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Australians in Britain: The Twentieth-Century Experience




While most Australians who went to Oxford in the 1920s came away fulfilled and schooled for success, there were usually tensions evident in their expatriate lives. This chapter examines the response of five Melburnians to Oxford, ranging from Sir Keith Hancock – completely at home in England as in Australia – through that of the anglophile S.C. Leslie to the critic A.A. Phillips, the educationist Esmonde Higgins, and the historian Kathleen Fitzpatrick, each of whom rejected it in varying degrees. Oxford was a defining moment in the lives of all of them, often in ways that had been unanticipated and unimagined.

Many knots and groups of Australians have, one way and another, found themselves meeting up and sometimes reconstituting themselves in England. Perhaps the most famous were those involved with the satirical magazine OZ, who in the late sixties ran away with it from Sydney to swinging London. Here I want to talk about another group altogether: five people from Melbourne University who went to Oxford for further study in the decade following 1918. Oxford had a profound effect on all of them, and each was transformed by it – not always in a manner that might have been anticipated.

The period immediately after the First World War saw the mechanics of academic expatriation first fully put in place. While Rhodes Scholarships had drawn young men to Oxford since 1904, a free passage scheme to take them there by ship had only just been implemented. At the same time, links with Britain were entering a period of unusual intensity. It had always been the case in Australia that more professors than not were British-born, and were so still; but in this period the influence of the Round Table, both high-class seminar and closed society promoting the imperial cause, was pervasive. Many key figures belonged to it; among the establishment, it was trendy. Both of Keith Hancock’s mentors, Ernest Scott in Melbourne and E.O.G. Shann in Perth, were members.

The Oxford awaiting young Australian graduates in 1920 was going through one of its rare periods of transition. The war had shattered it: the dead were many – almost 3000 of them – students, recent graduates, younger fellows. Women, a presence at the university since the 1880s, had only just been admitted to degrees; Greek had just been dropped as an obligatory requirement for the BA. There were still, in the depths of All Souls, junior biblical scholars, and in some cases, even a financial disincentive to marriage, since the stipends attached to some fellowships would then be docked.1

Just as for many years it took 25 Australian shillings to make a British pound, so the expectation was that Australians would read for an undergraduate degree all over again. In fact, owing to Scott’s emphasis on primary sources, a Melbourne graduate was more professionally trained in history than an Oxford one. He was, of course, less sophisticated. That, in fact, created another barrier. There was at least two or three years age difference between the arriving Australian and Englishmen fresh from a public school. Fortified by their class privileges, such people seemed to know more about the world, which they gazed upon disdainfully, and less about life. Sometimes they would proclaim an ability to detect an Australian accent – a talent that rarely extended to reproducing it correctly. For their part Australians could take consolation from the fact that one of Oxford’s most notable figures, Gilbert Murray, classicist and League of Nations activist, was one of their own. More immediately they had the Colonial Club, figured prominently in sporting activities, and, although Rhodes House was going up at only the end of this period, occasional functions for Rhodes Scholars.


One afternoon in the early nineteen-twenties [Keith Hancock wrote in his autobiography, Country and Calling] when six or seven Rhodes Scholars were gossiping with me in Balliol, I said something prim and another Australian jeered – ‘Listen to the parson’s son!’ He was a parson’s son himself ... And when a Canadian chipped in I said at a venture, ‘You’re one too’. He was. Then the three of us turned inquisitor against all the others. Everybody in that room, so it turned out – Australian, New Zealander, Newfoundlander, Canadian, Rhodesian, South African – was a parson’s son. The coincidence was not quite so unusual as might be thought, for the Rhodes Scholars of those days, despite their wide diversity of geographical background, had for the most part a closely similar background ... And from their similar families they went to schools of pretty much the same stamp. Although I did not know it, the path that I was following between the ages of nine and nineteen was little different from the paths that my contemporaries were following in the widely different landscapes of Natal, Taranaki or British Columbia.

