For many years there was a story in my Nanna’s family, the Millars, about a great-grandfather who was a Major General in the British Army. My Nanna spoke about a long-lost portrait of him, and a bible of his that had detailed the Millar family tree.
When my Nanna passed away in 2015, my father came across a medal amongst her things that had belonged to this Major General – he was awarded it for talent with a broadsword would you believe!
These small fragments of family history sparked my interest, and I was intrigued by this ancestor. I asked around the Millar relatives, but no-one knew much about the Major General, and none had come across his portrait or bible. My Nanna’s theory had been that these items had been inherited by a Sydney-based branch of the family after her grandfather, William Roy Millar, had moved from WA to live with his youngest son, Ernest, during WWII.
This was obviously going back some time, and I was not confident in finding any more information, however – thanks to the wonders of the internet – one day I came across an excerpt from a family bible posted on a genealogy website that matched my own Millar family research. It confirmed for me that the bible must still exist. If only I could make contact with these other Millar family members…
An internet search led me to an Ernie Millar – a potential relative perhaps! Imagine my amazement when he replied that he was indeed the grandson of my Nanna’s uncle, Ernest Millar, and he put me in touch with his cousins.
Not only did I then discover that the Major General’s portrait and bible do still exist, looked after by a Millar family member in South Australia, but so too does his original army tunic and sword!
In a strange coincidence, about the same time I came across an album of Millar family photos held by an antique dealer in NSW (another personal item taken across to Sydney by William Roy perhaps?).
Amongst this album was a detailed obituary for the Major General, which confirmed the album’s connection to the Millar family, and added further detail to his interesting life.
So, here it is, the story of Major General John Millar, my 3x great-grandfather.
Portrait of a young John Millar, Officer of the East India Company, possibly when he was ranked Lieutenant (c.1830s)
A note to the reader:
This story attempts to retell the life of John Millar, and in particular his experiences as an Officer in the East India Company in the 19th Century. From a post-colonial perspective, John’s involvement in historical events in India during the time of the ‘Company Raj’ may be difficult to comprehend. His views, knowledge, beliefs and motivations were shaped by an imperialist world. With some insight into the context that surrounded him, I hope we can better understand his actions and his story. John is not a hero or a villain in this story, but a person with virtues and failings like the rest of us.
In writing this, a number of historical accounts and documents have been referenced. Some place names refer to the name used by the British during their occupation of India. A warning that the post may also quote texts or sources that use outdated and potentially offensive terminology when referring to the people of India, it is not my intention to offend.
The experience of WWI produced some of the most recognised poems we know today. In the midst of the conflict, and in its aftermath, soldiers and civilians alike found poetry to be a way to put into words what they had seen, felt and thought at the time, and the things they were haunted by and were still responding to in the years after the Armistice.
In Flanders Fields, Anthem for Doomed Youth and the oft recited, For the Fallen, are all examples of the evocative poetry of the Great War.
The poem I am sharing with you today, was not composed by a great laureate and he did not receive accolades for his prose, in fact I could be the first to publish his work. These lines were penned by a first-time poet, identified as “Muldoon” Marks, in a dugout “Somewhere in France”, in the first half of 1917.
His poem was copied onto some notebook pages and sent back to Australia by Corporal William Henry Darlington Beadle (Service No 25347 of the 3rd Divisional Ammunition Column) who thought his parents – both poetry enthusiasts – might appreciate reading it. Perhaps he felt it conveyed a sense of what he and his comrades were going through at the time, or that it might give some encouragement to his digger mate who had not previously tried his hand at writing.
The closing lines suggest the ANZACs’ hope for the future and their yearning to return home to loved ones. Amongst the stanzas, the poet recalls with melancholy the names of friends who have been lost on the Western Front. Perhaps this poem was his pledge that they will be mourned and remembered for their sacrifice.
And so they shall. We will read your poem this year on ANZAC Day, Mr Marks, and We will remember them.
AWM Collection
From the Trenches Somewhere in France By “Muldoon” Marks
As I sat by the fire on guard One night in a foreign land And gazed into the flames With my pencil in my hand I saw so many pictures That unconsciously I wrote My thoughts on this piece of paper Like the “Sentimental Bloke”.
I thought of my many comrades Who had joined with me at home And how each one was absent Since the day we started to roam I see the ill-fated ‘Afric’ that carried our troops so gay [1] But alas! The news has reached us She has gone lads, gone for aye.
Sunk by a German torpedo In the Mediterranean Sea But there you are lads we can’t help it Was is to be – will be Then my thoughts turned towards these trenches Where hours in peril I spent And went through agonies and tortures As the shrapnel screamed as it went.
