight which is not part of the mainstream; but, because the culture hangs together, to contest some detail is either to contest the whole or simply to fail to communicate one's vision. My lack of skill as a typist sometimes produces a form of automatic writing, like that practised by the Surrealists. In an early draft of this essay, I used the cliche `reinventing the wheel' which was transmuted into `reinventing the real'. When po+litical art (that is, art which challenges the status quo in some way - all art is in some sense political) succeeds it is most often by reinventing the real, and the photographic image with its spurious air of realism is particularly suited to doing this. Reinventing reality means not only giving reality to an invention, but also redefining reality and calling other realities into question. For many people politics means politicians and party conflict, something like foot+ball, our team against theirs. A 1983 survey by the Commonwealth Electoral Office found that these definitions were irrelevant to more than 500,000 Australians who were not enrolled to vote, despite the laws compelling them to do so. Politics are about conflict, inequality, and the struggle for resources but are also about con+sensus, legal and administrative systems, rules of the game and fixed policies. Per+haps it is something like football. After all, the rules of the game provide the framework for conflict, and the game has an outcome and winners who, in the case of politics, can determine policy or even change the rules. Another way of thinking of politics is as a series of picture frames of different sizes, one inside the other: the larger frames at the outer edge of the nest of the frames represent the broader and more basic areas of conflict and consensus; the smaller frames near the centre of the nest represent the day to day conflicts and consensus involved in elections and policymaking, where the scope of the conflict is more narrowly defined. The State, says Max Weber, has the monopoly of legitimate violence within the bounds of a given territory, and he points out that this blending of legitimacy and violence in the State gives rise to the characteristic moral dilemmas of politics. Legitimacy for Weber is the lawfulness of government behaviour in the opinion of the subjects of that government. It is not lawfulness according to any particular law or even the constitution but according to the people's standards of what is right, based upon the particular mixture of legality, tradition and charisma that they favour. Thus we could say that President Nixon was regarded by Americans as a legitimate ruler until the later stages of The Watergate scandal when he lost legitimacy. In this essay I have used legitimacy and illegitimacy in a broader sense than Weber does, so as to include the Judgements of individuals as well as of people in the aggregate about what is politically acceptable to them. Most students of politics, including Jean-Jacques Rousseau who wrote two centuries before Weber, agree that a government requires both means of force or vio+lence and legitimacy in order to rule. The strongest is never strong enough to be always master, unless he transforms strength into right, and obedience into duty. Bertrand Russell, writing in the 1930s, was a bit more pessimistic, saying that in the past no government had ever ruled for long by force alone, but in the future technology would make it possible. Just as nations and individuals have different ideas of what are and are not legiti+mate governments for them (most Iranians seem to regard the Ayatollah Khomeiny's rule as legitimate, most other nations would reject his style of charis+matic theocracy); ideas of reality are also relative. Differences between nations and social groups on the question of what is `real' form part of the subject matter of sociology and anthropology. Societies vary in the degree of political disagree+ment they will tolerate, but few will tolerate much questioning of their notions of reality. In most modern societies the individual with unorthodox notions about reality is usually sent to a psychiatrist. Perhaps artists are allowed a little more licence. For most people the political system under which they live is legitimate and taken for granted, and the reality system even more so. Political theorists and activists have recently begun to stretch and extend our defi+nitions of politics to include the reality system and all the things which seem most basic and unquestionable in our society, for example, capitalism, democracy, motherhood, masculinity/femininity. These ideas, some more than others, also work at the level of visual images. Hence John Berger has been able to analyse the hitherto unquestioned place of the female nude in Western art and what it means in terms of power relationships. A central category in political science is the distinction between public and pri+vate. Perhaps the simplest way to explain this distinction is to imagine the agora, the market and assembly place for male Athenian citizens in classical times, as representing the public sphere. In Athens the civic and business concerns of men belonged to the public sphere, their familial concerns and the lives of women, chil+dren, slaves and foreigners belonged to the private, although the activities of these non-citizens might be regulated by the legislators in the agora. Generally the public equalled the political, the private sphere was non-political. Through his+tory the boundaries of public and private have shifted with the growth of the wel+fare (or intrusive) State and the admission of women into political life. On the other hand, capitalist ideology stresses the private nature of businessmen's economic decisions, thus contracting the public realm. In the twentieth century art is regarded in the communist world as belonging to the public political realm; but in the West art is seen as essentially private, although it is marketed as a commodity. The artist presents his or her personal vision and members of the public respond in terms of their own personal visions. The distinction between public and private persists. It was first seriously challenged by the civil rights movement, the women's movement and student groups in the early 1960s. Since then political scientists, influenced by these groups, have been pushing and stretching the boundaries of `politics'. ... there is a political dimension to all significant human transactions ... Of all the in+stitutions that mediate values and here need be considered as having a political dimension the most neglected by modern political science and equally most adopted by contemporary liberation movements is the family ... The real political disputes are in fact those over the scope of the political ... Current definitions of politics often stress inequality and the struggle for resources as defining features of politics, hence well entrenched inequalities like the in+equality of women and men, are now seen as part of politics. Until recently Marxism has been like `bourgeois' political science in setting narrow limits for the political, confining politics to the public sphere and largely identifying politics with the State. The efforts of Marxists to extend their definition of politics and tackle the thorny problem of the relationship in Marxist theory between the economic base and the superstructure (which includes art and politics) have led to greater stress on the role of ideology rather than on coercion in maintaining capitalist domina+tion. This concern with ideology is taken to its logical extreme in Althusser's notion of ideological state apparatuses. This is not to say that all the battles have been won. People who study the politics of the family or women and politics, as I have done, are often made to feel pretty marginal by our colleagues, the `real' political scientists. And here I am on another margin - politics and photography. Perhaps professional caution is understand+able; there are problems for the working political scientist with expanded defini+tions of politics. The subject of politics gets too big to handle. Although we may subscribe to the broader definitions in theory, we find that in practice we have to set our own limits for each piece of work. There are occasions on which it is useful to concentrate on politics in the narrow sense, on the State and policy. Vicki Randall suggests a useful compromise, that we adopt not one definition of politics but two and use them both according to the needs of the issue. She says that the more traditional view ... see politics as an activity. It is conscious, deliberate participation in the process by which resources are allocated amongst people. The alternative view, which has be+come more influential recently, tends to equate politics with the articulation, or working out of relationships within an already given `power structure'. Each view of politics is appropriate in some contexts. In the remainder of this essay I shall mainly follow the second view of politics but I shall also make use of the classical Weberian concepts of legitimacy, boundaries and violence, treating them in a very broad and sometimes metaphorical way. The artist, like the political ruler, operates within a given territory. The pho+tographer's territory includes the physical limits of the photograph or series of photographs and the system of meanings in a culture. Indeed the political ruler im+pinges on the cultural territory of the artist and seeks to define it. When you are looking through the viewfinder of a camera you are inevitably faced with the problem of framing and boundaries; it is part of your critical distance, an arbitrary piece of surgery that no-one books in for. Much of the work in this book explores the meanings of boundaries in our lives. Some of the unintentional humour of amateur photography comes from the fact that the photographer is not in control of the boundaries. We feel sure that the amateur photographer did not intend to present Aunt Ethel without a head, to in+clude a strange child with our children or cut out half of Uncle Fred. But pho+tographers who are in control of the boundaries of their pictures differ in their attitudes to them. Boundaries may be taken for granted and, in a sense, avoided by the use of symmetrical composition and the gathering of all the important things into the middle of the photograph, or boundaries may be problematical, broken, shifting. When some of Jillian Gibb's work was exhibited at the National Gallery of Victoria in 1983, it was hung in the Photography Gallery on the floor above the exhibition of the European Collection, mainly paintings ranging from the fifteenth to nineteenth centuries. J61 2026 words Futur*fall: Excursion into Post-Modernity Modernism meets modernity: great combusting conjunctures! By Terry Smith What is the Post-Modern? Why has it appeared so prominently, so (apparently) recently? In whose name is the Post-Modern spoken? With what effects? These are the questions Foucault has taught us to ask when we seek to decipher the operations of power within the circulatory systems, the dispensaries of knowledge. There are, of course, no simple, singular answers, nor even the possibility of a set of answers of the same type - because the concept has appeared in different discourses, with distinct, even unrelated meanings. Here, however, I want to apply Foucault's questions to the use of the `Post-Modern' as a marker within the urge to define periods; periods of history - human, social, cultural, artistic, of fashion of thought - even a period apparently beyond history. Specifically, I am interested in the play-off between `modernism' and `post-modernism' within avant-garde art and architecture, and will argue that they are shaped within broader psycho-social regimes, including that of `Modernity'. Whether these relationships have shifted sufficiently in recent years to indicate the emergence for a regime of `Post-Modernity' remains, for me, an open question. It is a question, moreover, to which I suggest we apply the same critical scepticism, however rootless, that is one of the positive productivities of modernism. Import Rhetoric: Necessity and Scarcity In a paper entitled `Catatonia' given during the first Foreign Bodies Conference in Sydney in 1981, Meaghan Morris concluded with two questions about the theme of that conference - `semiotics in/and Australia'. As this Conference may qualify as the second `Foreign Bodies' one, I would like to repeat her questions to see if they might not apply to `post-modernism' here: So what I want to know is: what purpose does it serve to posit a semiotics (post-modernism) which isn't what we do, and what purpose does it serve to posit an orthodox semiotics (post-modernism) which we don't do any more, but we all know we never did anyway? (Morris 1981:139) So far, `post-modernism' as a concept has served the interests of a few artists, performers and writers, mainly in Melbourne, and has become a banal mannerism in architecture. As a piece of import rhetoric, however, it has much impact, a hovering implication, an absence of something so much more complete elsewhere, but making space here for both the superficial and the significant. Consider first superficial Post-Modernism as it appears in architecture. It replays in reverse the strategy of the apologists for the Modern Master architects: whereas they rendered nineteenth- century architecture irredeemably past, ridiculing it as superficially historicist, Post-Modernism attempts to render the modern past by claiming that only the superficial and the historicist are possible now. Some lovers of `mass cult' share this view. It follows that all the structural tensions within the modern are occluded Modern Art, the avant-gardes (critical and fascistic), Modernism (critical and institutionalised), the anti-modernist criticisms - are seen as aspects of the same institutionalised failure, symbolised for Huyssen (1981) and others by the success of the big Beaubourg survey shows of the critical avant-garde (although this is only a partial reading of those shows, and their significance). Repulsion from occlusion was exactly what propelled the anti-modernists of the early 1970s, but, unlike them, superficial post-modernists have only the slender sociality of opportunism. There is a significant other. A story completed, a history ended, leaving to the survivors only the opportunity to gaze sadly, angrily, nostalgically, at random fragments of the end of history as such. Thus Ted Colless at the First Foreign Bodies Conference (1981:154): The simple story is that all the shooting off about post-modernity, post-movementism, transversalism, nomadic desire and semiotic delinquency is the banal re-run of vanguardism that, even in its heyday, was nothing but a useful fiction of speed for a history that has futurised itself into a terminal concussive stability, the intransigent escalation of global security. The `repeat' quality (in the TV programming term) of even this depth of despair is admitted by all: for example, J.F. Lyotard's (1984:16) first response to the question `What is Post-Modern?' is `Certainly it is part of the modern... Post-modernism thus understood is not modernism at its end, but rather modernism at its very beginning - and that beginning is always recurrent'. Superficial `post-modernism', therefore, parallels those much- advertised alcohol substitutes: the modernism you have when you have finished having one - or, more precisely, the avant-garde you have when you're not having a modernism. Can I try to clarify my position here? I resist the invitation to mere indulgence in the cloying closures of `mass culture' imagery, which is all you end up with after Adrian Martin's (1984) absorbing critiques of everything else. Being `swept away' by it is an utterly inadequate response to the recession blues in which this response claims to be socially based. I resist the invocation of a new artistic style with its blind-eye shrug towards reaping the rewards of art institutions sick of being criticised/deserted by `politicised' artists. I resist also the nihilistic necessity of a world apparently `futurised' into `terminal concussive stability' - the repeated insistence on it, however elegantly put by Jean Baudrillard and others, has, like all the preceding images of powerlessness - `repressive tolerance', `reproducing bourgeois ideology', spectator suture', `the lack' - become tedious, dull, even comfortable. I do however, affirm the calm sense of entailment, the extremity of refusal, the implacable criticism of self and others which crosses part of Ted's text cited above, but is perhaps best expressed in the logical shifts of the following: What grounds contemporary aesthetics is catastrophically empty. Our emotivist culture is the final occidental act. It is the ground of a groundless aesthetics. The aesthete's grounds are instrumental and managerial. The power of the aesthetic manager hides his emptiness. Misrepresentations of the mechanism of his aesthetics imposes necessity on that mechanism, the mechanism makes necessity of the misrepresentation. Those who long for a non-decadent aesthetics, a non-decadent art do their longing in images of their arbitrary power. The longings are themselves decadent. This gives us something to do. But we are bound to use these resources and their products and to make nothing of them. Those resources of which we do not, perhaps, make nothing are little better than nothing themselves. There is no anger in this remark. Only a sense of necessity and scarcity. This is from `Art and Language paints a picture - a fragment' (1983:7), written to accompany paintings `by mouth', like the studio picture in the Fifth Biennale of Sydney, itself a history painting of the past decade or so (plate l) better, a surface offered for marking, for tracing, by disputes about what might constitute that history, an invitation / refusal, viciously mocking, of course, Courbet's famous The Studio, the Seven Years of My Life as a Painter and its legacy as a reference in recent art historical debate. This implicates us all. `Only a sense of necessity and scarcity' - such an extremity of critical watchfulness is one marker I wish to place as the irreducible value of any avant-garde worth the name, as impossible to disperse. Such a positioning is, I submit, the only defensible mode of reflexive work. It is not necessarily modernist, although in this century it cannot but have some relationship to the modern, however contingent. The other marker is quite Other, originating separately from any of the artistic modernities which are themselves, in important ways complex effects of it. By the term `modernity' I refer to a social regime, a network of contingencies, set in play by and within the Capitalist Machine. These regimes can form on a variety of levels, across a variety of sites: for example, the economic and cultural `modernisation' of certain Third World countries. There already exists a usage of the term `modernity' in the discourses of art, literature and fashion: since Baudelaire, it has conjured up the social changes making up `modern life' - the bourgeois city, its speed, pleasures, volatility, its release of artistic autonomy, its insistences on the pure pleasures of perception. `Modernity', in these terms, posited both a content for significant art, and specific values in its making - Manet was the exemplary figure. A twentieth-century usage, however, has to be a much expanded affair - indeed, qualitatively different, because it must be located within psycho-social spaces increasingly structured by desires shaped in imaged form, especially visual imagery. Organising this imagery became more and more essential to the modernisation of capitalism. The imagery of modernity was no longer a `popular culture' reservoir into which artists may or may not choose to dip. It fast became a productive regime with its own mechanisms of disruption, reduction and dispersal, entangling artists in a variety of ways. Detroit Desiring Machines My research (Smith 1985) has focussed around one moment in the development of this regime: the period between the wars when, in the United States especially, new corporations joined the welfare state to normalise an advanced social regime around various figures of the modern. Three couplets constantly occur in all forms of visual imagery: industry-worker, city-crowd, and product-consumer. My study traces one trajectory through the invention of line production at the Ford Motor Company plant at Highland Park, Detroit, 1913-14, to the New York World's Fair, 1939-40. From the factory to the spectacle, a very diverse imagery of modernity works with and through other social forces in the prodigious efforts of the New Corporatism to separate production from consumption, and to accelerate, simplify and regulate both. Yet this occurs always in quite specific ways, only one of which I have space to indicate here: Ford Company line production engenders a radically functional architecture, creating new `cities' of industry; these plants are projected as Modern America through business and mass advertisement, using especially an imagery created by hiring the most `advanced' modernist painters and photographers, such as Charles Sheeler and Margaret Bourke-White. Modernism meets modernity...and gets a job. In June 1984 a painting by Charles Sheeler, Classic Landscape, (plate 2) was bought by a consortium of New York art dealers for US$1.87 million, nearly matching the record price for a twentieth- century American painting - the US $2 million paid by the Australian National Gallery for Jackson Pollock's Blue Poles ten years earlier. The painting had been in the collection of Mrs Eleanor Ford ever since her husband, Edsel, bought it from its first exhibition in Detroit in 1932. It was painted in 1931 and was based on photographs taken by the artist in September and October of*if 1927, when he spent six weeks at the Ford Motor Company, River Rouge Plant, Dearborn, Michigan, under commission by an advertising agency to provide images for their campaign for the Model A Ford car, launched in December that year. Fifteen million Model T Fords had been sold since 1908. Their massive output resulted from a transitionally productive strategy: engineering of this product was frozen, and all of the inventive energies were concentrated on reducing (boiling down) the sequences of supply into ever-smaller segments, obsessively increasing internal limits. Thus was created a flow of assembly; each minute part of work, including the movement of stock, the actions of each worker was minuted, surveyed, recorded, coerced. This was the Fordism, so readily extended out of the plant to organise the lives of Ford workers and the surrounding city, which Gramsci (1971:277- 318) attacks. Part of the Ford Co. domain of invention was the tight enveloping of these flows by an architecture - such as Kahn's Building B 1917 at the Rouge plant - a functionalist fitting far tighter than that of the much-heralded European Modern Masters (indeed, its architecture was invisible to them: they read it as spontaneous, `vernacular' design, proto-architecture, modern primitivism). Buildings like this were shaped by both internal and external movement: the six-storey building of 1914 at Highland Park was essentially a storage shed for incoming parts assembled over a railway and structured according to the tracking of cranes. The entire plant was organised around the through movement of ships bringing new materials, railways bringing some manufactured parts, then the assembly, then dispersing of the single product. J64 2009 words Building on Tradition Site history and conservation analyses Ed. by Tony Lee The redevelopment of the library and museum will involve the existing library/museum and Queen Victoria Medical Centre sites. To ensure that the historic, architectural and cultural significance of these sites will be maintained, conservation analyses were commissined by the Public Works Department in June 1985. In addition, existing conditions surveys were undertaken either as part of these reports or previous surveys. An initial report on the existing library/museum complex, which included a detailed existing conditions report on the structure and services, had been prepared by Peter Staughton. The 1985 library/museum study was undertaken by Allom Lovell Sanderson Pty Ltd in association with the PWD; Allom Lovell Sanderson had primary responsibility for the report preparation with the PWD providing additional resources. Major components of the complex already protected by the provision of the Government Buildings Register include the Swanston Street wing, reading room and stairwell. The 1985 Queen Victoria Medical Centre report was