‘For ten years or more’, he concluded, ‘I was being shaped for Oxford without ever imagining that this was my destiny’.2

It all sounds seamless. Certainly this passage is classic Hancock: the characteristic sense of congregation, the assimilative liberalism, the imperial spin on span. His own career looks seamless too: after graduating from Melbourne and a spell of lecturing in Perth, he won a special Rhodes scholarship for Australia at large. In Oxford, his expected good result was capped by an unusual distinction: he was the first Australian to win (in the annual special examinations) a fellowship at All Souls. Subsequently, even though Hancock wrote a Survey of British Commonwealth Affairs and edited the thirty-odd volumes recounting how Britain mobilised on the home front during the Second World War – and even though he was knighted by the British for this achievement – he returned to Australia to take up a post at the Australian National University in 1957. The most Hancock would state, in 1980 as in 1930, was that he was ‘in love with two soils’.3

In fact Oxford had come as a jolt to him. He was wrong-footed at the beginning, by setting off at the end of the Australian academic year 1921 and arriving well into the English one. Although Balliol was relatively welcoming, his acute homesickness led him to discern in the high-vaulted college chapel an improbable similarity with his father’s church at Moonee Ponds.4 Concerned to achieve maximum effectiveness, he cut his losses. For social life, there was little need to venture beyond Balliol – or for intellectual life either, since he found admirable mentors in the Master, A.L. Smith, and two of the college tutors, Kenneth Bell and Humphrey Sumner. And, since he was dissuaded from undertaking a research degree, Hancock outlined his own program of systematic reading to be undertaken while doing his second BA. He was, as he put it later, ‘a dreadfully purposeful young man’, for he was intent on returning to Australia within three years.5 Only when well into his fellowship at All Souls was he prepared to relax this timetable. Years later, even after he had gone to Adelaide and returned to England once more, he struck a future Oxford vice-chancellor as pining for home in a way that few Australians did.6

It was Australia, not England, that Hancock saw as his mother country; the opening of Country and Calling is partly an attempt to earth his family as fully as possible here, and not in Britain. (The Scotland of his mother’s family was a complication that did not even count.) Europe attracted him far more, and for a long time it was in European history, not in British or Australian or Commonwealth history, that he wished to make his mark. Hancock permanently absorbed the forms of British high academic discourse. He adopted the custom of addressing people by their surnames only, and of clinching the point he was making with a humourless grin (‘Gotcha!’). But he was never totally assimilated by Oxford. Often when the English claimed him as one of their own, he would play the Australian card – no doubt since it was the best way of asserting his independence or individuality. Indeed, for all his sense of achievement and feeling of acceptance, Hancock never quite got over the sense of being a foreigner in England. At a deep level he felt guilty about even being there: he did not wish to be seen as a ‘deserter’ (his rather military word) from Australia.7

When Hancock arrived at Balliol, he would soon have heard stories of Esmonde Higgins, who had faded away from the college the year before. Higgins was somebody he had known well at Melbourne, for he was treasurer of the Historical Society and on the board of Melbourne University Magazine, effectively the student newspaper of the day. Hancock was inclined to hero-worship him: ‘he glows inwardly and has big gusts of clarity’.8 He may have been almost as influential as Ernest Scott in inducing Hancock to trade in classics for history. Certainly history students were at the heart of radicalism at Melbourne during the First World War, and Higgins one of the leaders. He declared, in co-authored articles attacking Empire, that ‘Australia is a nation, not a continent’, and that members of the Round Table were ‘absentees in sentiment’.9 For all that – and no less attractive to Hancock – Higgins himself was well-born, the nephew of the advanced liberal Henry Bournes Higgins.

However, Higgins combined a strong sense of principle with emotional instability – a disastrous combination. He lacked confidence, even self-esteem; it was as though he could not trust the advantages of his own background, ratified though they had been by his intellectual precocity. Even before he reached university he was attacking the capitalist order, and at one point, since he believed it to be less capitalist, was pro-German – at least in his schoolboy diary.10 But it is entirely characteristic that he would not only come to enlist, but would turn up to his graduation ceremony in military uniform.11 After a short period of service in France, and while wondering quite what to do next, he accepted the offer by H.B. Higgins to pay for him to study at Oxford.