But they say it’s playing the game lads And another vision I see Of poor Bill Blyth my comrade Who was shot just alongside of me All we heard was the roaring and screaming And the crash of the shot and shell When poor Bill cried “They’ve got me” And down in the trenches he fell.
I helped him under cover And with his head upon my knee I received from him a message For loved ones across the sea He was one of the best of our toilers And each of us Gunners will say That Tasmania will mourn for a hero Who kept the Germans at bay.
We’ve lost two more of our comrades Since that eventful day And now not far from our dug out Side by side they lay ‘Neath the tall tree they are sleeping In this gruesome “Ploegsteert Wood” [2] Where many a brave lad’s lying For the time “Not Understood”.
‘Snowy’ Paine was one of the whitest He did his bit in the fray And Nelson he too was a good lad Oh why were they taken away? But still our lads are fighting As they fought on ‘Gallipoli’ And we’ll soon be home to meet you Flushed with Victory.
Sent by William Beadle (Service No:25347 of the 3rd Divisional Ammunition Column) to his family in Perth, Western Australia, with the notation:
What do you think of this for an amateur’s first attempt? He was on guard the other night in the front line and next morning he handed us this poetry to read, so I have copied it from him and forward it on to you with the author’s best respects. – Will.
[1] ‘Afric’ was requisitioned by the Australian government in October 1914 for use as a troopship. She was a part of the first convoy from Albany to Alexandria and made six complete voyages from Australia but was torpedoed and sunk in the English Channel (NB. not the Mediterranean Sea) on 12 February 1917. There were 22 lives lost, with 145 surviving. https://birtwistlewiki.com.au/wiki/HMAT_A19_Afric.
[2] Ploegsteert Wood was a sector of the Western Front, part of the Ypres Salient, located around the Belgian village of Ploegsteert, Wallonia. After fierce fighting in late 1914 and early 1915, Ploegsteert Wood became a quieter sector. Units were sent here to recuperate and retrain after tougher fighting elsewhere, and before returning to take part in more active operations. https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Ploegsteert_Wood
A Note about the Poet
I believe the author of this poem may be Gunner, Harold “Mul” Ernest Edward Marks (Service Number 895 of the 43 Infantry Battalion) who was transferred to 3rd Division (Medium and Heavy) Trench Mortar Batteries in March 1917.
Harold Marks enlisted in Adelaide, South Australia and embarked from here on 9 June 1916 on HMAT Afric A19 bound for the Western Front. He and William Beadle both served in 3rd Division Artillery, crossing paths in France between March 1917 and June 1917, when the 3rd Division was involved in the Battle of Messines.
On 10 June 1917, Harold sustained a severe gunshot wound to the head and his skull was fractured. He was immediately transported back to England, where he was hospitalised for 3 months, before returning to Australia in October 1917, a year before the war ended. Harold was discharged from the Army as “Medically Unfit” on 30 January 1918 and was granted an army disability pension.
Harold E.E. “Mul” Marks passed away just six years later, in 1924, suffering from Lymphoma, Sarcoma. He was survived by his wife, Elsie, and daughter, Doreen.
It is not known if Harold had any contact with William Beadle after his return home. William arrived back in Western Australia following the end of the war, in 1919. He kept a copy of Harold’s poem amongst his possessions for the rest of his life.
The Virtual War Memorial records this biography and photo for Harold E.E. Marks
Harold Edward Ernest Marks worked as a Carriage Trimmer with the South Australian Railways at Islington. He enlisted in the Army 22/02/1916 at the age of 24 and joined the 43rd Battalion and went on to become a Gunner with the 3rd Australian Division Trench Mortar Brigade. On 25/09/1917 (somewhere in France) he received a serious Gun Shot Wound to the head and was admitted on 10/06/1917 to the Horton County London War Hospital, England.
From there he was shipped back to Australia and continued to receive treatment in hospital for his injuries. He married Elsie Evaline Marks (nee Codd) in 1921 and had a child (my mother) But on 10/03/1924 at the young age of 34 yrs Harold passed away from a form of cancer believed to be brought on by the injuries received during the war. – Ron Squire (Grandson) [3]
DEATHS – MARKS. On March 10, Harold E. E. (Mul), beloved son of Mr. and Mrs. S. Marks, William street, Hiltonia, late of Prospect, and beloved husband of Elsie (nee Cod), age 34 years, late of Quorn. At rest. [4]
With deep respect, I acknowledge the traditional custodians of Lutruwita/Tasmania, the Palawa people. Sovereignty has never been ceded. It always was and always will be, Aboriginal land, belonging to the oldest continuing culture in the world.