prepared by Nigel Lewis and Associates; it followed a preliminary report prepared by the same firm in 1983 for the then Ministry for Planning. Later in 1983 the protective provisions of the Government Building Register were extended to include B, C, D, E and F blocks, the corridor and the main fence in Lonsdale and Swanston Streets. At the same time the whole site was placed on the register to ensure the compatibility of new structures with those scheduled for specific protection. The 1985 study covered all the 1910-16 components still existing as these were identified as being of significance in the earlier report. The primary task of both 1985 reports, as specified by the brief, was to undertake a conservation analysis based upon the Australia ICOMOS guidelines to the Burra Charter. From this, statements of significance were prepared, based on aesthetic, historic, scientific and social values and including a comparative analysis with other examples. The existing conditions survey for each site was also based upon relevant sections of the ICOMOS guidelines. However, a number of specific tasks outside these guidelines were added by the brief to provide a greater basis for development proposals. In both cases this included the updating of existing plans and recording alterations. The Queen Victoria Medical Centre report also included the assessment of the buildings' potential for re-use. The final draft of the Queen Victoria Medical Centre report was submitted in mid-September and the library/museum report at the end of October. The former was made available to competitors in December and the latter was not distributed. Statement of Significance. The State Library and Museum of Victoria buildings are collectively significant because they have been an educational and cultural centre for the people of Victoria for the past 130 years. The buildings physically portray the library, museums and National Gallery's cultural and economic circumstances over that time, and their architecture is significant for reflecting their changing philosophies and status. Of particular signi+ficance in displaying that process are Queen's Hall, Barry Hall, and the domed reading room, its stairhall and stacks, and Monash, Palmer, McCoy, Baldwin Spencer and Thorpe halls. The original Swanston Street building is significant as it houses one of the first public libraries in the world, and the first public library and permanent exhibition space in Melbourne. The whole of the Swanston Street facade is of significance since it is a sophisticated early example of public architecture in Australia and the first major building executed by Joseph Reed in Australia. The dome building is significant for its advancement of reinforced concrete technology and its application to a purpose-built structure. The material was used at a scale previously unequalled and its properties were skilfully utilized to create one of the largest and best proportioned public spaces in Australia. The planning, fittings and usage of the dome building are integral to its significance. History of the Buildings and Site. Introduction: The site that currently accommodates the State library/museum complex has been associated with learned institutions since 1854. When Governor Hotham laid the foundation stone for Melbourne's Public Library it was the first in Australia. Since then, the site has had a plethora of building activity, much ordered and refined, the remainder ad hoc and unfortunate. It has been a most complex growth, involving no fewer than twenty-nine phases of construction, of which the La Trobe Library (built 1965) was the final phase. That the site has experienced such a development is largely a reflection of the tussle for space by its occupants. While only two insititutions remain today, it has had a total of five, plus a major exhibition, over the past 150 years. One of the survivors, the Public Library, was also the original occupant, with its first building opened in 1856. The National Gallery was soon to follow, opening in an unofficial capacity in 1861. The Gallery stayed for more than 100 years, until 1967-68, when it moved to its present site in St Kilda Road. In 1866-67 the site had a short lived yet most influential occupant, the Intercolonial Exhibition. As a direct follow-on from that Exhibition, an Industrial and Technological Museum was formed in 1869, and together with the library and the gallery shared the site until 1899, when the Natural History Museum was transferred across from the University of Melbourne. The Public Library: When Melbourne's leading citizens were considering the establishment of a general and public library in 1853, few of the major libraries in Great Britain and Europe were available for use by the general public. Most major libraries had grown from royal and church collections, from private societies, or were based on the great collections of the universities. Before the Melbourne Public Library was built, the largest library in the city was that maintained by the Melbourne Mechanic's Institute. In 1856 this institution had a library containing some 6,300 volumes. The use of the Institute's facilities was only available to members who paid an entrance fee of ten pounds and an annual subscription of one pound. The institute aimed to attract all social classes to its activities and aimed to be at once a public museum, library and intel+lectual forum from which would radiate all the benefits of European culture. Although it failed to achieve popularity, except among the elite and Melbourne's middle classes, the institute represented an important stage in the development of Melbourne's cultural institutions, and a crucial prelude to the establishment of the public library, museum and gallery complex. Both Redmond Barry and David Charteris McArthur had been committee members of the institute before becoming trustees of the Public Library. The library trustees were appointed by proclamation of Charles Joseph LaTrobe on 20 July 1853. They received a grant of 10,000 pounds and two acres of land in Swanston Street upon which to build a library. On 3 July 1854 His Excellency, Sir Charles Hotham laid the foundation stone on what is now the central section of the main Swanston Street wing of the library/museum complex. This first building was the result of a design competition won by Joseph Reed. It comprised Queen's Hall dominating the first floor, with Palmer Hall, the entrance foyer and Monash Halls below. Built in four stages, the first, including the central core of the entrance foyer and small reading room above, was opened by Major-General McArthur on 11 February 1856. Subsequently the southern section was opened in May 1859 and the northern in 1864, completing the internal spaces of Reeds' building. It was not, however, until 1869-70 that the portico was added and the facade appeared, much as Reed had planned it more than fifteen years earlier. The Melbourne Public Library, although in many respects rather advanced, did not have a lending library until 1892. A deputation from the Trades Hall met with the trustees to discuss the need for a lending branch and it was immediately decided to set one up in the newspaper room. Some books were transferred from the reference library and others were bought as funds permitted. Although the Government was criticised for the small amounts of money it spent on building the Public Library collection, especially in comparison with that of the Parliament library, it grew with such rapidity that by 1885 overcrowding was unbearable. In 1886, Barry Hall was opened in the Little Lonsdale Street wing of the building. It had capacity for 50,000 books. In the first years of the twentieth century the overcrowded situation again became unbearable. It was in these years that a considerable debate developed on a suitable site for a new library and or gallery. In 1906 the architects Reed, Smart and Tappin were instructed to draw up plans for an octagonal reading room using sketches by Edmund LaTouche Armstrong, based, it would seem, upon the Library of Congress in Washington. The design of the new reading room, a central space surrounded by an annulus five storeys high in which were stored the books, necessitated a system for access. Although much of the collection was shelved against the walls of the reading room, other works had to be requested from library officers. Armstrong, the librarian, defended his departure from the tradition of direct public access to the book collection by stating that the most used books would be kept in the reading room, that the new system would be speedy, and that the fact that the collection was growing by 6,000 to 7,000 volumes a year made adoption of some new system of storage inevitable. The new octagonal building with long desks radiating from a raised central supervisor's platform allowed supervision which was not irksome. The building would be freestanding and could be separated from the old building by fireproof doors thereby fulfilling another stipulation for modern libraries. The Swanston Street wing would, it was argued, shield the great room from the street noise. The reading room was to be lit by glass sections in the dome and would be ventilated by a ducted motor driven fan system. The domed reading room was opened on 14 November 1913 by Governor-General Lord Denman. The reading room, like its predecessor, was seen as a cultural symbol, a focus of learning essential to the well-being of the metropolis. The people's pride in their new building was demonstrated by their constant attendance. The Intercolonial Exhibition, 1866-1867: This exhibition was opened on 24 October 1866, and while housed on the library/museum site, little remains of its buildings. The exhibition was, however, of profound significance in the evolution of the present conglomeration of buildings and institutions. The notion of holding intercolonial exhibitions was conceived by the pioneer of technical education in the colony, Samuel Henry Bindon, MLA (1812-1879). The concept of an intercolonial exhibition was a new one because previously at all exhibitions held within Australia or overseas, the colonies had acted independently of each other. The 1866 event signalled a new community of purpose, a sense that the colonies shared common interests beteen themselves and the rest of the world. The decision to build the exhibition's buildings on the library reserve was a result of the belief that there should be a great centre of interlinked institutions which would nurture the intellectual, artistic and commercial development of the colony. Such a complex should not merely gather together books, works of art, scientific specimens and industrial exhibits, but should also perform an active educative function. This ideal was largely fulfilled with the exhibition and the subsequent creation of the Museum of Technology. The range of exhibits in the exhibition demonstrated its similarity to a museum complex, particularly that envisaged by men like Redmond Barry. The nature of many of the exhibits - collections of gems from throughout Australia, a large photo+graphic record of the Colony of Victoria and a project to document Aboriginal languages - evidenced a desire to record, preserve and teach, which was essential to their vision of a museum complex. A master plan for the present library/museum site had been prepared in 1860. It comprised two bold quadrangular buildings: the west building for the library, the east for the museums. J66 2007 words Island - Summer/Autumn 1986 Loss and reassurance: Beverley Farmer's fiction By Cassandra Pybus In her most poignant story, "Summer on Ice" Beverley Farmer interpolates into the narrative a quote from DG Rosetti: "Look in my face; my name is Might-Have-Been. I am also called No-more, Too Late, Farewell ..." (Milk, p 132) While beautifully apposite to the circumstance of that story, these lines could also be read as a poetic encapsulation of Farmer's work as a whole. Alberto Moravia once said that writers have this one big theme they repeat over and over. On the strength of Farmer's work to date, Moravia's observation would certainly hold true. She is a writer who has chosen to explore the internal realm of individual emotion, and within that territory her persistent theme is the experience of loss. Each of Farmer's stories concern loss in some form. The experience may be brutal and complete, but more often it is subtle and intangible, though as inexorable as the passage of time. In "Summer on Ice" Caro ultimately experiences a specific loss in the termination of her affair with a married man, but throughout the story is suffused with her sense of evanescence of life itself: Caroline, who has been so sure that certain afternoons were really unforgettable, finds they have gone. Like a film only intermittently in focus, all the rest a mist. In dreams she relives moments and wakes burning and overjoyed. The dreams fade quickly. (Milk, p 132) As ephemeral as the shimmering ice on which she longs to glide and whirl, Caro's love affair appears both to herself and the reader as a mirage: There are days when Caro does feel as if she is living a dream. She is not real; or she is fading, becoming invisible; or is left behind by time. She lies awake all night. No one knows that they are - were? - lovers. Are we? Were we? she wonders. (Milk, p 128) His cavalier dismissal confirms her perception of the inevitability of her loss, which is as much a function of time as it is the vagaries of human emotion. Something of the same sense is contained in "At the Airport", another of Farmer's excruciating and beautiful stories, in which a mother waits for her son's return from a three months stay in Greece with her ex-husband. Throughout her vigil she is assailed by the loss of her marriage and family, and her fear of the ultimate loss of her son. At their reunion, compounded loss and emotion overwhelm her: To her ex-husband she says in Greek, "There are times when -" She can't speak. "Life -" she tries again. "Oh, life. Life. Well, yes." He smiles wanly. The trees toss and swill the gold light. Their eyes glitter with it. (Milk, p 66) In the story "Woman in a Mirror", a woman contemplating her body fears cancer of the cervix growing within it. "Could death and decay be growing where the child grew she wonders, so soon after?" (Milk p 163) The story concerns death; the death of her husband during her pregnancy on holiday in Yugoslavia; and her own impending death, be it sooner or later. "Everything deteriorates," she thinks. "Nothing lasts. Flesh and love, memories, relationships, the will to live." (Milk, p 166) Death, the ultimate loss, is an omnipresent force in both collections of Farmer's work, Milk (1983) and Home Times (1985), as it is the raison d'etre for the earlier novel Alone (1981). "I am bloody, bold and resolute," Shirley tells us on the opening page of Alone. "I am golden in the dark. This is my dying day" (Alone, p 1) And though we are spared suicidal details in the novel, the stories contain recurring images of death, stark and shocking in their preciseness. Yet, for all the stunning impact of these images, it is death as a presence, rather than actuality, which is most powerful in Farmer's work. She has an acute awareness of the poignancy, and the terror, of mortality, as well as its insistence. This is especially the case with the first collection Milk which carries an epigraph from Greek author Stratis Myrivilis that Farmer has translated as: "All of us are passing through, no matter where we go ..." The first and title story concerns a small boy's growth into the knowledge of mortality and the harsh demands of natural cycles. On his holidays in Greece, Niko cannot accept the cruel village convention that would starve a baby donkey rather than spare precious winter feed. He braves ridicule to keep the donkey alive, just as, in parallel, his Greek grandmother smuggles yogurt to the dying neighbour in the belief it will make her better. But the cancer inevitably kills the neighbour and Niko must return to Australia and leave the donkey to its fate. "What can we do?" Grandmother explains. "It has to be so. We all have to die. We die and donkeys die, even wolves die." (Milk, p 14) If Niko remains adamant in his rejection of this code, other children in Farmer's work come to the knowledge of mortality more readily. Paul, in "At the Airport" understands about his grandmother's death. "He knows he will die one day. He buries birds and chickens, and saves moths from his cat." (Milk, p 64) Such acceptance comes more readily to the children than to many of Farmer's adult characters who fear death and disintegration, even as they recognize it is their constant companion. Knowledge does not necessarily bring with it acceptance or submission. Accompanying Farmer's concern with time and the loss that the passing of time brings, is an intense feeling of separateness and isolation. Bell, in "Place of Birth", takes photos of the Greek home she shares with her Greek inlaws. When she leaves, against her husband's wishes, to return to Australia, she will take these with her: "Bare interiors of sun and shade and firelight, in which she always appears absent." (Home Time, p 25) In "White Friday", Barbara, returned to Greece, wakes from a dream of death to an awareness of herself as "a void, a vortex". Alone in Thessaloniki another Australian in "St Kay's Day" appraises her somewhat pathetic life and concludes that, "Wherever in the world she was at Christmas she would be among strangers". (Milk, p 54) In all these stories, the sense of separateness is underscored by the individual's alienation from the established culture in which they find themselves. However, the Greek-Australian conflict of values and culture, which forms the basis of so many of Farmer's stories, is not so much an exploration of social consciousness as a dramatized and externalized aspect of the profound sense of otherness possessed by most of her characters. In Alone Shirley gives this description of herself: "... a snooper on foot now, much given to peering in at inhabited windows and doorways. I have always been outside, an onlooker". (Alone, p 26) All Farmer's characters are essentially alone. Where they are seen in relationship to another it is usually to illuminate their separateness and loneliness. There are occasional, exquisite glimpses of the unity of parent and child, usually fleeting memories of a time that is lost and of emotions which are no longer comprehensible. For Dimitri, the middle-aged son of Melpo, vivid memories of his youthful mother, now truculent and dying, bind him to a past that is lost and irrecoverable. In "At the Airport", a waiting mother relives in memory the last occasion of real togetherness with her son: She remembers their summer beaches. She dwells on the time when he was four, only four, and they were in Greece for the last time together. She blew up his yellow floaties on his arms, took his hand and swam with him in tow far out into the deep water where a yacht was anchored. Puffing, they clung to a buoy rope that threw bubbles of water in a chain on the surface of the sea. Scared and proud, they waved to his father and the rest of the family, those dots on the sand, aunts and uncles and cousins. The yacht tilted creaking above them. On the sea, as if in thick glass, its mast wobbled among clouds. They glided back hand in hand. Used to waters where sharks might be, she had never dared swim out so far before. Here there were none. They passed, mother and son, above mauve skeins of jellyfish suspended where the water darkened, but no one touched them. Bubbles had clustered, she saw, on the fine silver hairs on his back, on his brown legs and arms and on hers. She often dreams of this swim now. It was a month after it, back home in the early spring, that she left home. (Milk, p 58) The special intimacy of mother and child is celebrated in lyrical memory; it is not a sustained or sustaining unity of feeling. Many more episodes illuminate the emotional breach which develops between parent and child in the process of individuation and separation. Adult characters are quite unable to provide succour or emotional sustenance, however much they may cleave to each other. Indeed, it is often precisely at those moments of intimacy and close familiar contact that the perception of being separate is most keen. Lovers, too, are strangers, invariably entangled in misapprehensions and resentments. In "White Friday" Barbara longs for the man she loves in Australia, yet in her thoughts of him pleasure is mingled with trepidation: Naked in her white bed she imagines herself in his. She strokes his arms and shoulders, strokes him all over and kisses his shaggy head as it bends to her nipple. He has long eyelashes like shadows. The dark hairs of his body press soft against her. When he falls asleep he lies breathing in her arms, as confiding as a child (as his children). But he is lent, not given. He has said - to her, to others - that he can never imagine living with her. He asked once, "If you had a man, would you want to have another child?" The words spread silently inside her like blood pooling. How should she have answered? What does it mean anyway - have? Why did he ask? (Home Time, p 90) She writes to him her innermost secrets in a letter she will not send him: Letters never sent, or sent but not answered; if answered, not answered to the point but at an angle to it: this is how it has been with him all along, in spite of what they wanted. She suspects that it will be in silence that they lose each other, by which time he won't care. (Home Time, p 86) That lovers will lose each other is inevitable in Farmer's universe where passion is transient, love a chimera, and even life itself seems ephemeral. It is an immensely painful vision, and pain figures largely in the experience of her characters. Pain is as ineluctable as the process of time, it is the very stuff of life. Farmer closes her latest collection with an observation of a Greek grandmother, Sophia: "Pain is like salt in a way ... it can make the sweetness stronger, unless there is too much of it". (Home Time, p 203) In some stories there is too much pain, as in "Fire and Flood", Home Time, in which a man loses first his stepson, then his wife in twin disasters. Totally numbed by this experience he wishes "to remain suspended out of life, of time, beyond all possibilities of action". (Home Time, p 123). A similar desire for annihilation besets Shirley*Shirely in Alone, though the more common response is akin to that of Sophia. If Farmer's characters are assailed by loss, by grief, by pain, they also gain strength and resilience through their knowledge of it. A number of reviewers have commented, with censure, on what they see as passivity in Farmer's women. They report a desire to shake some resistance into them. J67 2023 words The Critical Review - 1986 The Brontes: self devouring By Robin Grove Scene: the author's study. He writes. Out of his head come incidents, speeches, characters, until the possibilities of the plot are fulfilled. Creative work complete, he now awaits the verdict of his readers. I think it would be right to say that every part of that scenario is in question nowadays. From the pronouns on, each point of definition has become, in recent critical thinking, a point of mobilization and dislodgement. Author; audience; "self" itself: none is understood as a closed sufficiency, or even a closeable one, and discourse about literature is correspondingly decentred and thrown open. We like to contrast this active state of affairs with the false certainties, the solid, stolid humanism, of earlier accounts of literary production; but it's not so simple perhaps. At least one famous nineteenth-century essay unsettles any such comparison. Here are some sentences from near the end of Charlotte Bronte's Preface to the new (1850) edition of Wuthering Heights: quote So what is literary work the work of? Not always the author, this author claims - and in that paradox is represented the unstable dynamism which drives the paragraph forward. Highly personal though the gestures of rhetoric are, "Not I" is the message they aim to convey; when we write from our deepest creativity, it is Fate or Inspiration which controls. But this romantically coloured doctrine is only the topmost of Bronte's self-displacements, for in writing about "the writer" her Preface erases precisely those writers closest to hand, herself and her sisters that is. Their (female) presence has been edited out of the sentences - emasculated, so to speak, by truncating each "she" to a "he", so that female Author, a doubly demanding term on the terms provided here, is doubly cancelled out. If anyone performs the act of genius, it's not her. Removing the