Hancock, now editor of Melbourne University Magazine, published an account of Oxford written by Higgins shortly after his arrival there. ‘You seem in a remote, pre-modern world’, he wrote; ‘everything looks quiet, ivied, beautiful, studious and secluded’.12 But gradually the charms wore thin, and increasingly, as an Australian, Higgins felt ‘not exactly an intruder, but a waif’. He told them at home that ‘I love being here, think it one of the finest places in the world’, but ‘I can’t feel settled where there aren’t people to yarn with about the things I’m most closely interested in’.13 To his disgust, many Australians ‘ape the ruling class atmosphere’, taking The Times and trying ‘to booze in a gentlemanly way’.14 He spoke of starting an Australian Club, but Uncle Henry advised that that had been tried at Cambridge, and had been found to be a mistake: the effect had been to separate the Australians even more from the English.15 Repeatedly he advised his nephew that it would be best to conform in small matters, since the English placed great store on such things. Higgins now realised how Australian Melbourne University had been; and on going to Ireland with Vance Palmer, he discovered that he was really Irish-Australian.16

Meanwhile, he began to have serious doubts about the craft of history. Marxism had begun to appeal to him, not least because it offered a schematic view of history which he could both follow and propound, particularly as it was forward-looking. ‘But at Oxford’, he noted derisively, ‘historians, members of a ruling class, themselves at rest above the tumult, feel that the world is at rest. They cannot think of change, of struggle, except [as] a struggle against those who are not content with the present system’. Rather than seeking to establish what has created present day conditions, they seek ‘to invest the present with the sanctity of the past’. Hence the great concern with constitutional history. There was a sense of the state, and even of society, having been constructed as a delicate mechanism, as if by myriad disinterested acts.17

Oxford quickened Higgins’s socialism, which had never really been abandoned, into something like Bolshevism. At last he approved of a tutor, the Guild Socialist G.D.H. Cole, and this probably helped steady him to the point where he completed the requirements for his degree. In Balliol, too, he had found ‘I’m quite in love with a little chap called Rothstein’ – pre-Freudian talk for being entranced by someone and their ideas. Rothstein was a Bolshevik: his father had been Lenin’s chief agent in Britain before the revolution, and both father and son would be founders of the British Communist Party. Soon Higgins was writing of the need ‘these days ... to smash, without worrying too much what is to be smashed’. Once he joined the Party, as he did in 1921, he likened (to his puzzled parents) being a Communist to being a Jesuit. There had to be the same submission to authority in order to advance a higher cause.18

Leaving Oxford for London, Higgins worked for the Labour Research Department, an unaffiliated left-wing think tank. His world was now very different from that of Hancock, who had tried to secure him a job in Perth, and, once arrived in England, wanted to go on a walking tour with him.19 Higgins though had been to Russia, in 1920, when it was a red-hot thing to do: by that stage Balliol had read him the riot act, and ordered him to settle down and apply himself to his studies. But the trajectory of his life would be entwined with Communism for some time yet. Paradoxically, a Communist takeover meant that the Labour Research Department was losing influence. By 1924 he had returned to Australia, although well aware that it was ‘too young, lazy, cheerful and smug’ for socialism.20

Less academically motivated than Hancock, Higgins found himself in Oxford on a journey of self-discovery. It exposed the contradictions in his personality, more urgently than had been the case in Melbourne, rendering more attractive the authoritarian solution it also proffered. He yearned for the decisiveness that his temperament repeatedly resisted. Wishing to burn his boats, or at least to put the indulgent liberalism of his uncle to the test, Esmonde wrote a hostile review of H.B. Higgins’s latest book for Labour Monthly: permitting himself a tart reply, his uncle nonetheless took it in his stride.21 Similarly, Esmonde walked away from Oxford, not even bothering to take out the degree he was entitled to.22 ‘Between you & me’, he wrote to his parents at the end of 1921, ‘I’m very glad to be away from that place’. In spite of a few good friends, ‘it tasted nasty now’.23