Jane Perry (1825 – 1858)
There have been many occasions researching my family history when I have been in awe of what my forebears experienced in their life journeys.
Those I admire the most are women.
In times when women were constrained by both class and gender, their lives ultimately determined for them by fathers or husbands, women had little say in their own education or family choices – and very few ‘career options’ to speak of.
The day-to-day hardships and challenges women faced (not that many generations ago), make the things I grumble about or find difficult in my life seem totally insignificant. My home and lifestyle in 2023 would be inconceivable to them; the freedom and opportunities I have today, unimaginable.
My great-grandmothers and their great-grandmothers must have endured many things, and I am grateful for the sacrifices and perseverance of those who came before me.
There is one female ancestor however, whose story of resilience and determination is especially awe-inspiring. Against all odds – through unthinkable poverty, cruelty and trauma – she formed a family and sought a better future for herself and her children.
This is the story of my 4x great-grandmother, Jane Perry, who was ‘banished beyond seas’, as a convict to Van Diemen’s Land. It is the story of a true survivor.
Thanks to some dedicated family genealogists before me, my Robinson name can be traced back 270 years – eight generations down my father’s line – to the 1750s.
This post follows themale lineage of the Robinsons of Liverpool, from whom I inherited my surname.
Between 1750 and 1914, Liverpool was at the centre of many historical events relating to the agricultural revolution, Atlantic slave trade and industrial revolution.
These events all shaped the lives of the Robinsons of Liverpool.
Chapter 1: John Robinson (born c.1730 – died unknown)
Chapter 2: Daniel Robinson (born 1754 – died c1840)
Chapter 3: William Robinson (born 1789 – died 1863)
Chapter 4: Frederick Robinson (born 1828 – died 1891)
Chapter 5: William Robinson (born 1856 – died 1931)
Chapter 6: William Robinson (born 1893 – died 1979)
This ANZAC Day, I’ve been thinking about my grandfather, Frederick Leslie Robinson – ‘Les’ to his mates – who I sadly never had the opportunity to meet.
Les served as a Lance Corporal in the 2/16th Battalion of the AIF from July 1942 to April 1944. Unlike others from his battalion who signed up in 1940, Les did not spend time fighting overseas. He enlisted on 20 September 1940 but, as an assayer on the Sons of Gwalia Gold Mine, was considered an essential worker until December ’41, when he was called up for duty. Six months later, he found himself in an army training camp north of Perth, with no idea of when he could be deployed.
Les’ charming smile in this photo is hiding a world of worry. In July 1942, he was leaving behind his life in Gwalia, his wife and son – not yet one – and all that he had planned for his future. He was 25 years old – a healthy, athletic young man, with good career prospects and dreams for his young family. He no longer had control over what his future held, and this must have been terrifying.
Les then experienced a hellish year stationed in Darwin at the time of the Japanese bombings. The town was bombed in more than 50 air raids during WWII, although the Australian authorities played down these attacks for fear of provoking national panic. Army camp conditions in the Northern Territory were also pretty poor. Troops suffered from health problems, anxiety and boredom and, for many, it was difficult to maintain morale. The experience was too much for Les – mentally and physically – he just couldn’t cope. He was discharged from the army in 1944 and came home to his wife and son a changed man.
At a time when there was little understanding – nor therapy – for the mental health impacts resulting from the stresses of wartime, a nervous breakdown like what Les experienced during his service, was generally considered to be the result of pre-existing mental illness, a weak constitution or lack of character. Medical professionals failed to accept that soldiers who had not been near the frontline could display symptoms of what was then termed ‘war neurosis’ (now PTSD), and that the intense negative experiences of war – of threatened (not actual) physical harm, major loss of personal freedom or infringement of personal principles – could, in fact, induce trauma in previously well-adjusted individuals.
Understandably, Les barely spoke of his time in the army again. But then, perhaps he felt he was one of the lucky ones – many of his comrades from the 2/16th Battalion had not come home at all…
On ANZAC Day, may we remember those who left Australia to serve and those who stayed behind to do the same, those who lost their lives and those who were spared but forever changed. May we be proud of their service and sacrifice, but may we learn from the past and have compassion for those whose lives are profoundly altered through physical loss or the psychological anguish of war.
The 19th century was a time of fast-paced change throughout the world. Along with technological advances was a drastically changing art world. The political upheaval of the French Revolution established the groundwork for the 18th-century interest in classicism and the use of the Salon to determine an artwork’s value. In turn, the 19th century began to challenge the art world’s system even further. Art as a practice and commodity became more democratized than ever before. Although female artists have existed throughout the history of art, the 19th century’s social and economic changes allowed for more women to enter and find success within the art scene.[1]
In my day job, I am an art curator. I work with art collections, exhibitions and artists, and I feel very fortunate to have a career in the visual arts, doing a job I really love.