sign of one's gender looks like admitting that one is inferior, really - a negative strategy for writers to adopt, who after all by virtue of our reading them can feel that for now at least they hold the stage/page of our attention. It is characteristic of this writer, though, that negatives themselves should be negated, to say "Not Not-I either"; for the moment at which female authoring disappears becomes the moment that male authority is likewise made unable to take its place. "The writer who possesses the creative gift owns something", we are told, "of which he is not always master". It's an odd proprietorship, if to own is not to have as one's own, and the owner does not have what has been given to him at his own disposal. Employer? or servant in fact? Authorship is the site for a struggle for power. So sexual dislodgements extend themselves into class dislodgements, it appears. Yet whichever way we put it, that which was cast out in one form returns victorious in another. Like the governesses and millhands of Charlotte Bronte's fiction, like Heathcliff and Nelly Dean for that matter, what seemed mastered, isn't; it wills and works for itself, and won't consent to being non-being any longer. Inspiration therefore (the dispossessed) may finally triumph over the law-giver who lays down rules and devises principles - except that that unpredictable triumph itself turns out to be a rule, a principle, pre-ordained: as the Preface gives us to understand by appropriating the visions of the Book of Job. "Canst thou bind the unicorn with his band in the furrow?" The lawlessness of the unicorn and the wild ass's breaking loose are nothing less than god-given, God implies. Men may seek to tame them, but the supreme law-giver Himself decrees revolt, it being in the nature of His creation to rise up against the hes who re/present Him. (Divine authority: always a dangerous thing to evoke - even for God, one suddenly sees.) It may not be making ropes out of sea-sand, but the result of all this - these sayings gain-saying the position they claim - is to put the Preface to Wuthering Heights in unresolvable rebellion against itself. "I do not know; I scarcely think ... But this I know", its sentences declare, firmly enthroning the very "I" which is in the process of abdicating mastery. The knot tied over and over slips through itself in a striking instance of authorial self-undoing, and the Preface exhibits exactly the phenomenon ("something that at times strangely wills and works for itself") which it insists it has no power to insist upon, direct, exhibit or call up. The old word for some of this was "contradiction". As such, it usen't to be well thought of, and a writer who dealt in contradictories, maintaining both X and not-X, one point of view and its opposite as well, had most likely got into a muddle. Intelligent novels didn't. When probed more sharply, however, contra/diction could be half-excused as the symptom of a need: a regrettable need, no doubt - to obscure "real" feelings, for instance, or cover one's tracks, or utter forbidden things and thus be obliged to speak with a double tongue. The thesis behind such explanation is that unitary consciousness is the natural state of the healthy soul, as of the good society, and that those who are right with the world have nothing they need to conceal. In contrast, what we are likely to see in the Brontes nowadays is that concealment and contradiction are essential to them, and that their texts are irreducibly multiple, contradictory, warped, putting together a scriptural world in which the state of the soul is not unitary at all, but powerfully diverse. Even in "fulfilment", it remains un-united; even identity's most extraordinary assertion of all ("Nelly, I am Heathcliff") becomes the moment of partition (in the midst of Catherine's saying so, Heathcliff simply leaves). Elsewhere, identity is shown as a hungry preying upon its own elements, the selves which constitute itself - or constitute rather that strange amalgam of "I-Not-I", it/self, a composite internally split. As in Jane Eyre. "I was a discord at Gateshead Hall", the heroine's voice declares; and the Reeds and their servants would agree. The discord however is not just between the little girl and her surroundings, me and them. Rather, as we come to realize, Jane is a discordancy too, at variance with and different from herself. Like other Bronte heroines, she is haunted by glimpses of her selves; she is there and not-there in that looking glass which repeats the "vacant majesty" of the Red Room. From inside its visionary hollow, a strange little figure gazes at her, with white face and arms "specking" the gloom - at once famished and threatening in its insubstantiality. Each sees the other with glittering eyes of fear; and the pattern of being there/not there is continued through the book - in dreams and memories of the orphan child Jane comes to realize is her own (so where is she?), in the dismay with which she identifies the wedding-garments in her wardrobe ... and so on. Different, not just from others, but from herself: within the confines of nineteenth-century realism (Jane Eyre: An Autobiography), this has subversive results. And the famous coincidences and extravagances of the plot, while showing how much the book is willing to abandon in order to get where it wants, contain an ideology of their own, a reading of what is "true" to women: in this case, the experience of being co-incident, divided, implausible - wandering (literally vagrant, Jane finds) outside the limits of what is proper or "realistic" to report. "Who is this? Who is this?", the blinded Rochester asks. "It is you - isn't it, Jane?" His question, perhaps, ought to be the reader's more often than it is. The book makes one wonder if its heroine can be identified by securing her in a grasp. "Identity" itself turns into a division - between self in its selfhood (that which it uniquely is), and co-presence identity with another. Each meaning of the word, though contradictory, remembers its opposite. So "identifying" is not a matter of singling out the one true note of character, but of listening to all that sounds together in the discords the novel strikes: the score it never settles. quote One feels sure that that awfully sudden story, produced as true, is a pack of convenient lies. But for a novel to produce a book inside itself, words describing more fictional words, and to put the tract into the non-existent hands of a purely verbal figure, is to raise quite sharply the question whether it is practising falsehoods, deceits, convenient lies of its own. No one, I think, has ever been in much doubt that Charlotte Bronte has an axe to grind. The book evokes, vividly, the injustice, exploitation, cruel indifference suffered by the victims of a self-righteous property-class; it speaks on behalf of those who have not the means to alter their fate, and can look ahead to nothing but poverty, loneliness, neglect. But then doesn't the story suddenly swerve away? At the start, the small weak unbrilliant child is less than a servant (as she's reminded by those who earn their keep), bewildered, frightened, self-doubting; yet she confronts her oppressors with un-quailing independence and a retort or two capable of peircing their cant. By the close of the book, the independence might be said to be all on the other foot, for Fate is altered - alters itself - in Jane's lucky case. What has happened to Bronte's protest now? Her heroine, gifted with wealth of her own, and a husband, is installed in the privileges of just such a system, qua system, as the one she rebelled against. From powerlessness, she comes to power; from seeing class-operations for what they are, she graduates to a respectable blindness which can overlook, or (worse) approvingly over-see arrangements of the kind. That is what is expected, after all, of the mistress of the house. On learning then that this is what Jane has become, John, the housekeeper's husband, politely tugs his forelock, and has five pounds slipped into his faithful hand. Inferiors know their place at Ferndean, Rochester's damp green corner of nineteenth-century estate, and John and Mary both, so Jane observes, are "of that decent, phlegmatic order of people" (sc., employees) who don't have too much to say. She has forgotten that to be a dependent is to be shut up already, where property not only claims its rights of obedience, gratitude, docility, but occupies the conversational space as well. ("Be seated somewhere", says Mrs Reed, "and until you can speak pleasantly, remain silent.") Jane's elevation, therefore, from governess-subordinant to wife, is spoken-for in her wonderful increase of vocal spending-power; while others work, the lady of the house is busy talking with Mr Rochester ("I believe all day long"); and since the prattle of her former pupil would make a foreign intrusion here, Adele is packed off to be schooled elsewhere, till a soundly English education has corrected her French defects and produced a most satisfying change in the little girl. "By her grateful attention to me and mine", the new Jane sums it up, "she has long since well repaid any little kindness I ever had it in my power to offer her." Money-relations indeed. Well-tempered, quiet and a good investment, Adele is a shining example of what proper training can do. If only Jane herself had been so "obliging" a companion to the aunt who provided for her, we wouldn't have needed to have the book of her life at all. So where has the bad animal locked in the Red Room, the answerer+back to Brocklehurst, the defiant fiancee or governess yearning for freedom across the "battlements" of Thornfield ... where has this other, possible, wilder woman gone? Back into the text where "she" always was, is the answer I suppose, for it's that which maintains all the Jane Eyre in Jane Eyre - maintains it precisely through being fractured, dispersed. The girl in her rage of indignation; the wife who enjoys a "perfect concord" with her Master: I don't know how we are to reconcile the two. J68 2012 words Australian Literature Studies - May 1986 Art as reflection in Jessica Anderson's Tirra Lirra by the River By Roslynn D. Haynes JESSICA Anderson's title is, at first sight, uninviting. Even the most ardent Tennyson reader must have secretly felt that Sir Lancelot could have found something more profound or manly to sing than `Tirra lirra', and to single out this line for a title seems only to emphasize its deficiencies. However the title in fact points to one of the most important themes of the novel - one which, I believe, has been overlooked by critics - namely the author's assertion of her criteria of art. It is, of course, apparent from the poem that the Lady of Shallot is isolated from both the countryside and the court of Camelot. She is said to live under a `curse', whereby she is a virtual prisoner; she may not even look out of her window at the `real' world but must observe this external world by means of its reflection in a mirror positioned opposite the window. Here she sits and weaves her tapestries, her works of art, not from reality, but from the refleciton of that reality. To this extent the poem has been read as Tennyson's own statement about the nature of poetry, about the necessary isolation of the poet from involvement in the so-called `real' world of activity, proclaimed as a moral necessity by the Cambridge Apostles. When the Lady looks directly at the scene, and perhaps especially when she looks at Sir Lancelot, her work of art is destroyed; when she leaves her isolation, she dies. The poem is centred on the Lady and most critical comment has inevitably attached to her and to the moral she embodies. However, the poem ends with, and thereby emphasizes, the wholly inadequate response of Sir Lancelot to the Lady. In fact, Tennyson's treatment of Sir Lancelot, in this poem at least, is far from complimentary. He cuts a fine figure on his horse, to be sure, but there is a rather unpalatable suggestion that, despite the representation of service and humility on his shield, he is perfectly aware of the impression he is making and complacently accepts admiration as his due. It is clear that his first, and perhaps only, criterion for assessing ladies is `a lovely face'. Even more than the rest of the Camelot crowd (which, even if it does not understand the event, at least responds with holy fear, analogous, perhaps, to the response to the poet/vates envisaged by Coleridge in `Kubla Khan'), Sir Lancelot completely fails to perceive the significance of the Lady's life and death. Here we can see immediately some of the parallels with the novel. Nora Porteous also is, or was, a weaver of tapestries. On her return to the Brisbane house of her childhood, she is shown three tapestries which she made there when in her early twenties, and what she says about these tapestries is highly significant. The first one represents an orange tree - not an orange tree copied from nature, but a very stylized one - `the leaves and fruit ... compose a tight bouquet above a straight trunk' (p.65) - and the birds too are not realistic but `fabulous'. This is precisely why, Nora believes, the tapestry is so successful. The second tapestry, by contrast, Nora considers a failure, `muddled in execution', and her reason for this estimate is the same one which causes Betty Cust to admire it - the fact that `you would think that maggie was real'. `Something I actually saw and tried, with mistaken fidelity, to reproduce', says Nora. The third tapestry is described very briefly but we can deduce that it is an abstract pattern. Nora's swirling suns, moons and stars bear no relation to objective reality; perhaps they, too, were suggested by lines from `The Lady of Shallot': As often thro' the purple night. Below the starry clusters bright. Some bearded meteor, trailing light. Moves over still Shallot. At any rate, they are created, not from Nature, but from within the artist, `drawn out of the compression of a secret life', Nora thinks. Nora, then, is analogous to the Lady of Shallot. If we accept her judgement of the relative merits of the tapestries as artistically valid, then her tapestries are less successful when they are realistic (the second tapestry approximates to life through the window) and succeed best when they do not try to mimic reality but recreate it (tapestries one and three). With respect to these works of art, Nora's equivalent of the Lady's mirror, the medium through which the external world is transmuted, is her creative imagination, which does not reproduce orange trees, birds and celestial bodies realistically, but transforms the external world into a unique artistic form. At this stage, though, Nora is like the Lady, `half sick of shadows'; the world of physical involvement, the world of Camelot, attracts her, particularly when it is presented in the persons of the dark, handsome, arrogant, Lancelot-figure, John Porteous, and his `Prince Charming' nephew, Colin. But, like the Lady of Shallot again, Nora finds that `life' in the `outside' world is associated only with symbols of death - in her case a sterile marriage, an abortion, chronic illness, a suidide attempt and artistic, if not actual, death. Moreover, the inhabitants of this world are as imperceptive of her artistic worth as their counterparts in Camelot. There is another aspect of the novel which is comparable with `The Lady of Shallot' and that is the sense of fate which Nora feels. At the very beginning of the novel Nora says, `I feel again the utter passivity, the relinquishment of the will to fate' (p.2) and describes her perverse pleasure when her `worst expectations are met'. Her return to the Brisbane house is itself seen as the working out of the inevitable. Her sister had expected and prepared for it and although, all her life, Nora has fought against the influence of Grace, she has returned, has inherited Grace's lifestyle, even to the extent of preserving the compost. Throughout the novel Nora oscillates between bursts of optimism and blank despair and in these latter moods, fatalism is a mode of consolation, an insurance policy against further disappointment. Nora sometimes calls this her `intuition' (p.105) but other people's predictions for Nora come true as well, insofar as she habitually acts as other people expect. `It was less exhausting simply to be as reckless, cynical and frivolous as they said I was' (p.70). Indeed Nora's life is forced into one mould after another, by her mother and sister, by the girls and boys of her adolescence, by Colin and his mother; even at `Number 6' she assumes the manner of speaking and attitudes of mind of the other members of the group. Thus she imagines herself recounting the incident of lying in a trance in the grass with bare breasts until disturbed by the horse. It would have had to be told at a time when Fred was not there ... and we three were gossiping in Liza's quarters ... And after I had finished, I know what Hilda and Liza would have said ... And I would probably have said, yes, of course. (p.10) This almost compulsive conformity would seem to parallel to the curse upon the Lady which determines her behaviour and punishes relentlessly any deviation from the permitted pattern. Colin's revenge is savage upon a wife who does not conform totally to his stereotype of what is appropriate, whether on the tennis court or in bed. `Do this ... Do that,' he orders her sexual responses (p.37) so that at thirty-five, Nora feels reduced to a two-line entry: `Nora Porteous, nee Roche, thirty-five, domestic worker, amateur dressmaker, detested concubine, and student of the French subjunctive tense [sic]' (p.60). Significantly, the extortioner-abortionist who performs his operation with such criminal mis+management is reminiscent of Colin Porteous. He barks out the same orders, `Do this. Do that', and registers the same disgust at female sexuality. Even on her return to Brisbane, Nora, at seventy, is still reluctant to depart from the behaviour expected of her by the Custs and Lyn Wilmot; she is still under the spell of conformity to the pattern determined for her by others, by fate. If it stopped short at this level the novel would be an interesting but perhaps rather unsubtle analogy. However Nora also has another `mirror', from which she weaves the work of art that is the novel itself. That mirror, symbolized by the spinning globe in her head, is her stream of thought in which her past experiences are reflected as she recalls them. Thus the meaning of the novel involves an implicit pun on the word `reflection', since Nora's process of reflecting on her life provides the mirror whereby that life can be transformed into art. Therefore the events of Nora's life, as recreated for us in the novel, are not as they were when she first exprienced them; they are not, for example, in chronological order, or intense or passionate, but reordered according to the will of the artist - as the original events were not; they are distanced from us and defused of passion - `emotion recollected in tranquillity*tranquility'. This is not the result of any inadequacy on the part of the author, but is a basic part of her statement about art. This theme is introduced early in the novel with the miniature landscape created by the distorting effect of the `cheap, thick glass' in the window (`glass', of course, is also used here with the double meaning of `looking glass'). This landscape is both unreal and also, for Nora, more real than the objective reality in the yard. These distortions in the cheap thick glass gave me my first intimation of a country as beautiful as those in my childhood books. I would kneel on a chair by this window, and after finding the required angle of vision ... I would keep very still, afraid to move lest I lose it. I was deeply engrossed by those miniature landscapes, green, wet, romantic, with silver serpentine rivulets, and flashing lakes, and castles moulded out of any old stick or stone. I believe they enchanted me. Kneeling on that chair, I was scarcely present at all. My other landscape had absorbed me. (pp. 8-9) Nora herself draws the connection with the poems of Tennyson, not only by mention of The Idylls of the King and `The Lady of Shallot', but by her explicit correlation between the world of Camelot with the curse on the Lady, and the interior world of her mind with the spell cast by her vision of the imaginary landscape: I already had my Camelot. I no longer looked through the glass. I no longer needed to. In fact, to do so would have broken rather than sustained the spell, because that landscape had become a region of my mind, where infinite expansion was possible, and where no obtrusion ... could prevent the emergence of Sir Lancelot. (p.9) (my italics) Here, then, at the very beginning of the novel, we have an affirmation about art - the kind of art in which Jessica Anderson believes. It is not the art of sensation, of shock, of attempts to make us experience horror or ugliness by rubbing our noses in it. The novel contains several incidents which invite sensational treatment - Nora's experience at the abortionist's, her attempted suicide, her failed face-lift, Dorothy Rainbow's massacre of her children and subsequent suicide; yet these are related in an almost off-hand way. The novel affirms that, despite modern assumptions and fashions in art and film, we do not understand things better by experiencing them at the white heat of passion and intensity, but only by distancing ourselves from them, by reflecting on them and, through the process of artistic creation, transforming them. Nora tells us how she used to walk by the real river, `broad, brown and strong', but she `hardly saw it and never used it as a location for [her] dreams'. J69 2038 Food Technology in Australia - February 1986 The use of bread in diets for weight reduction By L.A. Simons, P.L. Stone and J. Simons This study demonstrates that weight loss and a fall in blood pressure and plasma lipids can occur with a nutritionally adequate, energy controlled diet containing six sandwich slices of bread daily. These changes were compared to those occurring on a similar energy controlled diet but containing only three sandwich slices of bread daily. Since the changes occurring on both diets were similar, more bread if desired could be permitted in controlled weight loss regimens. Overweight and obesity are major health problems in Australia with approximately 43% of men and 35% of women between the ages of 25-64 years being either overweight or obese (National Heart Foundation 1983). Dietary Guidelines (Commonwealth Department of Health 1982) focus attention on weight control. In addition they advocate reduced intakes of fat, sugar, alcohol and salt, and an increased consumption of breads, cereals, fruits and vegetables. A weight-reduction and maintenance diet should therefore comply with these guidelines. Bread is a much maligned food. Australian-based surveys report that about 75% of consumers believe bread is `fattening' (Flour Millers' Council of Australia 1979). It is therefore not surprising that bread consumption is often severely restricted or even eliminated by those wishing to lose weight. Such a negative attitude has been one of the many factors contributing to the 30% decline in bread consumption in the last 30 years (Australian Bureau of Statistics 1984). In fact bread, being low in fat and sugar, moderate in energy and an important source of dietary fibre, vitamins and minerals, is an excellent food for dieters. To comply with Dietary Guidelines and persuade people while dieting to eat more than the usually recommended 2-3 slices of bread it will be necessary to eradicate the myth that bread is `fattening'. Limited overseas studies have successfully demonstrated weight loss and reductions in blood fat levels through use of diets containing large proportions of white or fibre-increased bread (Steller 1979, Mickelsen et al. 1979). Against this background it was felt desirable to measure changes in weight, blood pressure and blood lipid levels in an Australian setting using a diet containing*cotaining six sandwich slices of mixed grain, wholemeal or fibre-increased bread per day, and to compare results with those from a conventional weight-reduction diet containing three sandwich slices of the same types of bread per day. Materials and methods To find a sufficiently large sample of healthy, overweight subjects who liked eating bread, advertisements were placed in Sydney suburban newspapers. Subjects were asked to attend a prelimi+nary briefing (Visit 0) where they were informed that a 7-week commitment was required and that blood pressure measurement and venepuncture would be performed at the commencement and conclusion of the program. A questionnaire was used to measure past and present bread consumption, attitudes towards bread and whether subjects had previously dieted. All subjects were offered a low energy diet for weight reduction; but they were not informed that 2 separate diets were to be employed: the `Bread Diet' (5250 kJ per day including 6 slices of bread), devised by the Bread Research Institute*Institue of Australia or a Conventional Diet (5250 kJ per day including 3 slices of bread) as published by the NSW Department of Health (Health Commission of NSW 1982). Table 1 shows a typical daily menu from both the Bread and Conventional diets. Subjects opted to attend either a morning or evening group (about 20 subjects per group, 2 morning and 4 evening groups). Unbeknown to the subjects, one morning group and one evening group were offered the Conventional Diet, while the remaining groups were offered the Bread Diet. That is, a `quasi-experimental' design was established on the basis of time preference, but with no randomisation or matching of entry characteristics. The dietary program (either diet) consisted of standard dietetic counselling provided by a dietitian, plus support from a home economist and a physician. Approximate compositions of the prescribed diets are summarised in Table 2. The use of wholemeal bread was encouraged, but other varieties of bread were permitted. At*A visit 1 a brief demographic and medical questionnaire was completed, after which subjects were weighed in light street clothing and heights measured. Relative body weight was computed from Metropolitan Life Insurance Tables (observed/ideal x 100). Body Mass Index (BMI) was calculated as weight/height2 (kg/m2). A single casual blood pressure reading was obtained after 5 minutes seated rest (mercury sphygomanometer, standard cuff, phase v diastolic, one observer) and a non-fasting blood sample was drawn for measurement of plasma lipids. Plasma cholesterol and triglyceride levels were determined by automated enzymatic methods (Allain et al. 1974, Buculo & David 1973). Blood pressure measurement or venepuncture could not be performed in some cases due to technical difficulties. Subjects attended weekly thereafter for seven weeks and were weighed each time. Each weekly meeting had a specific theme for discussion including explanation of the diet, information on bread and bread varieties, health aspects of obesity and diet cooking hints. To encourage a large attendance at the final session (Visit 8), subjects who had completed Visits 1 and 2, but who failed to attend for Visits 6 and 7, were sent a letter urging their attendance at Visit 8, where blood pressure measurement and venepuncture were performed for the second time. After 42 weeks participants were contacted by telephone to give their present weight. Data were analysed using The Statistical Package for the Social Sciences (Nie et al, 1975). Differences between means were compared by Student's t-test, using a two-tailed distribution. The association of weight change with changes in other variables was examined through calculation of the Pearson correlation coefficient `r'. A one-tailed test of statistical significance was employed here because of a definite expectation about the direction of r. Tables 1-5 Results The newspaper advertisements produced an encouraging re+sponse. Two hundred people indicated an interest in the program; 134 attended the preliminary meeting and 125 attended Visits 1 and 2. On a purely arbitrary basis, data have been analysed only for those who attended Visits 1 and 2 indicating minimum commitment. The 125 subjects comprised 115 females and 10 males with 25% taking anti-hypertensive medication. Visit 8 was completed by 96 subjects, the completion rate being the same for both sexes and for those using or not using anti-hypertensive medication. The mean age of the group was 50 years (range 19-71) and the average degree of overweight was 36% (range 5% to 157%). Consumption, attitudes and dieting history of participants The questionnaire completed by all enrolled participants indicated that in the non-dieting phase 77% consumed between 2-4 slices of bread per day with the majority of subjects eating only brown, mixed grain, wholemeal or fibre-increased. The responses to statements about bread indicated that the group was approximately equally divided in their belief as to whether bread was or was not `fattening' (Table 3). When rating bread on a scale `excellent to poor', bread rated below fruits, vegetables, meat, fish and poultry but scored better than milk, breakfast cereals and biscuits (Table 4). Of the subjects 92% has previously dieted, and of these 95% had lost weight; over half had lost more than 6 kg. While dieting, 81% had eaten 2 or less slices of bread daily. Subsequently, lost weight was regained by 92% of the sample. Bread diet versus conventional diet Of the 125 subjects completing Visits 1 and 2, 82 were allocated to the Bread Diet and 43 to the Conventional Diet. In percentage terms, the distribution of sexes, the numbers using anti-hypertensive medication and the numbers completing the study were very similar for both diet groups. For subjects completing Visit 8, the mean age on each diet was identical at 50 years. In the Bread Diet group, 51% of subjects were overweight and 29.3% obese while on the Conventional Diet group 55.8% were overweight and 23.3% obese (based on BMI). Overall, subjects on the Bread Diet were 9% more overweight than their counterparts on the Conventional Diet. For subjects not completing Visit 8, those on either diet tended to be slightly younger and slightly more overweight than those completing the study, although these differences did not reach statistical significance. The cumulative weight changes over 7 weeks are summar+ised for each diet in Table 5. Cumulative weight losses with each diet were very similar. Weight loss seemed to have slowed by Visit 7, although it did not appear to have ceased. This was confirmed by the self-reported weights at 42 weeks. Weight losses varied greatly according to adherence to the diet, the greatest loss being 8 kg on the Conventional Diet and 8.7 kg for the Bread Diet. Only two people on the Bread Diet and one person on the Conventional Diet reached within 5% of their recommended weight according to Life Insurance Tables. Since the attendance rates of Visit 8 were `inflated' (see materials and methods), the attendance rates at Visit 7 give a more accurate reflection of true dropout. In percentage terms, the cumulative rate of dropout (from Visit 2) was essentially the same for each diet over the whole period, reaching about 39% by Visit 7. There were falls in blood pressure and plasma lipid levels over the 7 weeks but there were no significant differences between the changes observed with the two diets (Table 6). The respective diets were equally palatable and acceptable to the subjects. Self-reported telephone follow up after 42 weeks It was possible to contact 60% of the total sample by telephone after 42 weeks to determine their current weights. Of those contacted, the initial weights were 75.7 kg +_ 14.2 kg and after 42 weeks their self-reported weights were 71.6 +_ 12.9 kg (P<0.001). Discussion and conclusions This weight-control program was conducted in a general community setting using diets based on differing quantities of bread. The dropout rate was 39% over 6 weeks, which is a fairly typical experience (Garrow 1981). Since it was possible to examine 77% of subjects at 7 weeks it is likely that the various metabolic changes noted are reasonably representative of all subjects originally enrolled. The mean weight loss for both diet groups was the same at 3.3-3.5 kg over 7 weeks, an expected result in view of the similarity in energy content of the two diets. This loss is in accord with recommendations by dietitians of an acceptable weight loss of 0.5-1 kg per week while dieting (English 1979). Compared with the West German Bread Study (Steller 1979), participants in the Bread Diet group lost less weight. In the German study participants eating 220-285 g of either white or fibre increased bread daily (about 8-11 slices) lost an average of 6 kg in 4 weeks on a diet of similar energy content. However, meals in that program were provided and eaten at the University of Giessen, thus avoiding the temptation to overeat and pick during meal preparation. Participants in our study indicated they `broke' the diet, particularly when eating out or when guests came, hence dietary adherence was not as strict. Perhaps the most severe test that any weight-reuction program faces is the maintenance of weight loss. It was possible after 42 weeks to contact 60% of the participants by phone and to obtain a self-reported weight. The results were encouraging with participants continuing to lose weight. There was no significant difference beteen those on the Bread or Conven+tional Diets. The average bread consumption had also remained about the same, being 3 slices per day for the Conventional and 5 per day for the Bread Diet group. While this result is potentially flawed, it does give a broad indication of continuing weight loss. As expected, there was a significant fall in blood pressure and plasma cholesterol and triglyceride levels with weight loss, confirming previous results (Wolf & Grundy 1983, Reisin et al. 1978, Ramsay et al.1978, Tuck et al. 1981, Steller et al. 1979). These changes could also have been attributed in part to the composition of the diets. Compared to estimates given as to what Australians are eating, both diets contained significantly reduced quantities of fat, cholesterol, salt, alcohol (none) and an increased proportion of polyunsaturated to saturated fats (Simons et al. 1978, NH&MRC 1982, Australian Bureau of Statistics 1984). J70 2043 words Journal of Electrical and Electronics Engineering, Australia - March 1986 Antenna design principles for satellite communications By T.S. Bird, G.L. James, G.T. Poulton and B. Mac.A. Thomas SUMMARY The antenna configurations used for both earth stations and satellites are considered in some detail following an introduction outlining relevant basic antenna principles. The specifications applicable to antennas used for satellite communications and their effects on the design of the antennas are con+sidered. Examples of both earth-station and satellite antennas and their characteristics are illustrated by reference to the INTELSAT and AUSSAT networks. Future trends in earth-station and satellite antenna design are also considered. 1 INTRODUCTION Antenna systems used in satellite communications are the vital link in the transfer of information between the ground station and the satellite and also between satellites. The increasing sophistica+tion of each successive generation of satellites has meant that their antenna requirements have become more demanding. Further, with the reduction in the angular spacing between satellites in the geostationary orbit, tighter specifications are being placed on the earth-station antenna perform+ance. In this paper we consider current and pro+jected antenna systems developed to meet these demands, with emphasis on the Australian context. This will be illustrated by referring to the INTELSAT network within Australia (Figure 1) and also the AUSSAT domestic satellite communication system (Figure 2). Figures 1 and 2 Antenna design requirements for ground stations differ from those for satellites. In both cases however some type of feed-reflector configuration is commmonly used. We begin therefore with a general description of feed-reflector antenna principles. This is followed by separate sections dealing with earth-station and satellite antennas in turn. 2 REFLECTOR ANTENNA FUNDAMENTALS The basic operation of a reflector antenna is to concentrate into a desired region signals emanating from a feed antenna. Figure 3 shows in cross-section various feed-reflector configurations found in satellite communication antennas. For earth stations, and for some satellite applications, these configurations are designed to maximize the signal in one direction - i.e. for the examples given in Figure 3, parallel to the ray paths leaving the aperture. Since a great deal of the terminology derives from such focused or "pencil-beam" antennas, we begin by describing their main characteristics. Figure 3 It is not possible to design an antenna which con+fines all of the energy within a narrow beam (pencil beam). A number of effects contribute to unavoid+able radiation into unwanted directions to produce sidelobes. The spatial distribution of these side+lobes, together with the main beam, taken over a spherical surface surrounding the reflector is known as the antenna radiation pattern. Figure 4 illustrates the basic principles. The electric field radiated by an antenna is a vector quantity and can be resolved into two ortho+gonal (i.e. independent) components. This field polarization can be either linear, where the two independent signals are vertically and horizontally polarized as depicted in Figure 4, or circular, where the independent signals rotate in a left-hand and right-hand sense of polarization. By radiating different signals in the two polarizations the capacity of the antenna may be doubled: this is one form of "frequency re-use". The spatial dis+tribution of the desired signal is the "co-polar" radiation pattern, seen in Figure 4b, while the "cross-polar" pattern (Figure 4c) gives the energy in the unwanted polarization. A low level of cross-polarization around the direction of the main beam (boresight) is essential to reduce unwanted interference to the other polarization when fre+quency re-use is required. For a pencil-beam reflector antenna most of the energy is concentrated within the co-polar main beam - typically 90% - while the remainder is expended in the surrounding sidelobes and the cross-polar component. The width of the main beam is usually specified by the angle between the half-power points. As the diameter of the main reflec+tor increases the beamwidth decreases, with a subsequently enhanced field intensity within the beam. This is expressed as antenna gain G, which is the ratio of the power density radiated in the direction of the main beam to the power density due to an antenna radiating the same input power uni+formly in all direction. If D is the main reflec+tor diameter and λ is the signal wavelength, then &formula;. The factor η is the aperture efficiency and related to the field distribution across the main reflector aperture. For maximum gain this dis+tribution should be uniform. In the case of the satellite antenna it may be desirable to design it for approximately constant gain across a chosen extended angular region. This is often achieved by "shaping" the main reflector profile or using an array of horns as the feed. In the latter each horn may be considered to radiate a pencil beam to form a composite beam that is the superposition of the multiple beams. For example, Figure 5 shows the formation of an almost uniform beam from several pencil beams. By adjusting the amplitude and phase relationship between pencil beams new, quite complicated, beam shapes can be devised (see Section 4). The unwanted random signals that an antenna receives from the sky and the earth degrade the overall performance. This noise contribution is expressed as an equivalent antenna noise temperature &symbol; (in kelvins). The ratio of gain to overall temperature, Figures 4 and 5 denoted by G/T (expressed as dB &symbol;), is a commonly used figure of merit for receiving antennas. Here &formula;, where &symbol; is the temperature contri+bution due to feed losses and receiver noise. In earth-station antenna design in particular it is essential to maximize G/T, and for this reason the dual-reflector Cassegrain-type configuration of Figure 3b is preferred to the simple front-fed para+boloid reflector shown in Figure 3a. The additional reflector gives an extra degree of freedom in the design: the two reflector profiles can be defined to enhance the gain by providing almost uniform aperture illumination, while at the same time keep+ing the temperature T low by minimizing "spillover" effects at the edges of the reflectors. Spillover is especially important past the main reflector edge, since this allows energy to be received directly from the "hot" earth. A disadvantage of any axisymmetric reflector antenna is the blockage created by the feed or subreflector and associated strut supports. These obstructions have a deleterious effect on the antenna gain and, more important, on sidelobe levels, particularly for small antennas (&formula;). Blockage can be avoided by using the offset-fed reflector configura+tions of Figures 3c and 3d. Although the lack of symmetry creates a number of design problems these antennas are capable of performance which is superior to that of their axisymmetrical counterparts. They are at present expensive to build, and the largest constructed to date has an aperture diameter of around 12 m. However, because of the better per+formance offered by offset antennas, they are used extensively for on-board satellite antennas. More detailed information on the design of reflector antennas can be obtained in references 1 and 2. 3 EARTH-STATION ANTENNAS Antennas for earth stations encompass a wide range of sizes depending on the type of service. In Australia the largest size is the 32-m-diameter axisymmetrical antennas operated by OTC for inter+national communications via INTELSAT satellites. However, there is now a trend towards greater use of 18-m-diameter antennas, and these are gradually being installed in some capital cities. The major bands used by INTELSAT are the 6/4 GHz bands, where the 6 GHz band is for the uplink (transmitting) and 4 GHz for the downlink (receiving). The bandwidth in each direction is 580 MHz, and both senses of circular polarization are used to double the com+munication capacity. One of the smallest earth-station antennas is the 1.2-m front-fed paraboloids for the HACBSS (homestead) receive-only service used with the dual-linearly-polarized AUSSAT satel+lite system operating in the 14/12 GHz bands. For transmission the minimum size is about 2 m. Where transmission is involved a number of specifications have to be met. These usually include: (1) The G/T on receive, and on transmit the effec+tive isotropic radiated power level (EIRP) in the direction of the satellite. The values specified depend on the type of service. (2) The isolation in decibels (dB) between ortho+gonal polarizations. For a dual-polarized system a value of approximately 30 dB is usually specified for angles within 1 dB of the main beam. (3) The peak level of the radiation pattern side+lobes for all angles greater than 1 from bore+sight. This is specified as a function &symbol; given in decibels relative to an isotropic source (dBi). Most telecommunications admin+istrations use the CCIR recommendations, which are Formulas The latter recommendation recognizes the fact that it is more difficult to achieve low sidelobe levels with small antennas. With the widespread use of axisymmetric dual-reflector Cassegrain antennas, particularly for earth-station antennas having diameters 18 m or less, it is of interest to consider some of the design concepts and performance characteristics of this type of antenna. Figure 6 (foreground) shows a typical Cassegrain antenna (Moree 1), where the feed-horn, polarizer-diplexer unit (feed-system), and low-noise receiver (LNA) are situated in the cone housing at the vertex. Figure 6 Some new design concepts were initiated and applied during a recent upgrading of the Moree 1 Cassegrain antenna carried out by CSIRO Division of Radiophysics in collaboration with OTC. This upgrading was necessary to ensure that the revised INTELSAT speci+fications on earth-station antennas could be met to permit access to the new INTELSAT V satellites. A feature developed to meet the specifications was a corrugated horn with specially shaped "ring-loaded" slots - see Figure 7. The use of ring-loaded slots and the design of the geometry of the horn in the throat region are critical factors in achieving a good match, constant beamwidth and low cross-polarization over an octave bandwidth or greater. The aperture section of the replacement horn for Moree 1 is shown in Figure 8. In optimiz+ing the optics of the antenna the usual uniform illumination was replaced by that shown in Figure 9. The taper of 15 dB reduces spillover of energy past the edge of the main reflector and of energy scat+tered by diffraction at the reflector rim. Further+more, the reduction of energy in the central blocked region also minimizes the energy scattered by the secondary reflector. With this as the basis for the aperture illumination, and by specifying tight tolerances on the machining of the new subreflector and setting of the surface panels, it was possible to achieve the low sidelobes for the antenna shown Figures 7, 8 and 9 in Figure 10. The mean level is 8 dB below the specification set for new antennas. (The details of the upgrading and performance of the Moree 1 antenna are given in reference 3.) Figure 10 Future developments Looking to the future, we see that the major effects on earth-station antenna design will arise from the use of increased bandwidth, the use of a number of pairs of frequency bands, and the need to reduce the interference to neighbouring satellites as the spacing is reduced to accommodate more of them. Already the CCIR recommendation for antennas installed after 1987 is for a 3-dB-tighter sidelobe specification where &formula;. &formula;. Although the future recommenda+tion for smaller antennas (&formula;) is still under discussion there is a possibility that the same criterion could eventually become mandatory for all reflector diameters. This could well force the use of offset reflectors for all small to medium-size earth-station antennas. As a con+sequence of the increased number of satellites in the geostationary orbit there is now a demand for communication between one earth station and two or more neighbouring satellites. This, coupled with the wider bandwidth requirements, will have con+siderable effect on feed and reflector design. 