How special it was then to discover an artist in my family tree, and a female one at that!
This is the story of my great-great-aunt, who was an artist and art teacher, pursuing her career in the visual arts one-hundred and fifty years ago.
Amongst a box of family photographs given to me for safe keeping by my Dad’s cousin, I came across a postcard of a Digger from WWI.
The photo sparked my interest. It showed a young man in the 1st Australian Imperial Force (AIF) uniform, seated on a stool in front of a backdrop of pyramids and palm trees.
The hand-written message “Love from John” did not give me any answers as to who this man was. The description on the back, in my great-grandfather’s barely decipherable scrawl, read:
John ___ 26 Sup. Sons of Gwalia 16th Battn. Killed.
There were no John’s in my family from Gwalia. Who was John? Why was this photograph amongst our family documents?
Having not been able to identify this person in my family research, I donated the postcard to the Gwalia Museum when I visited late last year. My great-grandfather had noted John’s connection to the Sons of Gwalia Mine so I decided the record would best belong to the history collection of Gwalia.
It was some months later, searching through old Goldfields newspapers in the wonderful online world of ‘Trove’, that I discovered some clues to my questions and so, I began to piece together small bits of information about the unknown soldier in this photograph.
This is the story of Private John “Jack” Ivison, who was killed in action in the landing at Gallipoli on 27 April 1915, aged just 26 years old…
Cooking is not something I enjoy that much, I admit. I love food and I love eating – but I could do without the cooking. When I have the time though, I don’t mind baking, and I do try to bake as often as possible with my kids.
This week I’ve been pondering family recipes. I’ve been thinking that for many of the women in my family, a special recipe might be the most cherished thing they were able to pass on to their daughters and granddaughters. I imagine this may have been the case for many generations of women, across all cultures, who were the cooks in their households.
Here are a few recipes I’m fortunate to have from my female forebears – my mother and the women before her who loved baking for their families…
From My Mother
From My Grandmother
From My Great-Grandmother
From My Great Great-Grandmother
Although we might leave out the “tablespoonful of dripping” these days, I will share these recipes with my children. I hope they will remember the cooking we did together, the fun of eating homemade treats, and share with their own children the experience of baking and our special family recipes…
For genealogists, digitised records and access to online archives has been a huge breakthrough. For the long-forgotten family scandal however, technology is a real troublemaker.
I’m going to share a story that I stumbled across recently thanks to the wonders of technology.
For me today, it is a fascinating family tale but at the time it must have been a very traumatic experience for all involved – inflicting shame, stigma and a great deal of hardship on a family whose lives were changed forever. I can understand why it was not mentioned to subsequent generations.
This is the story of my great-great-grandfather, John Lethlean, and how he came to be listed on the Victorian Register of Male Prisoners, as an inmate at Pentridge Prison.
Here’s tae us Wha’s like us Damn few, And they’re a’ deid Mair’s the pity!
– Traditional Scottish toast
Tonight, I propose a toast to Scottish friends and Scottish forebears…
10 years ago, I was living in Edinburgh and had the good fortune to be invited to a Burns Supper hosted by friends. My memory of the evening is somewhat blurry – I blame the many toasts – but it was such a fun evening, and very very Scottish.
For those who are unfamiliar with Burns Night or Burns Suppers, this is the celebration of Robert ‘Rabbie’ Burns’ life (1759-1796) and poetry, on what would have been his birthday. Burns is considered to be the national poet of Scotland, a cultural icon and pioneer of the Romantic movement. He was also an outspoken political commentator and an inspiration for the founders of liberalism and socialism.
Burns Night suppers typically include haggis (with the host reciting the Address to a Haggis by Robert Burns) along with several other courses, more Burns’s poetry and several rousing toasts, mostly involving whisky. The evening ends with the guests singing Auld Lang Syne, the lyrics of which were written by Burns in 1788.
I loved the time I spent living in Scotland. Not the weather and the LOOONG winters, but the history-rich old towns, the stunning scenery and the people, who were such good characters. Even 10 years later, I still feel nostalgic about this second home.
View of Edinburgh, December 2010
In Scotland, I was often asked if I had Scottish ancestry on account of my red hair and fair skin. At the time I didn’t know much about my heritage, but I hadn’t heard about any Scots in my family tree.
As it turns out, I have several family connections to Scotland. I wish I had known more about them when I was living there.
There is one connection which doesn’t get much more Scottish…
of dust and glare 