4 ON-BOARD SATELLITE ANTENNAS Antennas on board a satellite operate in a very different environment and have objectives which sometimes differ significantly from those of earth-station antennas. The communication antennas produce one or more beams, each beam defining a coverage region, or "footprint" on the earth's surface. Signals are either transmitted to or received from these footprints. The type of beams generated may be a single pencil, or spot, beam over a major city (e.g. Sydney or Melbourne), or a contoured beam designed to follow the boundary of a State or country, as illustrated in Figure 2. An extreme case of this is a circular beam of angular width 17.4° giving full earth coverage from the geostationary orbit. Apart from making the best use of the available satellite transmitter power, a contoured-beam antenna reduces interference to adjacent coverage regions and makes possible a more uniform coverage in the desired region. J71 2015 words Design of shearing sheds and sheep yards By A A Barber and R B Freeman CHAPTER 5 The Wool Handling Area The third working area readily identifiable in a shearing shed is the area where the wool is prepared, assessed, packaged and identified ready for transport to the wool store. The significance of these activities cannot be over+emphasized. They are the culmination of breeding, nutri+tion and management strategies for the year; they can influence the value and integrity of the product; they are the final steps in the harvesting operation and can help or hinder the quest for a fair return in the marketplace. The pursuit of the objective of best value for money must not be interpreted as a search for speed and convenience at any cost. Rather it is the disciplined analysis which reduces or eliminates the unnecessary and unproductive tasks in order that greater attention can be given to the essential and productive activities. To be successful in this area requires an understanding of the needs of those for whom the woolgrowers' product is a basic raw material. With the types of shearing sheds now being built, labour savings are being achieved in the wool room. These savings result from a combination of factors such as: •improved design giving faster and easier removal of wool from the board with reduced walking distance for the handlers •wool room equipment designed to make clip prepa+ration easier and eliminate unnecessary handling of wool •objective clip preparation as the recommended method of wool handling. It is fitting as an introduction to the wool room to stress that an improved wool harvesting system and its effect on the layout of the shearing shed and the methods of wool handling do not equate with slapdash or careless procedures. In any wool harvesting system the wool must be handled, classed and packaged to appropriate industry standards. Research and development over recent years has enabled important processing characteristics of wool to be quantita+tively determined. Objective measurement is the use of standardized measurement procedures employing ran+domly drawn and statistically representative samples to determine significant characteristics of commercial quan+tities of wool. Objective measurement has largely replaced subjective assessment, and authoritative certificates describing key characteristics accompany representative samples in today's marketing system. Further changes will occur aimed at increasing the accuracy and reliability of the description of wool and at improving the efficiency of the entire marketing and distribution operation. The con+tinuing refinement of such techniques can bring benefits to producer, purchaser, processor and user. The acceptance of objective measurement and its application in the preparing of wool in the shearing shed has led to the establishment of more rational clip preparation procedures. Objective clip preparation (OCP) is the activity in the shearing shed whereby fleeces are prepared and classified on the basis of objective measurement into lines of wool with similar processing performance in accordance with quality standards established by a representative committee of the wool industry. It applies to single mobs of sheep of the same breeding which have run together under the same environmental conditions since the last shearing. The basis of OCP is the quantitative measurement of relevant charac+teristics which are determined and published after receival at the wool store, but prior to sale, for the use of both producer and purchaser. The practical application of OCP in the shed results in fewer lines of wool compared with traditional methods, the wool being suitable for sale by sample or description. A large proportion of Australian wool is suitable for preparation according to these rational procedures which can be applied to both merino and crossbred clips. While objective measurement and its related selling and distribu+tion strategies provide significant advances in various other sectors of the wool industry, OCP is a crucial factor in efficient handling of wool in the shearing shed. It provides the basis of an effective materials handling system and is a key element in helping the wool producer improve his wool harvesting performance. Since the planning principle for this area of the shearing shed is the employment of methods and equipment which combine to give an efficient materials handling system, the correct application of the agreed preparation procedures is at the heart of this principle. Raised and curved shearing boards The main features of raised boards have been described in the preceding chapter. The purpose of this section is to deal with their contribution to the handling of the wool. The height of the board is such that the wool handlers operate with the wool at table or bench height. This eliminates bending down to pick up fleeces, bellies or locks. In sheds with three to six stands where the board may be curved as well as raised, the shearers are grouped around the wool tables so that walking distances between stands, and between each stand and a wool table, are minimized. Wool handlers thus have a clear view of the entire shearing board, they are able to prepare the wool at normal bench height, and spend a minimum of time walking to and fro. The general problem of dark fibre contamination of the wool is a serious one and requires careful attention. The dark fibres occur mainly because of pigmentation and unscourable urine stain, and research indicates that urine-stained fibres are the primary problem for Australian wool. With the emphasis on efficient use of essential labour, modern shearing sheds provide opportunity for more care+ful scrutiny of wool in respect of this problem. With unproductive activities minimized, there is time to examine the wool with greater care, and the raised board permits this to be done while the handler is in a normal standing position. Pizzle stain in wethers and breech stain in ewes can be removed from the fleece and separated from all other classes of wool before the fleece is picked up from the board and thrown on the table. Removing some, or even most, of the stain is not good enough since one staple of urine-stained wool in ten fleeces is enough to require rejection of the fabric ultimately produced. Removing stain can be effectively carried out on the raised board before the fleece reaches the wool table where handlers must keep other matters in mind as they prepare the wool. The fleece left by the shearer can be picked up in normal manner, or, if the wool table is not free, it can be simply put aside leaving ample space for the shearer to work with the next sheep. There is no need to pick up the fleece, put it down, and then pick it up a second time to throw it on the table. When transferring the fleece from the board to the wool table, the handler rarely has to move more than a few paces, and there is adequate time to clear the board of locks. No brooms are used on raised boards, but rather a light piece of timber or stiff plastic is used to direct the locks from the shearing area to the wool room floor. The locks gradually accumulate, and can be swept up at the end of each run. The raised board allows wool handlers to carry out the initial phases of wool preparation in a more natural working posture permitting greater concentration on the important aspects of stain removal and board tidiness. In appropriate circumstances, the raised board may be curved so as to improve access and minimize distances between work stations. Wool tables The usual practice in the past has been to throw the fleece on a rectangular table so that it can be inspected and inferior portions removed. Rectangular tables usually measure 3000 mm long by 1500 mm wide and 850 mm high, the surface being made of horizontal slats spaced 30 mm apart so that locks and second cuts can fall through. Skirting involves the removal of commercially inferior parts of the fleece. It may be thought of as having two components. Primary skirting involves the separation of a small part of every fleece and is related to anatomical features such as crutch, legs, head and face. Secondary skirting involves removal of wool from some fleeces because of environmental factors or faults. In primary skirting, stained wool, sweaty edges, short shank wool, crutch pieces, top knot and matted jowls are removed whereas wool severely affected by seed or burr, black or coloured wool, necks and skin peices may be taken out under second+ary skirting. Much of this inferior wool is tossed aside into bins and described as pieces, while shorter fragments which fall through the table accumulate on the floor as locks. However, stained wool, coloured wool, and skin pieces are segregated and each kept in separate containers because of severe problems these components cause in normal processing. Skirting on rectangular tables is made easier if the fleece is thrown so that it spreads over the surface of the table. The handler develops a skill in picking up the fleece in such a way that it can be thrown upwards and outwards over the table while keeping a hold on the wool from the rear legs of the sheep. The fleece thus stretches out both length+wise and widthwise and lands on the table with the outer surface of the fleece uppermost. The size and shape of the table normally requires two handlers to carry out skirting, one operating along each side of the table. Circular rotating wool tables In recent years, the continuing search for improved productivity has resulted in a distinct move away from rectangular tables in small shearing sheds to tables which are circular and able to revolve freely about a vertical axis through the centre. Round rotating tables can be used efficiently by a single wool handler to accomplish the same result as achieved on the traditional rectangular table. In large shearing sheds of perhaps six or more stands, circular tables may not provide the same benefits as in smaller sheds because of the greater number of handlers available. There are three important modifications to technique when using round rotating tables. They are commonly about 2200 mm in diameter, this dimension arising from the need for a person of average height to be able to reach the centre of the table without undue stretching. The surface area of these tables is therefore less than that of rectangular tables. However the surface area of round tables is more than double that of most sheep, although a complaint sometimes heard when these tables are first introduced to a shed is that they are not large enough. The first modification in technique therefore is in the throwing of the fleece. It must not be thrown upwards and outwards in order to stretch the fleece as much as for a rectangular table. Rather it is thrown gently upwards and allowed to descend on to the circular table with just enough outwards movement to enable the fleece to open up and cover the table surface. Adjusting the throwing action may take a little time to master, but experience with a variety of breeds of sheep over a ten-year period has shown these tables to be satisfactory. The second modification to technique is that the wool handler must stand still while skirting and allow the table to revolve as inferior portions are removed from around the edges of the fleece. It is a functional requirement of round rotating tables that the table top is of light construc+tion and able to revolve freely and easily. Working with the fingers along the edge of the fleece provides adequate force to turn the table if it is correctly made. The principal features of the fleece such as neck, points and breech are identifiable, and skirting can proceed in an orderly and logical manner. The operator must resist the habit of walking around the table in the initial stages, and it is inadvisable for two handlers to try and work on the same table because of variations in speed of working and direction of rotation of the table. With sheds of three to six stands it is usual for more than one round table to be used. J73 2005 words Surfaces and their protection ed. C D Kimpton Corrosion Protection by Coatings by Dr P.N. Richards, General Manager, Research and Technology Centre, BHP Coated Products Division presented by Mr L.G. Gore, General Manager, Development and Planning, BHP Coated Products Division The art and science of preserving the aesthetic and monetary value of articles by surface coatings to prevent corrosion has paralleled the history of metallurgy with earliest examples dating from around 3000 BC. Gilding by burnishing gold leaf to a heated base appears to have been the earliest practice but towards Roman times, amalgam gilding became the art form. This required the base metal to be thoroughly cleaned; recommended was a " ... dip article into an acid solution prepared from dried unripe apricots ...". The article was then rubbed with mercury to produce a surface amalgam to which the gold leaf was applied and the mercury was finally distilled off by heating leaving the gilded article. Tin coatings were used for decorative purposes from at*a least Roman times but tinning of iron appears much later - about the 12th century AD when it was widely practised in Europe. The art was not established in Britain till around 1740 at Pontypool in Wales; this was about 100 years before the development of zinc galvanizing, again in Wales around 1837. The latter process was initially known popularly as zinc tinning from which was derived the concept of the "old tin shed". Two important aspects follow which were established in the early developments: •surfaces to be coated have to be very clean to obtain a bond; •for coating with molten metal, some alloying between base and coating is necessary to obtain satisfactory surface coating. Quite extensive alloy growth at the coating/base interface can occur and this is often detrimental to mechanical properties. However, in many cases its thickness can be controlled by the addition of a third element. For example, in the production of aluminized steel sheets for various heat applications, 3 per cent Si is added to the Al to control the thickness of the Fe/Al interface. Similarly when steel is dipped into molten zinc at 450°C, a series of brittle intermetallic layers may form at the interface which may lead to coating detachment on bending. As practised now on all modern galvanizing lines, these alloy layers are controlled by the addition of a small amount of Al (0.2%) to the zinc bath, converting the thick Zn-Fe alloys at the interface to a thin Zn-Fe-Al layer. Because of the great commercial importance of steel based products, it is intended to concentrate today on mainly metallic protective coatings on steel. There are few manufacturing industries in which Australia is one of the biggest and best - this is one - our 1.5 million tonnes a year sheet coating capacity is exceeded by few countries. In Australia today, 70 per cent of all sheet steel products are coated for protection, with every indication that this will increase as more proteted panels are used in automobiles. We use about 70Kg per capita per year in Australia, which is amongst the highest in the world. Metallic coatings are classifiable into three types: barrier, cathodic or anodic: List Vitreous enamelling Enamelling is the science of using fused frits to cover the article with a clear or coloured glass-like coating which protects the base only so long as it covers it completely. It has been used extensively for domestic appliances such as baths and stove fronts. In certain applications (e.g. stove tops, ovens), enamelling has no rival process. Costs have been reduced by new techniques such as pickle-free enamels, electrostatic dry power application of the frits, and two-coat/one-fire systems. However, enamelling still remains a fairly expensive coating method compared to metallic or organic coatings. Metallic coatings A cathodic coating is essentially a protective barrier in which case the base steel should be completely covered, as for example, for tin cans exposed to the atmosphere. Any small pinholes in the cathodic metal coating can lead to pitting of the steel substrate and this is normally avoided by using thicker coatings. Anodic coatings protect the steel base by electrochemical action, the anodic coating corroding slowly and protecting the cathodic steel (sacrificial protection). Unlike cathodic metal coatings, any pinholes in an anodic metal coating will not lead to pitting of the steel substrate due to the sacrificial action of the anodic metal coating. Most anodic metal coatings on steel are based on zinc because it is more electronegative than iron and with the two in contact, the zinc will corrode sacrificially and protect the steel from rusting. Where zinc is exposed without concurrent exposure of steel, such as the broad areas of galvanized steel roofing, the zinc forms a protective film of zinc hydroxide through an anodic reaction with moisture. The hydroxide inhibits the electron flow and stifles the cathodic reaction and thus the extent of corrosion or loss of zinc. The addition to zinc of small quantities of elements such as Al, Ni, Co, Cu and Mg promotes a more stable hydroxide and thus reduces the corrosion rate of zinc. Galvanising Zinc coating of steel to protect against corrosion is the most widely used corrosion protection. The well known corrugated iron was first produced using steam power in 1854 and the product was soon in great demand as roofing and cladding due to the combination of a strong, ductile base and a bright corrosion resistant coating. Modern galvanized sheet products are produced on continuous process lines at speeds of up to 200 m/min. or more giving annual production in excess of 250,000 tonnes per line. Cold reduced steel strip is softened by annealing in line with the coating pot where the coating mass of zinc on the strip is controlled by a locally developed automatic system involving air jets or knives placed each side of the strip. BHP's five lines have vertical heating and precleaning furnaces unlike many overseas lines which tend to be essentially horizontal furnaces. The exposure life of galvanized steel is directly proportional to the thickness of the zinc coating and a range of coating thicknesses from 100 to 500 g/m2 is produced to cover the commercial variety of end use. For example, 100 g/m2 coatings are used for mild structural steel applications (purlins, girts), 275 g/m2 coatings for prepainted roofing and walling appli+cations, 450 g/m2 coatings for roofing applications; and 600 g/m2 coatings for water tanks and culverts. Exposure life is also related to environmental conditions, severe marine exposure resulting in the most rapid corrosion rate. Modern continuous galvanizing lines such as BHP's with their high capacity, high capital cost and technology intensity are beyond the means of many developing nations, so we invented and developed the unique Lysaght Mini-Galvanizing Process to produce top quality continuously galvanized coil for annual production of less than about 80,000 tonnes. The process is patented in 44 countries and is operating very successfully in Malaysia (2), Indonesia, Thailand and the Philippines and will soon be operating in India. ZINCALUME The most important coating development in three decades was inspired by pioneering work by Bethlehem Steel who showed the superior corrosion resistance of a 55% Al, 43.5% Zn plus Si alloy compared with zinc, partic+ularly in marine atmospheres, an environment that has traditionally been very severe on galvanized steel. John Lysaght (Australia) Limited, became the first licensee of this process and further successful patented processing and marketing developments by Lysaght led to an arrangement whereby the process is now jointly promoted and marketed by Bethlehem International Engineering Corp. and Lysaght. Although production costs of galvanized and ZINCALUME are similar, the life expectancy of ZINCALUME is greater, with a slower corrosion than galvanized, while still sacrificially protecting steel. 50 g/m2 coating is used for dry interior applications, general manufacturing and appliances; 150 g/m2 coating is used for prepainted roofing and walling; 200 g/m2 coating is used for roofing and walling where added corrosion resistance is required, and for ZINCALUME rainwater tanks. Since 1976, BHP has produced over 2.7 million tonnes, about equal to the rest of the world put together by the now 18 licensees world wide. The corrosion rate of ZINCALUME is much lower than zinc in most exposure conditions. This unique coating contains 2 phases - an Al-rich continuous phase comprising about 80 per cent of the coating volume, together with a zinc-rich phase and a very thin quaternary Fe-Al-Zn-Si compound at the coating-steel interface. ZINCALUME is predominantly used in the building industry where its excellent corrosion properties under conditions of atmospheric exposure are an obvious advantage. ZINCALUME also performs well in rainwater goods. It is expanding in its applications including heat reflective applications and heat cum corrosion resistance. Protection of automotive panels In the last decade, largely in America, the automotive industry has been concerned with providing body panels that will not show rust within a reasonable time, particularly in conditions where salt is used to disperse snow on roads. Corrosion in cars is mainly of three types: •cosmetic, on outer surfaces where paint has been chipped •Inside-out where it begins on the inside of panels due to an accumulation of dust and moisture and where it remains damp for long periods, typically rocker panels and door outers. •dissimilar metal corrosion. Coatings for body panels are generally either: •electroplated zinc or zinc alloy coating, or •a zinc-rich paint system known as Zincrometal, which is a two-layered composite of epoxy resin/inhibitor and metallic zinc powder, the latter added to provide sacrificial protection of the steel. Zincrometal is a product from continuous paint lines and improved versions of the original product are now available. Zincrometal is used for 35 per cent of protected panels in the United States but will be displaced by electrogalvanised. Of our domestic steel shipments to local car manufacturers, 18 per cent is Zincrometal with a total of 21 per cent being coated product. For electroplating sheets, horizontal cells, vertical cells or radial cells are utilized with either sulphate or chloride solutions and consumable (zinc) anodes or non-consumable anodes. They can be arranged for plating one or both surfaces of the strip. The consumer demand for more corrosion resistant vehicles has resulted in Canadian legislation for vehicles built after 1981 of no outer panel corrosion after 1.5 years or 60,000 Km, and no outer panel perforation after five years or 200,000 Km. Other countries are likely to follow this pattern. Cars will last longer and have better resale value. While straight zinc appears to be the most favoured electroplate for autobody sheet in the USA, various alloy coatings such as Zn-Fe or Zn-Ni are being promoted vigorously, particularly in Japan. Among the new coatings being developed overseas are two layer coatings having a thin high Fe-Zn surface layer to promote better paintability. Tinplate and tin-free steel Tinning of iron and steel is probably the oldest example of commercial corrosion protection and is now used most widely in food containers. The coating on tinplate is made up of four distinct components: list The three innermost layers define the corrosion behaviour of the composite under the many varied conditions found particularly in food packaging. Under normal atmospheric aerobic conditions the tin coating acts as a cathodic barrier type coating, enhanced by the chromium oxide passivating layer. Under anaerobic and mildly acid conditions tin acts as a mildly anodic, i.e., sacrificial, coating as in wet food packs and provides protection for any exposed base steel. With some very aggressive foodstuffs, tinplate does not offer sufficient protection and must be supplemented by lacquer coatings. In other cases, lacquer cannot be used because the presence of tin in very small amounts is required for taste and appearance. Early production of tinplate was by the hot dip process, but electrolytic tinning is today's process which allows a wide range of tin coating mass to be applied. Heavy coatings up to 15 g/m2 are typical for canning certain aggressive products, where lacquer coatings are not applicable and these heavy coatings are used also on utensils in constant repetitive use such as bread baking dishes. J74 2021 words The morphology of pulsating aurorae By Cao Chong, G B Burns, P Jacklyn 3. RESULT ANALYSIS 3.1 DIURNAL VARIATION The histograms of the percentage occurrence versus Greenwich Mean Time (UT) and Magnetic Local Time (MLT) of all optical auroral activity and of optical pulsating aurorae are shown in Figure 3. Both phenomena show a single occurrence peak at Macquarie Island and a double peak for Davis. Optical pulsations are a significantly smaller fraction of all optical auroral activity at Davis than at Macquarie Island. Note that while there is considerable variation in the percentage occurrence of pulsating aurorae with local time, pulsating aurorae have been observed during all hours for which observations have been made. This feature has been noted by others Iyengar and Shepherd (1961), Paulson and Shepherd (1965, 1966a, 1966b), Campbell (1970) and Cresswell (1972). The occurrences of both optical and pulsating aurorae at Davis have two peaks during the interval when observations are possible. The first maximum of pulsating aurorae is at about 15 MLT in the early afternoon, and the first maximum of optical aurorae is at about 14 MLT, earlier by an hour. The second maximum occurs at 23 and 00 MLT for pulsating and optical aurorae respectively. The two-maximum phenomenon was observed in the occurrence of polar cap aurora by Lassen (1969). However, to the authors' knowledge there has been no report of a double-peak phenomenon in the diurnal variation of pulsating aurorae. The first occurrence peak at Davis is nearly the same magnitude as the second. The first maxima of the occurrences reach 65% for optical aurorae and 14.5% for pulsating aurorae, and second maxima are 58% and 14.3% respectively. The occurrence of optical aurorae at Davis is much higher than the occurrence of pulsating aurorae. The occurrence minimum is near 18 MLT for pulsating aurorae and near 20 MLT for optical aurorae. Macquarie Island has only a single-peak in the occurrence of these phenomena. The occurrence of auroral activity with no discernible pulsations (obtained by subtraction of the two histograms presented) peaks at 27% just before magnetic midnight, while pulsation activity reaches a maximum of 32% about three hours later. This is consistent with pulsation activity being a post auroral break-up phenomenon. The histogram of optical auroral activity reaches a maximum occurrence of 48% about one hour after magnetic midnight. These features are typical of a trans-auroral station. Burns (1983) compared the percentage occurrence of pulsating aurorae at Macquarie Island with the figures obtained by Brekke (1971) for Tromso (67°N geomagnetic latitude). Although there are differences in the analysis procedures used on the two data sets the values are in good agreement. From Figure 3, the percentage occurrence of optical aurora at Davis is higher than that at Macquarie Isaland, and the percentage occurrence of pulsating aurora is reversed. In addition, the pulsating aurora at Macquarie Island is mainly a morning phenomenon, and at Davis an afternoon and near-midnight phenomenon. One aspect contributing to this discrepancy may be the limited hours during which it is possible to make optical observations at each station. At Macquarie Island optical observations are possible from 19 MLT to 07 MLT while at Davis the range is 13 MLT to 05 MLT. The variations in the percentage occurrence of `intense' optical auroral activity and `intense' pulsating aurora against UT and MLT are shown in Figure 4. The arbitrary definitions of `intense' optical auroral activity and `intense' pulsating aurora have been described previously. Although the occurrence variations at Davis still have the double-peak, the afternoon peak is significantly reduced with respect to the midnight peak for both `intense' optical auroral activity and `intense' pulsation activity. Figure 4 indicates that at Macquarie Island the `intense' auroral events peak near magnetic midnight. This is one hour earlier than the peak occurrence of all optical auroral events as depicted in Figure 3. The `intense' pulsating auroral events peak near 06 MLT. This is four hours later than the peak occurrence of all pulsating auroral events as depicted in Figure 3. A plateau region of occurrence between the hours 02 and 07 MLT is apparent. It is a little later than in Figure 3. The delay of the `intense' optical pulsation events relative to the optical pulsation events in general is evidence for an increased energy and/or flux of the incident electrons towards the morning hours. 3.2 THE STUDY OF MOON-LIGHT INFLUENCES A separate percentage occurrence calculation was made for data collected when the moon was not above the horizon at the observation station. This is to determine the extent of `cloud and moon' screening of weak auroral events. Tables 2 and 3 list the percentage occurrence of various auroral phenomena for all the data, and for the data collected when the moon was below the horizon (moon-free) at Davis and Macquarie Island respectively. The Davis results show that the `Moon-Free Data' values are consistent with the results obtained using all the data. Occasionally the `All Data' percentage occurrences are a little higher than those of the `Moon-Free Data'. The overall agreement between the occurrences of the `All Data' and `Moon-Free Data' sets is however very good. The maximum difference in the percentage occurrence of auroral activity between the two data sets occurs between 19 and 20 UT. At this time the `All Data' value is 49% and the `Moon-Free' value is 58%, a difference of 9%. All other values have a difference of less than 5%. The authors claim an accuracy of 5% for values obtained from the `All Data' auroral activity data set. The Macquarie Island results show that the auroral activity percentages are generally larger for the `Moon-Free Data' except near the edges of the time span. The `Moon-Free' peak occurrence of 51% is 3% higher than the `All Data' percentage between 13 and 14 UT. The average discrepancy between the two data sets is 5%. That the `Moon-Free Data' percentages are higher than the `All Data' percentages is consistent with events being missed due to being swamped by larger amplitude `moon and cloud' fluctuations. The hourly occurrence percentages of pulsating aurora are higher for the `Moon-Free Data', but the differences are minor before 16 UT. From 16 to 19 UT the differences are more substantial. This difference is in part due to a variation in the level of auroral activity between the two data sets. This auroral activity information was obtained from cosmic noise absorption data which was available with the Macquarie Island data but not the Davis data. The general feature of the optical pulsating aurora occurrences, namely a plateau region between 13 and 19 UT, is maintained in the `Moon-Free Data' values with the exception of the auroral activity percentages, which differ by approximately 5%. The overall agreement between the `All Data' and `Moon-Free Data' sets for Macquarie Island is good. 3.3 THE VARIATION IN AURORAL OCCURRENCES WITH THE LEVEL OF MAGNETIC ACTIVITY The co-ordinates used in this research are the invariant colatitude, the magnetic local time, and the magnetic disturbance level as indicated by the Kp index. In order to investigate the variation in the occurrence of various auroral phenomena with geomagnetic activity, the data obtained at both stations were sorted into three groups on the basis of the Kp value at the time of observation. The divisions made were &symbol;, &symbol; and &symbol;. For convenience, we call these three groups the low, medium and high magnetic activity groups. To show some characteristics of the optical pulsating aurora occurrences, the data were further split to include the divisions &symbol; and &symbol;. The histograms in Figures 5 and 6 show the results, for these data divisions, for all optical aurorae and for optical pulsations. The Davis results in these figures show little dependence on magnetic activity. Similar results were obtained by Brekke and Pettersen (1971) at Spitzbergen (75.4°N geomagnetic latitude). Their observations were made during the winter 1967-68 and 1968-69 with a photometer having a 10° field of view, and equipped with an interference filter of 200nm f.w.h.m. (full width at half maximum) covering the first negative &symbol; band at 427.8nm. The data they obtained were divided for high and low Kp. The curves, however, were not significantly different. The result for optical aurora occurrences at Davis (Figure 5) shows a slight dependence on magnetic activity. An increase in occurrence is associated with increasing magnetic activity. However, for pulsating aurorae (Figure 6) there is no confirmed tendency. The &symbol; curve in the early afternoon part is higher than for some other Kp levels. All Davis curves in these figures maintain the double-peak and there is a discernible trough in the afternoon hours. A slight trend shown in the Davis data is that the early afternoon peak (15 MLT) is associated with generally lower Kp values than the midnight (23 MLT) peak. This is true for both auroral activity and pulsating auroral activity. Figure 7 shows histograms of Kp levels associated with the *the two peaks for both auroral activity and pulsating auroral activity. For auroral activity, for the time period 19-23 UT, 31% of events are associated with a &symbol; while the value for the 10-13 UT peak is 11%. For pulsating aurorae the corresponding figures are 31% and 15%. The Macquarie Island results in Figures 5 and 6 show that all auroral activities are significantly dependent on magnetic activity. The `All Aurora' data of Macquarie Island in Figure 5 shows an increase in the time span for which the optical activity is observed, and an increase in the percentage occurrence, as the magnetic activity increases. The peak in auroral activity for each of the three Kp divisions occurs between about 01 and 03 MLT. For &symbol;, optical auroral activity is negligible until 20 MLT, yet the &symbol; data shows an occurrence of 33% in the hour before 20 MLT. A shift in the occurrence of the peak, in optical auroral activity, from near magnetic midnight towards the evening sector by two hours, occurs as the magnetic activity increases. In all the data divisions for optical pulsating aurora in Figure 6, the occurrence is minimal prior to 20 MLT. For &symbol; and &symbol; the occurrence is significantly decreased, with respect to peak occurrence values, after about 07 MLT. The times of the peak occurrence are gradually shifted to later in the morning with increasing magnetic activity. The values of the peak occurrence of pulsating aurora are strongly increased as the level of magnetic activity increases. For Macquarie Island data in the &symbol; division, the occurrence peak is 9.4% at about 02-03 MLT for the &symbol; division the occurrence peak is 37% at about 02-03 MLT and for &symbol; division the occurrence peak is 60% at about 03-04 MLT. For &symbol; the occurrence rate averages above 50% for six hours in the morning sector. For the &symbol; division the peak occurrence of 84% occurs at about 06-07 MLT and the occurrence rate exceeds 50% for seven hours in the morning sector. The morphology of the authors' results is also illustrated in polar diagrams in Figures 8(a), 8(b), 8(c) and 8(d) for four increasing levels of magnetic activity. In these figures the occurrence data are presented with invariant magnetic latitude and magnetic local time as the parameters. The double-peak in the Davis data and the single-peak in the Macquarie Island data are readily apparent. Kvifte and Pettersen (1969, 1972) divide their data on pulsating aurora into three groups according to the level of geomagnetic activity. The observations were performed with four identical photometers at Tromso (67°N, 117°E geomagnetic co-ordinates) during the winters of 1967-68 and 1968-69. The photometers had a 10° field of view and measured the 427.8nm band emission. To separate the data, the sum of local K indices from 12 GMT to 12 GMT the following day was computed for every night that observations were obtained. The sum values limiting the three groups were set at 14 and 22. These observations show more pulsation activity at high magnetic activity than at low. Note that the Tromso data indicates that pulsating aurora does occur in the evening sector. Normally, the evening pulsation occurrence is low. For high magnetic activity a very low percentage of occurrence is recorded before magnetic midnight and very high values late in the night. J75 2010 words Second International Conference on Bulk Materials Storage, Handling and Transportation - June 1986 Fine particles and their effect on segregation in bins By D.F. Bagster and C. Killalea SUMMARY Recent studies of particle segregation involving binary mixtures with a coarse and very fine component (finer than 100 microns) have produced a decrease rather than the usual excess of coarse particles at the bin wall (inverse segregation). It was aimed to clarify this inverse segregation effect by feeding binary mixtures with a coarse and very fine component (fly ash or alumina) to a thin, long sloped container simulating loading into a storage bin. Segregation profiles (plots of dimensionless coarse particle concentration against dimensionless distance from the feed point) confirmed the inverse segregation effect for very fine powder mixes. It is likely that the conditions needed for inverse segregation are a very fine particle component (less than 100 microns) and a large coarse to fines size ratio. There is a dependence on coarse particle concentration. It seems that inverse segregation will occur at higher coarse feed concentrations and the overall amount of segregation is reduced if the fine component is reduced in size. 1 INTRODUCTION Segregation is an unmixing process on solids, producing separation or classification of solids. It refers to the separation of coarse from fine material during the flow of a powder or the vibration of a bed of powder. As an example, gravel, coal or sand tend to form a cone shaped pile when poured on the ground. When this pile contains many different sizes, the smallest ones remain at the apex of the cone, and the large particles tend to come to rest at the bottom edge. The phenomenon affects industries with solids handling and storage systems. For instance, the quality of finished glass is affected by segregation. Also the uneven distribution of size in a coal feed of a prepara+tion plant results in inefficient operation. Another occurrence is the reaction of a bed of powder with a gas which often depends on the size of the particles and the pattern of gas flow with the result that a non-uniform distribution of sizes can adversely affect the speed or conversion of reaction. Uneven loading on bunker walls could conceivably lead to failure of the structure. One of the aspects of particle segregation that has confused its understanding is the behaviour of very fine material (100 microns and much less) when in a mixture with coarser particles. Initial+ly, when this was first addressed in the literature, for instance Van Denburg and Bauer (1964) and Williams (1965), it was considered that fine particles would give negligible segregation. Lawrence and Beddow (1969) noticed inverse segregation (less coarse particles in outer layers) in mixes containing greater than 60 per cent fines, with large coarse particles. This appears to be the first published work reporting this phenomenon. Williams (1976) reported that one problem of segregation not studied is the extent to which segregation occurs for particles of mean size less than 100 microns. Drahun and Bridgewater (1983) could not clearly find the reasons for Lawrence and Beddow's phenomenon. Bagster (1983) reported reverse segregation patterns for low coarse concen+tration, fine sand mixtures (the coarse concentra+tion falls as the distance from the feed point increases). He ascribed this to cohesion effects. Bagster (1985) again reported these reverse segre+gation patterns, and such influences as settling velocities, bouncing fine particles, "quasi-partic+le" formation, cohesion, and matrix of fines effects were considered. The literature review contains more details. Indeed the literature is scarce which considered the problem of segregation involving very fine material, both from reporting of results and in interpretation of results. The object of this paper is to investigate the segregation patterns obtained from binary mixtures of particles involving very fine powers. As discussed below, size of particles is considered by authors and researchers to be more influential on segregation than density, and was the basis of this study. 2 LITERATURE REVIEW Fischer (1960) looked at the problem of blending coarse and fine particles, and came up with some suggested segregation mechanisms. These included that larger particles gained their mobility by rolling and flowing over one another and smaller particles achieve their mobility more by aerated suspension, with fine material being like dust in air. Another factor that can come into play is a tendency of small particles to coat the large ones, upsetting the random distribution mechanism. Electrostatic charges on the surface of particles constitute another most powerful force. The relatively small electrostatic charges that can exist on solid particles can produce segregation. Williams (1963) suggested that particle size is the most important of the properties causing segregation. The author said that size segregation occurs when a powder is poured into a heap, whereby the larger particles run more easily down the slope of the heap, and also when a mixture is subjected to vibration. This vibratory effect he refers to as "percolation", whereby larger particles tend to rise to the top, and demonstrated this effect by immersing a large steel ball into sand and observing that on vibration the steel ball tended to rise. Van Denburg and Bauer (1964) reported the carac+teristics of solids that they consider to affect solid-solid mixing. These were: grain size distribution, nominal grain size, particle shape, effective particle density, surface characteristics, surface conductivity, bulk density, flowability, angle of repose, and resistance to agglomeration. This list is similar to Brown's factors (1939) contributing to segregation, and like Williams (1963), the authors consider that for free-flowing solids, size and distribution of size are the most influential. They said that electrostatic effects produce an unmixing effect by creating agglomeration when particles are extremely fine and of high surface area. But also, they claim that segregation within a storage container is predominantly caused by the freedom of particle movement that exists when granular, free flowing materials tumble over each other. The conclusion stated is that finely sized materi+als, say finer than 200 mesh (74 microns), will offer few problems in segregation. This is because here the variables associated with high surface area per unit weight tend to control and free flowing properties are often lost. Williams (1965), following up his earlier work, again added that size was the most important property influencing segregation. He explained the segregation effect with a "screening" model. The inclined surface contains holes of the same order of size as the diameter of the bigger particles. Particles when falling down a slope are kept in a state of agitation near the surface, and act as a screen, which allows fine particles to fall through with high probability. Coarse particles can not pass through and roll to the lower part of the inclined slope. This differs from Brown's collision theory (1939) in explaining segregation where it is postulated that smaller particles are brought to rest on collision much more readily than large ones which therefore can travel further. Williams also states that very fine particles are usually cohesive, and that segregation is very much less serious for such powders. He said that it is quite certain that the tendency to segregate falls away with reduced particle size, and is negligible for particles less than about 20 microns. No numerical data supported this claim, which is similar to Van Denburg and Bauer's view. Lawrence and Beddow (1969) studied powder segrega+tion during die filling with two component mixes of lead particles. Their main conclusions were: 2.1 Segregation occurs by fines filtering down through the moving powder mass, and an excess of coarse particles flows to the outer layers of the powder in the die. They termed this occurrence normal segregation. 2.2 As fines are reduced in size, beyond a critical value, the filtering process becomes progressively more difficult, and segregation may even decrease. In large sized coarse particle systems, inverse segregation occurs. Also, particle shape and density had little effect upon powder segregation. Hence Lawrence and Beddow observed that with large coarse particles and a high percentage of fines in the system, the outer layers would have a lower coarse particle percentage than in the original mixture. They attribute this inverse segregation, as they called it, to the fact that when burial occurs during die filling, the relatively few coarse particles are hindered by drag from reaching the vicinity of the die wall. They said this occurred in mixes containing more than 60% fines. With less fines they observed normal segregation occurring. Harris and Hildon (1970) noted that few quantitative measurements of the segregation process had been made, and that size was reported to be the biggest influence. They stated that segregation was induced by two main methods. These were segregation by vibration, whereby fine particles percolate through the interstices in the bed of coarse parti+cles, and segregation induced by pouring into a heap as demonstrated by Williams (1965). Shinohara et al (1972) theoretically analysed the mechanisms of size segregation of particles in filling a hopper based on the screening or percola+tion model. According to their model when mixed particles of different size flow down on a solids heaped surface, the fines pass through interspaces of larger particles, and are packed in interspaces of stationary large particles of the heaped surfaces. With this, and in the derivations of their equations, voidage in the bed of particles is considered a factor contributing to the segregation process. Williams and Khan (1973) summarized the main mechanisms of size segregation. The first consider+ed was trajectory segregation, due to the fact that for particles projected horizontally, the distance they will travel is proportional to the square of the particle diameter. Percolation, which is when rearrangement of particles takes place due to the probability that a particle will find a void in which to fall, which depends on particle size, and vibration, in which large particles vibrated tend to rise to the surface, are other mechanisms stated. Their experiments examined the effects of particle size and shape on segregation. Shape was considered not to be a significant contributor to segregation but particle size, as with others, was the main factor. Another finding was that segregation was reduced when the mean diameter of components was decreased below 500 microns. Also in glassbead mixtures, by increasing the diameter ratio past a critical point, segregation was reduced. This was attributed to the presence of static electricity in finer materials, causing cohesion between particles, and reducing percolation. Williams (1976) presented a review of the segrega+tion of particulate materials. In this paper, it is recognised that a problem not studied is the extent to which segregation occurs for particles of mean size less than 100 microns, and the particle size for which segregation can be assumed to be negligible. In 1983 Bagster confirmed Drahun and Bridgewater's finding (1983) that concentration profiles for various slope lengths could be correlated using a fractional (dimensionless) slope length. Also, at low feed concentrations of coarse particles, the *the profiles could be correlated using a concen+tration ratio. This ratio relates the coarse concentration at a particular slope length to the average feed coarse concentration. For coarse sand and cohesionless fines mixtures, the characteristic increase of concentration of coarse material towards the wall was reported by Bagster. He observed an apparent universality of concentration profile at low coarse concentrations. This is consistent with there being no interferen+ce between coarse particles. However, with higher feed coarse concentrations, there is a probable concentration dependence. Also presented were profiles for low coarse concentrations and very fine sand particles, finer than before, with the fines being somewhat cohe+sive. The reversal of previously found profiles was observed, with a pronounced reduction in coarse particle concentration near the wall of the bin. That is, the coarse portion of the feed has seemingly been retarded as it travelled down the slope. As the coarse concentration was increased to 25 per cent the coarse concentration profile showed less extremities of concentration variation at the bin walls. At 50 per cent concentration the reverse profile did not really show up at all, and there was on the whole a flattened profile, indicating little segregation. Thus the author stated that the reverse profile is modified by the simple mass of additional coarse material. J76 2007 words Large open pit mining conference J76a Large open pit mining conference Ed J R Davidson AN EMPIRICAL METHOD OF ASSESSING ROCK MASS BLASTABILITY By PETER A LILLY ABSTRACT A method of assessing the blastability of a rock mass is presented which makes use of five, readily available, simple parameters. These are the Rock Mass Description, Joint Place Spacing, Joint Plane Orientation, Specific Gravity Influence and Hardness. For a particular rock mass a value is assigned to each parameter and the Blastability Index is calculated from these values. Application of the Index in blast planning and computer modelling is discussed. INTRODUCTION Achieving the optimum blast design for a particular rock mass type, be it in mining or quarrying, can be an expensive and time-consuming procedure. In particular obtaining a good first-estimate or starting point for the quantity of explosive required to break the ground (ie. powder factor) can be problematical. Estimates are usually based on the operator's experience and/or the experience of a hired consultant. The method presented here provides the practical blasting engineer with a good estimate of a rock masses' blastability based on observing a few easily obtained geotechnical parameters. The method has been used by the author in blast planning for operations of all sizes and scales and it has proved invaluable on more than one occasion. GEOTECHNICAL FACTORS AFFECTING BLAST PERFORMANCE Practically every parameter used to describe a rock mass will, theoretically, have some effect on that rock mass' response to an explosive charge placed with it. A significant amount of literature and research has been devoted to this subject and some of these parameters include the static and dynamic Young's modulus, Poisson's Ratio, density, compressional wave velocity, tensile strength, compressive strength, Hugoniot elastic limit, stress wave attenuation characteristics and porosity, as well as the frequency of occurrence of bedding planes and the number, frequency and characteristics of geological joints and faults (eg. Ash, 1973; Harries, 1978, 1981; Hagan, 1979, 1980; Cohen, 1980; Mercer 1980). From the viewpoint of a theoretician wishing to model accurately the fragmentation and heave process, most of the parameters must be considered. From the practical engineering viewpoint, however, it is comforting to know that the rock mass parameters which contribute SIGNIFICANTLY to blasting performance are relatively few. In the writer's experience these are as follows. 1. the structural nature of the rock mass, eg. blocky or massive or powdery, 2. the spacing and orientation of planes of weakness such as joints, faults, bedding planes, schistocity and foliation, 3. the specific gravity of the material, 4. the hardness of the material. The meaning and significance of each of these will be discussed in turn. STRUCTURAL NATURE OF THE ROCK MASS When an experienced blaster observes a rock mass with a view to fragmenting it with explosives, the first thing he will note is "how it looks". If the rock is blocky, that is made up of a multitude of joint-bounded blocks, then he knows that the fragmentation will be controlled by these joints more so than by the explosive- generated strain wave. If the rock is massive or almost devoid of planes of weakness, then the fragment size distribution will be almost entirely dependent on the generation and intersection of blast-induced fractures. This initial, qualitative assessment of the rock mass is extremely important. JOINT PLANE SPACING For the purposes of this discussion, joint planes will refer to all planes of weakness in the rock, be they bedding planes, planes of foliation or schistocity, fault planes or, indeed, geological or mining-induced joints themselves. In jointed rock masses, where fragment size and shape is dependent largely on the joints themselves, the spacing of existing planes of weakness will give the engineer a good idea of the size and shape of the fragments which he will find in the muck pile after a blast. Rock masses containing closely spaced joint sets will (all other things being equal) require far lower energy factors than those where joint spacing is measured in metres. JOINT PLANE ORIENTATION The orientation of the predominant planes of weakness relative to the free face is of critical importance, not only as regards fragment size distribution but also muck pile diggability, bench floor profile and "toe" (eg. Singh and Sarma, 1983). Clearly horizontal planes of weakness in a horizontal bench operation are a far easier proposition to blast than, say, planes which are dipping in the direction of throw. Not only can the latter relationship produce slabby muck, it can also yield a saw-toothed bench floor profile. Once again this parameter can be quickly and easily assessed by the engineer. SPECIFIC GRAVITY AND HARDNESS Although still influential, these two parameters are much less important than the preceding three. The mass of rock per unit volume is significant since, in general, heavier rock masses require more explosive energy to break and move than do lighter rocks. Likewise, harder rocks can be more difficult to breaK than softer rocks, although explosive properties do have a major influence on this. THE BLASTABILITY INDEX (BI) In some problems in rock engineering, the interaction between the many rock-mass-related variables is so complex that analytical solutions are not possible. In such situations it is common to use empirical rock mass classifications, such as those developed at the South African CSIR (Bieniawski, 1973, 1976) and the Norwegian Geotechnical Institute (Barton, et al, 1974). The rock quality indices obtained from these classifications allow the engineer to make semi-quantitative estimates of stand-up time, span and support requirements for underground openings, and slope angle for open pits. This concept has been extended to include rock mass blastability. The parameters described in the foregoing sections have been combined in such a way that, by ascribing certain guidelines, a total value can be obtained. This total is then a measure of the overall blastability of the rock mass or the ease with which it can be fragmented with explosive energy. The parameters with their weighting factors are shown in Table 1. It will be noted that the index is heavily weighted towards the nature and orientation of planes of weakness in the rock mass. The Blastability Index (BI) is obtained by summing the five values described and dividing by two, ie., &formula;. Table 1 APPLICATION OF THE INDEX USE IN SPECIFIC CHARGE DETERMINATIONS The index was initially developed to cover all the rock mass types present in the iron ore mines of north west Western Australia. As it is defined for these mines, therefore, the index has a maximum value of 100. This value refers to the extremely hard, iron-rich cap rock, massive in nature and having a specific gravity of about 4 tonnes per cubic metre. At the bottom end of the scale in these mines are soft friable shales which have indices around 20. Historical blast data were used to construct the graph shown in Figure 1, which shows powder factor plotted against blastability index. It is important to note that this diagram is valid for large-scale, rope shovel operations having sizeable crushers and using ANFO as the primary explosive. Figure 1 also shows energy factor (rather than powder factor) as the alternative dependent variable so that explosives other than ANFO can be compared. Figure 1 Figure 1: Blastability Index Versus powder/energy factor In smaller scale operations in which front-end loader equipment is being used, powder/energy factors other than those shown will be required to achieve the appropriate fragmentation and muck pile shape. Higher powder factors will not be necessary, however, if RMD <20, BPS<15 and joint planes are favourably oriented. Whatever the case, the BI can very quickly be used to construct curves similar to that shown in Figure 1 specific to a particular scale of operation. EXAMPLES 1. Consider a highly laminated, soft, ferriginous shale which has horizontal to sub-horizontal bedding list . 2. Consider a well-jointed, blocky quartzite in which the bedding planes strike roughly normal to the bench face list . USE IN FRAGMENTATION MODELLING Cunningham (1983) has developed a simple but extremely useful fragmentation model based on the Kuznetsov equation and the Rosin-Ramler distribution. Input for this model includes charge length, charge density, charge diameter, burden, spacing, bench height and explosive relative weight strength. The effect of rock type is included as a "rock factor". Experience with this model in a wide variety of situations in Australia has shown that the rock factor can be obtained from the BI by simply multiplying the BI by 0.12. Other models requiring similar rock type input can be calibrated to the BI in a similar way. CONCLUSIONS The Blastability Index incorporates easily recognisable and recordable rock mass parameters which are significant in affecting blast performance and muck pile diggability. Since the information required can be obtained from exploration drilling or from existing bench faces, it can be used in both the planning and production phases of projects requiring rock blasting. If an engineer knows the limitations of the loading and crushing equipment he has at his disposal, he can readily obtain a graphical relationship between energy/powder factor and the blastability index and thereby quantify blast design input more effectively. When coupled with computerised fragmentation models, the blastability index can provide an excellent means to experiment on the VDU screen with a variety of blast designs, thereby avoiding expensive mistakes or miscalculations in the field. The Index, as with all geomechanics classifications, has its weaknesses, however. Because the Index is a simplification, situations will exist where the BI does not in fact give a good estimate of blastability. This is particularly true in extreme rock masses where one parameter may be dominant. The BI does not differentiate between fragmentation and heave either and, if anything, is biased toward fragmentation assessment. Future work on the index aims at incorporating the concept into the blast simulation package being developed at the Julius Kruttschnitt Mineral Research Centre (JKMRC). It is also planned to take explosives properties into account since these strongly affect blast performance. Large Open Pit Mining Conference BLASTHOLE DENSITY LOGGING AS AN AID TO BLAST PATTERN DESIGN By PETER G BELLAIRS, IAN SHEPPARD AND JOHN BULTERS ABSTRACT Two blasthole density logging programmes have been conducted on the Mt Whaleback iron ore mine to evaluate the use of this type of logging as an aid to blast pattern design. The first programme also involved the setting up of a Density Test facility with which to calibrate the density probe. The programmes indicated that about 22-23 blastholes can be consistently logged per day at a cost of $1.30 per metre. Even though this is only half the rate required to log the average number of blastholes drilled daily on Mt Whaleback, testwork indicated that no significant loss of accuracy results if only half the holes in a pattern are logged. The major results of the programmes were:- list These density results have been used to implement savings in drilling and blasting via pattern expansion and charge optimisation of blastholes. Eight ore patterns have been successfully fired and dug using 2 m less Ammonium Nitrate Fuel Oil explosive (ANFO) in the blast damaged front row blastholes instead of the standard 1 m drop in charge from the main body blastholes. The low densities recorded in shales and BIF have led to pattern expansions of up to 50%. Further experimentation is being undertaken to justify further pattern expansion for all waste on Mt Whaleback. Pattern expansion experimentation is also being undertaken in the softer ores. Currently, an 11 m equilateral triangle pattern is used to blast these rock types although a 16 m by 10 m pattern has successfully fired some soft high grade ore. The geophysical logging of blastholes, provides a low cost method of providing density data with which to base and monitor blast pattern design experimentation, alter powder factors and accurately locate charges within blastholes. INTRODUCTION This paper details the methods used and the overall results obtained from two blasthole geophysical logging programmes conducted by Century Geophysical Logging Australia on Mt Whaleback. The first programme was carried out over 27 January to 31 March 1985 and was part time in nature being combined with the geophysical logging of both percussion and diamond holes. J77 2028 words An Air Pollution Emissions Control Strategy to Avoid Violations of Both Short and long Term Health Standards for Particulate Levels By R.W. Simpson, G. Miles, J.A. Taylor, K.A. Verrall & J.P. Woodland 5. The application of the hybrid model The CRES model is referred to as a hybrid model as it combines a deterministic model with a statistical model (eg see Jakeman, Simpson and Taylor, 1986). It is clear from the previous section that the appropriate statistical distribution to be assumed for Brisbane TSP concentrations in step (a) of the hybrid modelling methodology outlined in Section 3 is the 2-parameter lognormal distribution. Step (b) of the method requires the use of a deterministic model. The work of Simpson and Jakeman (1984) and Jakeman and Taylor (1985) in Newcastle (New South Wales, Australia) indicates that a simple empirical relationship exists between the wind speed percentiles and the air pollution concentration percentiles of the form &formula; where &symbol; and &symbol; are the wind speed (lOO-p) - and pollution concentration p - percentiles, respectively, and K is a constant for the range of percentiles considered. Equation (6) leads to an expression for K of the form &formula; This empirical model can be validated by examining the behaviour of K given in equation (7). If the derived values of K for most percentiles are constant then the model is applicable. An example of such a test is shown in Fig 2 for the Hamilton monitoring site where clearly K is constant for most percentiles. The use of this model considerably simplifies the problem of predicting the pollution distributions. This simplification follows from the use of equation (5) to calculate &symbol; or maximum likelihood methods, and then substituting for the pollution percentiles using equation (6). For example, with the fractile method this leads to an expression for &symbol; of &formula; That is, the calculation of &symbol; may be derived simply from the wind speed data. Given &symbol;, the estimate of the maximum follows directly from equation (4) provided the geometric mean can be calculated. If we assume it is a relatively straightforward matter to construct an air pollution model to predict the annual arithmetic mean then the geometric mean may be calculated from such a prediction using the &symbol;-value derived from wind speed data (eg from equation (8)) in equation (2). Therefore the emission scenario in the air pollution model used to predict the annual arithmetic mean TSP level may be linked to estimates of both the annual geometric mean and maximum TSP levels, and these in turn may be compared to the health standards. In this way an annual average emissions scenario for Brisbane may be tested for violations of both short and long term health standards. The central problem with this method is devising a technique*technqiue for estimating B using wind speed data. The simple fractile method may be used as set out in equation (8). In this case the problem is deciding upon a suitable range of percentiles. However the work of Jakeman, Taylor and Simpson (1986) suggest that maximum likelihood methods may be the most appropriate, so equation (6) must be used to estimate a range of pollution percentiles. Once again the problem is to choose an appropriate range of percentiles to which to apply the model in equation (6), a percentile range which in turn defines K. In the Newcastle study, Simpson and Jakeman (1984) used the fractile method and Jakeman and Taylor (1985) used maximum likelihood methods. The Bureau data set used in that study was of the same standard form as the airport data set in Brisbane, and these data sets are only accurate for estimates of high to medium wind speeds given that their primary purpose is to measure high airport winds. Therefore we use the 50- to 90- percentile range when using these data, as well as for the DAPC wind data (although using the middle range, the 30- to 70- percentile range, for the DAPC data yielded similar results). These ranges were chosen after examination of the variation of K with percentile values. Taylor (1985) has shown that, if &symbol; is the angle of the straight line fit to data such as that shown in Fig 2, when the absolute magnitude of &symbol; is greater than 0.0005 radians the errors in using the model in equation (6) became significant. With such a stringent requirement on the constancy of K, the percentile range must be chosen with care. Clearly the variation in K over the 10- to 90-percentile range shown in Fig. 2 would lead to θ values above 0.0005 radians so much of the error in the method is due to the assumption in equation (6). The results for the Hamilton site shown in Table 7 still show an agreement to within a factor of 2 with the expected values. A measure of the accuracy of using the fractile formula in equation (8) can be seen by examining Table 6 where estimates of β derived from this equation are compared with the values derived from the raw TSP data. The results using the maximum likelihood estimation (MLE) method are also shown. The use of the MLE method requires the specification of K which, following Simpson and Jakeman (1984) and Jakeman and Taylor (1985), was calculated using the 50-percentile values in equation (7). The K-values differ significantly from site to site but the B-values derived from the MLE method were the same, a result that could be expected from the form of equation (8). The results of Table 6 indicate that the empirical model in equation (6) yields reasonable estimates of the mean &symbol;-value for TSP sites in Brisbane when Bureau wind speed data are used. Jakeman and Taylor (1985) likewise found that the model yielded good results using Bureau wind speed data in Newcastle similar to that in Brisbane. However the &symbol;-value is consistently consistently underpredicts this value when DAPC wind speed data are used. There may be a number of reasons for this result. The Bureau data gathering network is designed to estimate the high wind speeds and are in airport sites relatively free of building effects so a higher geometric standard deviation could be expected in these results than at the DAPC sites. On the other hand the geometric standard deviations of the raw TSP data would include variations in both emissions and meteorology throughout the year while the estimates using equation (6) only include the variability of wind speed data. It is notable that the &symbol;-values for the TSP data at the industrial sites are the highest. However the nephelometer results also shown in Table 4 are consistently high and comparable at two light industry/commercial sites. It is also notable that the Bureau &symbol;-values are usually higher than 1.51 while the DAPC results are always lower than 1.51, so the Bureau results predict possible violations of the maximum standard without violations of the geometric mean standard whereas the DAPC results predict the reverse. Another possible explanation for the differences between the DAPC and Bureau data sets is the method of measurement. There is no information available for a comparison of the accuracy of the manual recording methods used for the collection of the Bureau data with the continuous dataloging at the DAPC sites but it is possible to test the errors in collecting measurements every 3 hours. Consequently estimates of &symbol; were carried out using DAPC data corresponding to the 8 collection periods per day used by the Bureau of Meteorology and we found negligible differences between these estimates and those derived from the full data sets. All the calculations shown here (eg in Table 6) using the DAPC wind speed data derive from these shortened data sets. The results derived using equation (6) to predict maximum concentrations from equation (3) are shown in Table 7. The observed values of the geometric mean are used in equation (3) and B is estimated by the MLE method. Given that the TSP data are collected at best every six days, we include the estimate of the maximum value, &symbol;, derived by assuming a lognormal distribution for the TSP data and using maximum likelihood estimates of &symbol; and &symbol; computed from the raw TSP data. The model estimates, &symbol;, should be compared with these values. The 95% confidence intervals are included for the predictions. The agreement between the model predictions and the expected maximum levels is usually to within a factor of 2, an example of which is shown in Fig 3 for the Rocklea results. The airport Bureau model predictions are usually higher than those derived from the DAPC wind data, as expected from Table 6, but the differences are often not large. The worst results are the nephelometer predictions which usually are significantly lower than those expected. In Table 7 both the estimates of the maximum derived from the raw particulate data and those predicted from the hybrid model assume lognormality for the statistical distribution of the particulate concentrations, an assumption which is usually correct, given the results shown in Table 5, but not always. A measure of the inaccuracy introduced by this assumption can be gauged from Table 8 which compares observations Of the 98-percentile particulate concentration value with those estimates derived by assuming lognormality for the raw data. It is clear from these results that the assumption of lognormality yields good agreement with the observed data. The differences between model predictions and raw data estimates shown in Table 7 arise in the calculation of &symbol;, as the geometric mean is assumed to be given in the methods used to estimate K and the maximum concentration; that is, the differences arise in the factor, &symbol;, on the right hand side of equation (4). The results indicate that using only wind speed data to estimate this factor accounts for much of the concentration fluctuations and leads to estimates of the relative magnitude of the maximum particulate value to the geometric mean which are accurate to a factor of 2, an error quite acceptable in air pollution modelling (eg see Hanna, 1982; Simpson and Hanna, 1981). Since fluctuations in emissions are necessarily ignored (such information is rarely available) the model used generally underpredicts the maximum so the methodology outlined here yields a lower limit to the expected outcome and therefore the subsequent predictions of the controls on emissions can be regarded as conservative. 6. Worst case scenario air quality management In the previous section we established that a hybrid model could be used to estimate the ratio of the maximum particulate concentration to the geometric mean. We tested the model on the six years of particulate concentration and meteorological data available for the period 1979 to 1984. In principle therefore we can construct a standard air pollution model to estimate the annual arithmetic mean using meteorological data and annual average emissions data, use wind speed data to estimate the geometric mean (using equation (2)), and then estimate the maximum particulate level using equation (3). An air pollution control strategy based on average annual emissions can then be devised to avoid violations of both geometric mean and maximum TSP health standards. From the previous section it is clear that it would not be uncommon for such a strategy to require that the geometric mean TSP level be substantially below the health standard so that the maximum TSP standard not be violated. Given this situation, the question then arises as to what is the lowest level for the geometric mean TSP concentration which ensures the maximum TSP standard is never violated. Clearly this new `standard' depends on the value of B in equation (4) which is a measure of the fluctuations in TSP levels throughout the year. Such fluctuations in turn depend on fluctuations in particulate emissions and meteorology. It is improbable that emission fluctuations can be adequately predicted so of necessity we have only discussed controls on annual average emissions. However the effect of changes in meteorological fluctuations year to year can be estimated from the annual wind speed data sets given the success of the hybrid model outlined in the previous section. The underlying assumption is that the distributional form representing TSP data does not change as meteorological conditions change. In Brisbane there are Bureau airport annual wind speed data sets of the type used for the predictions in Tables 6 and 7 available for the 35-year period from 1950 to 1984. J79 2009 words RAAF Williamtown noise and vibration in the engine run-up facility By L C Kenna and P E Peploe 4. Measurements and Results Details of the instrumentation used for acoustic and vibration measurements are given in Appendix A. 4.1 Vibration Measurements Measurements of vibration were taken at four different locations around the eastern revetment bay, for operation of both F/A-18 and Mirage aircraft. The locations are illustrated on Figs. 2 and 3. At each of these locations acceleration levels were measured at several positions between ground level and full height of the concrete walls. Figure 4 shows the positions of the accelerometers on the north wall. Figure 5 shows the positions on the steel roof support. Figure 6 shows the accelerometer positions used on the dividing wall between the eastern and central bays; the block on which measurements were taken was adjacent to the exhaust nozzles of the Aircraft. (Note that accelerometer position B, at this location, was the same position at which the consultant's vibration measurements were taken). Figure 7 shows the accelerometer positions for vibration measurements on the eastern wall: the accelerometers were mounted along the centre of one block and situated 6 metres south of the junction of the block wall and the cast- in-situ wall. Figure 7 also shows a position labelled M: at this position, a microphone was inserted through the wall to measure the sound pressure level to which the wall was exposed. For practical and safety reasons, all accelerometer positions were on the outsides of the walls, relative to the position of the aircraft. The results of the measurements, in terms of the acceleration values at the various measured points, are shown in Tables 1 to 7 inclusive. 4.2 Noise within the Revetment Measurements of noise levels within the facility were taken at the locations shown on Figs. 8 and 9, for the F/A-18 and Mirage, respectively. For the F/A-18, measurements were taken for two power settings. These were:- (i) port engine on full afterburner, starboard engine at 80% military power; (ii) both engines on full afterburner. For the Mirage, measurements were taken for the power settings maximum dry and full afterburner. In Fig.8, the positions shown as A and B are positions representative of where ground crew are likely to be located during engine run-ups. Position A is 3 metres forward of the exhaust and 3 metres to the left of the aircraft centreline. Measurement at this position indicates the level to which ground crew may be exposed when examining the rear of the aircraft. Position B is 12 metres forward of the exhaust and 7 metres to the left of the aircraft centreline. Ground crew are located near this position when communicating with the person in the cockpit controlling the aircraft engine. Position C (which is the position marked M on Fig.7) is just below the top of the wall, and 7 metres south of the start of the block wall. This position was chosen to check the correlation between acoustic and vibration measurements. Positions D and E on Fig.8 are both 6 metres south of the commencement of the block walls on the two sides of the bay, and both 2 metres out from the walls. These positions were measured in order to ascertain the extent to which reverberation from the walls of the revetment raises noise levels within the facility: because D is external to the bays, it experiences no reflected sound other than that reflected from the relatively-distant south wall, while E receives reflected sound from several pathways. In Fig.9, positions A and B are the positions where ground crew members may be located. Position A, on the wing, and 4.5 metres forward of the exhaust was measured only for the maximum dry power setting: this position is not occupied during run-ups at full afterburner power. Position B is located 11 metres forward of the exhaust and 7 metres to the left of the aircraft centreline. Position C is described above for the F/A-18 measurements. Position D is at the aircraft tie-down position in the central bay, position E is at the centre of the uninstalled engine enclosure and position F is on the hardstand area in front of that enclosure. The overall sound pressure levels, linear and A-weighted, measured at these positions are tabulated on the tables included in Figs. 8 and 9. For the critical positions from a health and safety aspect, (positions A and B on both figures), the spectrum of the noise is of importance for assessing the adequacy of hearing protection. The one-third-octave spectra at these positions, for the various combinations of aircraft and power setting, are shown on Figs. 10, 11, 12 and 13. A further set of measurements were taken in the facility to quantify the effect of reverberation on the noise exposures at positions A and B for the F/A-18 aircraft. For this measurement, a large loudspeaker capable of producing sound down to very low frequencies, and thus able to simulate the spectrum of jet engine noise was used. The loudspeaker was situated at the exhaust nozzle position of the aircraft, on the centreline of the revetment and driven with a pink noise signal. The loudspeaker faced towards the rear of the revetment. Measurements of sound pressure level were taken at positions A and B. The loudspeaker was then moved to a hardstand area out of the revetment, and well clear of any reflecting walls. Measurements of sound pressure level were taken at two positions situated identically, relative to the loudspeaker, as positions A and B in the revetment had been. The differences between the two corresponding pairs of measurements illustrates the effects of reverberation within the revetment on the sound levels at positions A and B. The one-third-octave spectra for the two pairs of measurements are shown on Fig.14. 4.3 Environmental Noise Sound levels in the environment surrounding the facility were measured at three different points along each of five directions from the facility, radiating from the nozzle position of the aircraft. Measurements were taken for the F/A- 18 aircraft operating with port engine on full afterburner and starboard engine at 80% military power. For the Mirage, measurements were taken with the engine running at full afterburner power. The locations of measurement positions have been shown on Fig.15 and the A-weighted sound levels measured at each position are shown on Figs. 16 and 17, for the F/A-18 and Mirage respectively. (It should be noted that the position 1.5 kilometres from the facility, in direction E (35 degrees) is in the married quarters area of the base). During these sound measurements, meteorological conditions were also measured using a balloon to record this information at various heights, and additional measurements were taken from a ground meteorological station. The results of these meteorological measurements are shown in Tables 11 and 12. The average wind speed and direction for each of the periods when the sound measurements were taken have been shown on the figures containing the measurements results. In addition to the environmental measurements taken during aircraft engine run-ups, measurements of the insertion loss of the revetment structure were undertaken. The procedure involved the use of two high-powered loudspeaker systems, one situated at the aircraft position in the revetment, the other situated external to the revetment bays. Measurements were taken, at each environmental measuremental position, of the noise level due to the in-revetment speaker, followed immediately by measurements of the noise level of the out-of-revetment speaker. The results are shown on Figs. 18 and 19, in units of dBA, at each measurement position. Due to the weather conditions and the volume of traffic (both aircraft and motor vehicles), at some positions the sound from the loudspeaker was not detectable above the ambient sound level. 5. Discussion of Results 5.1 Vibration Examination of the results shown in Tables 1 to 7 reveals that for each measurement location on the concrete walls, the maximum acceleration occurred at the tops of the walls. Comparison of the measurements at different heights indicates that the side T-block walls are rocking as a solid unit on their plinths. However comparing the accelerations at the tops of the side walls with the damage risk criterion of Fig.l shows that the measured values fall below the range covered by the criterion curve. Hence these walls are considered to be safe from damage due to noise induced vibrations. For the block wall, which is exposed to buffeting from the exhaust as well as to noise, the measurements indicate that the wall is vibrating in a flexural mode, that is, the wall is bending. The measured value of several peaks of acceleration at the top of the wall, when plotted on the criterion curve (see Fig.20), falls into, or close to, the region where damage is possible. Our advice from the Vibration Group at the CSIRO National Measurement Laboratories, who have examined these results, is that the north wall of the facility requires remedial treatment to avoid possible damage due to vibration. However, any remedial treatment should not be considered in isolation from other aspects: other results discussed below have a bearing on what action may be taken concerning the north wall. The results of vibration measurements undertaken on the steel upright supporting the roof indicate no risk of vibration causing damage. The effect of the vibration is to add a small inertial load to the columns. Note that although accelerometers were located at positions where maximum sound pressures and exhaust pressures (positions 1 and 4 respectively of Figs. 2 and 3) were anticipated there may be other areas, not measured, in the revetment structure where vibration levels exceed those shown in the results table. 5.2 Noise within the Revetment 5.2.1 Auditory Effects The sound levels shown on Figs. 8 and 9 indicate that hearing protection is essential in virtually all parts of the facility whenever an engine is running in any of the three bays, no matter how short the exposure time may be. For the ground crews involved in the engine running, the sound levels are sufficiently high, even with efficient ear protection, that exposure times must be very limited if the hearing conservation criterion is not to be exceeded. The permissible exposure times, per day, can be calculated by subtracting the attenuation spectrum of the ear protection from the measured sound pressure levels of the aircraft noise spectrum: the result is the spectrum of the noise reaching the ears. This spectrum is then A-weighted and combined to yield the A-weighted sound level at the ears, from which the permissible exposure time is determined. (Because of the very strong low frequency components present in the aircraft noise spectrum, the simplified SLC80 procedure, which can normally be applied to industrial noise levels to determine the adequacy of hearing protection, does not yield accurate results). The procedure described above has been applied to the noise spectra at the crew positions of the two aircraft, at both power settings, for two types of hearing protection. The two types of hearing protection are:- (i) a combination of ear muffs (Protector type EML-45) and ear plugs (E.A.R.); (ii) heavy ear muffs (David Clark type E310) - these are one of the highest rating ear muffs in NAL's publication "Attenuation of Hearing Protectors" (4th edition). Both of these systems of hearing protection have been evaluated at NAL according to the procedures of Australian Standard AS1270-1975 "Hearing Protection Devices". Their nett attenuations (mean minus standard deviation) are shown in Table 8. The results of applying the attenuations of these hearing protectors to the measured noise spectra are tabulated in Tables 9 and 10 for the F/A-18 and Mirage, respectively. The tables show the A-weighted sound levels reaching the ears, and the maximum permissible daily exposure time at each position. The results show that, using ear muffs, the maximum permissible daily exposure times are impractically short. Hence all crew working in the run-up facility should wear a combination of earmuffs and ear plugs during engine running. Several additional points are of importance:- (I) only one aircraft was undergoing ground running at the time when the measurements were taken. J80 2003 words The Second National Space Engineering Symposium - Sydney - 25-27 March 1986 INTELSAT TDMA and its implementation in Australia By Stuart Howe ABSTRACT The paper considers the emergence of digital communications through the complementary processes of innovative research and advancing technology. INTELSAT's part in the use and development of digital satellite communications is considered, with emphasis on the TDMA system, which is currently being introduced into INTELSAT networks. The advantages and economies of using TDMA over traditional analogue techniques, and other digital methods is then explored, as a preface to considering some of the difficulties encountered in implementing a TDMA traffic terminal at an existing earth station. 1. INTRODUCTION Communication is a basic and growing need of businesses and of the individual, and demand for flexibility in connectivity of links and provision of services is definitely not static. This demand, and the technology that can satisfy it frequently tend to appear as complementary processes, each aiding the other. However, often is the case that innovative thoughts outstrips practical technological development, and some years pass before new communication systems can be realised utilising appropriate and economical technology. A example of this is the emergence of the INTELSAT TDMA network. The concepts, characteristics, and advantages of the system are detailed, in addition to noting hurdles encountered and overcome whilst implementing a TDMA traffic terminal at an Overseas Telecommunications Commission (OTC) earth station in Ceduna, South Australia. The emphasis throughout the paper is that the main thrust behind the development of these new systems is not merely to exploit new theories, techniques or methods of manufacture, but to strive to make the most efficient use of available resources. 2. INTELSAT AND DIGITAL SATELLITE SYSTEMS The International Telecommunications Satellite Organisation, INTELSAT, is no stranger to the staggering demands of communications systems users, and to the need for constant investment in development of novel and more efficient means of utilising both ground and space resources. This is born out by considering that during the relatively short operational existence of INTELSAT since 1965, the total number of half-circuits provided has grown to greater than 100,000, making the consortium the largest worldwide carrier of international traffic. INTELSAT also has significant experience in the provision of digital satellite communications. Single Channel Per Carrier (SCPC) systems have for considerable time offered medium rate digital services at 48, 50 and 56 KBit/sec. Other multi-user PSK/FDMA methods, such as INTELSAT's Business Service (IBS) and Intermediate Data Rate (IDR) carriers allow digital transmissions at up to 44 MBit/sec. In fact, the equipment required for IBS and IDR operation is considerably simpler and less costly than that needed for INTELSAT's latest digital satellite system, Time Division Multiple Access (TDMA). In order to appreciate why a great deal of time and effort has been expended on the development of TDMA networks, a closer look at the system is required. 3. INTELSAT TDMA 3.1 History The introduction of TDMA systems into the global communications network is a good case where advancing technology, and the development of requirements for a workable system tended to complement each other. It was in the mid-60's, very early in the satellite communications era, when an experiment between America and Britain was set up to investigate timing considerations for satellite multiple-access digital carriers [Schmidt et al, 1969]. It wasn't until the end of the decade that very primitive TDMA equipment was tested between Australia, Hawaii, and Japan, and then four more years before a prototype TDMA equipment specification was produced [INTELSAT, 1974]. Throughout the late '70's, in field trials using "2nd generation" equipment, experiments using live traffic were carried out [INTELSAT, 1979]. These indicated that increased reliability and reduced cost of traffic stations could be achieved if all network control and timing functions were concentrated into specialist stations. The result of the field trials was the production by INTELSAT of a refined TDMA specification in 1980 [INTELSAT, 1980], which was followed in 1983 by a revision, to which the network today runs [INTELSAT, 1983]. 3.2 General System Concepts Under the TDMA mode of operation, each participating station in the network transmits, in turn, a digitally-modulated "burst" of traffic. The basic time interval over which this cyclic sequence is repeated is the TDMA "frame", and during this time each station will transmit one or more bursts, and receive one or more bursts from its correspondents. The exact length*lenth of the bursts, their position within the frame, and destination of traffic, is laid down in a predetermined Burst Time Plan (BTP). Obviously, in a system where carriers from a number of geographically widely-separated earth stations must be co-ordinated to arrive at the satellite at precise times relative to one another, there has to be a common network timing source. The TDMA system provides specialist stations, alluded to above, which solely transmit bursts containing network timing and control information, and which allow all traffic stations to establish frame timing, and hence relate their transmissions to a common reliable timing source. The stations are referred to as reference stations, and the bursts, reference bursts. The TDMA specification [INTELSAT, 1983] describes the network as having four reference stations per satellite. Figure 1 shows the typical coverage areas of a satellite carrying TDMA traffic; an east and a west hemisphere beam, and east and west zone beams (usually contained within the hemisphere beams) of opposite polarisation. Two reference stations (a primary and a secondary) located in each of the zone beams can thus provide redundant monitoring and control for the entire network. In many ways TDMA, or PCM/QPSK/TDMA, can be thought of as the digital (time domain) counterpart of the well-known analogue (frequency domain) FDM/FM/FDMA system. Carriers, of fixed bandwidth and separated in frequency by guard bands, within a transponder in the FDMA system appear as bursts, of fixed length and separated by guard times, within a frame in the TDMA system. Figure 2 shows the basic TDMA frame, with traffic and reference bursts, and also shows a typical FDMA transponder configuration, for comparison. In fact, the basic TDMA system carries approximately the same number of channels, per frame, as FDMA systems could carry in the same transponder under single carrier conditions. Where, then, are the advantages of TDMA? 3.3 System Benefits The most basic advantage*advanatage TDMA offers is the method of satellite access. The transmit powers of multiple FDMA carries in a single transponder must be reduced from the maximum ("backed-off") so as to avoid driving the satellite amplifying travelling wave tube (TWT) into saturation, or non-linear operation, and causing intermodulation products (IMPs) between carriers. This is not a problem with TDMA operation, where there is only ever a single carrier in the transponder at any one time, avoiding the formation of any IMPs. The TDMA system thus allows maximum use to be made of the satellite power resource by operating spacecraft TWTs non-linearly at, or near saturation. In a practical network, there could be anywhere between five and twenty users of a single transponder. Multiple FDMA carriers in a transponder, we have seen, have to be backed-off to avoid IMPs. The more transponder accesses, the greater the individual back-offs and the more inefficient the transmission method becomes. The decrease in the number of channels able to be carried through the transponder thus decreases sharply with the number of users. The TDM network, on the other hand, can cope with any number of users, all carriers being transmitted at, or near the satellite TWT saturation point. The only overhead in allowing a greater number of frame accesses, is the addition of guard time and traffic burst preamble. As this corresponds to the loss of approximately 5 SCs for each added burst, the fall off in capacity with users is much less dramatic. Figure 4 shows that an 80% efficiency, or traffic carrying capability, is still possible even with 50 or more frame accesses. Thus, a low sensitivity to the number of system users means that efficient system operation does not restrict access to large volume users (as FDMA does), or to small (as SCPC does), but handles all burst sizes equally well. A further advantage afforded by the basic TDMA system over its FDMA counterpart is achieved by the use of a technique called DSI, or digital speech interpolation. This can effectively increase system capacity for voice channels, which comprise the majority of satellite traffic, by a factor of up to 2.5. The technique takes advantage of the fact that during a telephone conversation, one party is listening not (using his half-circuit) as the other talks. Considering this, as well as the natural pauses, hesitations, and intervals in normal speech patterns, an average circuit activity of only 35 to 40% results. If terrestrial channels (TCs), incoming to an earth station, are dynamically assigned to available satellite channels (SCs) only when active, then theoretically, over a large number of channels, up to 2.5 or more TCs can be compressed into one SC. This results in SCs being active for a large percentage of time and gives a maximum theoretical capacity of the TDMA frame, utilising DSI, as approximately 2.5 times that of an equivalent FDMA system in the same transponder. However, despite various overheads in the TDMA frame, due to reference bursts, traffic burst preambles, channels giving the dynamic TC-SC assignments, coding of traffic, and special time slots in the frame (see figure 3), an advantage of a factor of about 2 is still retained. The benefits of using TDMA are not limited to providing increased capacity either. There is one distinct virtue, related to ground station equipment. Traditionally with FM/FDMA or PSK/FDMA techniques, for each new overseas correspondent, extra baseband, modulating, and radio frequency (RF) equipment is needed. The need may not be as great for transmit equipment (where "multi destination user" carriers are often used), but is definitely present for receive equipment. A simple TDMA station will include some baseband quipment, burst formatting and modulating equipment, and RF equipment. Owing to the fact that traffic is transmitted as short bursts (say 100us duration) every 2ms (the INTELSAT frame time), the terminal modulating and RF equipment is only operating for a small percentage of the frame time. Thus, operations can be extended to a number of new overseas correspondents for the addition of extra baseband equipment only. This advantage is significant for communications administrations in smaller countries, for which the cost of providing a service is of prime importance. 3.4 The TDMA Traffic Station TDMA earth station equipment was mentioned briefly above, but it may serve useful to detail the basic building blocks comprising a traffic terminal. There are essentially four separate functional blocks: the terrestrial interface equipment (TIE), baseband equipment, burst formatting and modulating equipment, and RF gear. The TIE is responsible for converting the diverse formats of information present in terrestrial networks (analogue FDM multiplex stacks, or digital streams of various speeds and coding) into a standard form acceptable to the TDMA equipment (2.048MB/S, according to CCITT rec. G.732). The TIE will obviously differ from station to station. The 2.048 MB/S streams are then fed to the baseband or (DSI) units, which perform the traffic concentration function noted previously. It also serves to correct for the small relative (plesiochronous) drift between the terrestrial clock (if there are digital terrestrial links) and the TDMA system clock. Timing and control of the actions of the TDMA terminal is concentrated into the central TDMA Terminal Equipment (CTTE). This unit is responsible for generating the terminal transmit/receive timing, forming the burst preamble, and coding, scrambling (for energy dispersal) and then modulating the burst. Additionally, the terminal operator interface is generally part of the CTTE. The RF portion of the terminal consists, as with most other transmission systems, of up-and-down-converters, and burst-mode carrier control equipment. The TDMA specification allows for groups of synchronised transponders, all having identical start-of-frame times. A traffic terminal needing to transmit to stations in a number of different satellite coverage areas, or with different signal polarisations, can (by virtue of the burst-mode nature of carriers) access transponders of different frequency and polarisation by switching between up-converters, or transmit feeds respectively.