Also at Oxford at this time was A.A. Phillips, later to become famous as a literary critic. He had known Hancock well in the Public Questions Society at Melbourne; but he did not share his admiration for Scott, whose lectures he found wanting in ideas. Phillips went to Oxford to do a B.Litt. and then a Diploma of Education. The B.Litt. he found a disappointment, both in its subject matter and in its failure to teach research skills; but he admired the Oxford tutorial method, once he had devised his own way of accessing it. What is most striking, though, is how little impression Oxford made on him: towards the end of his life I saw a good deal of him, and it was a long time before I became aware he had even been there. The televised version of Brideshead Revisited, he remarked, got the feel of the place very well; but Oxford appears to have been an anticlimax. Melbourne had been much more stimulating: discussions between radical and conservative students about Freudianism was one of the things recalled. The ineffable assumption of English superiority clearly got to him. For Phillips, being an Australian in the broader imperial culture was rather like being Jewish in everyday gentile society; essentially an inflection. After all, he had an aunt, Marion Phillips, who had a seat in the House of Commons and had written a monograph on Macquarie. Indeed, it was a cultivated family: while mainly engaged in the law, there was also a pronounced literary bent. His grandfather had written for the Victorian reviews, and was president of the Shakespeare society, as was Phillips’s father (who was also chief president of the Australian Natives’ Association). His mother had published short stories and a novel. So A.A. Phillips resisted being dismissed as a ‘colonial oddity’; instead he virtually expunged Oxford from his writings and conversation.24

If Arthur Phillips was prompted, after Oxford, to seek new personal definition, another Jewish member of the group in practice sought to evade or postpone it. Clem or Sam, Lazarus or Leslie; the variation of both first name and surname is striking. In Melbourne ‘Sam’ Lazarus had been friendly with Hancock, a fellow resident of Trinity College, and was his assistant editor with Melbourne University Magazine. From Balliol they would go together to Germany in 1922. He was friendly too with Higgins, probably closer, and like him he enlisted. (It was characteristic of his charmed life that the war was over before he got to France.) But while he had, at Melbourne, forecast the downfall of capitalism, Lazarus saw the internationalism of Wilsonianism as the compromise position which might save the world from Bolshevism.25 In Oxford, he told Higgins that the state, and the rightful obligations it could demand from its citizens, was a proper concern for study. That was the necessary preliminary to reform.26

Meanwhile Lazarus told Higgins’s mother (who must have wished it was her son writing) that ‘I’m thoroughly at home here now: I fell in love with Oxford – indeed I lost my heart to all England’.27 Completing a DPhil, he took up a lectureship at the University College of North Wales. But Bangor was not Oxford, or even Melbourne; and, having said that the time would come when he would return, Lazarus took up a senior lectureship in philosophy at the University of Melbourne in 1924. While there he helped to start the Labour Club, which was founded paradoxically in Trinity College.28 After Oxford it all seemed terribly impacted; he began to want to go back to Britain. This was achieved in 1926, when he went to the imperial conference as an adviser to S.M. Bruce. It seems that Hancock may have had a hand in this: Casey, Bruce’s acolyte, was a good friend of Hancock’s, the historian becoming godfather to his son. Lazarus stayed on in London and joined the civil service.

In Britain, Lazarus, or S.C. Leslie as he became, found that he could combine a conservative lifestyle with socially progressive politics, in a way that would not be easily done in Australia. He also oscillated between business and government, concerned as he became with advertising, public relations, and propaganda. Early in the Second World War, as part of the general mobilisation of the civilian population, he anonymously wrote the well-known publication Front Line 1940. Later, he wrote important speeches for his Minister, Herbert Morrison, on nationalisation. Later still, having worked for a long time as head of the Economic Information Division of the Treasury, he became on his retirement a consultant.29

Yet it was not a clear path to comfortable conservatism. Rather, as with his name, the focus of his career, and even his politics, there was a flux, a persistent change in valency. Indeed, while retaining a life-long interest in Jewish questions, and Israel, he became a Christian Scientist. Given his qualifications and personal style, Leslie’s mutability could be accommodated more readily in England. As Hancock wrote of his old friend to Higgins, in 1936:


His ideas are Marxian again: his income is very much higher: his wife rather more shrewish ... He himself is still very, very nice – just as sharp and witty in speech, and with the same quick grin across his (alas definitely fatter) face. I like talking with him, though our old relationship tends oddly to perpetuate itself: he the resourceful doctrinaire, and I the un-ready, protesting, more realistic, more muddled brat of an Archdeacon.30

When all these men had left Oxford, the young Kathleen Pitt, later Fitzpatrick, arrived in England with her family in 1926. She had hoped for a scholarship to Cambridge; a severe, donnish woman soon put paid to that when she remarked, ‘Here in Cambridge, you know, we don’t think much of the degrees of these American universities’. Stung by the unshakeable assumption of superiority, Miss Pitt withdrew her application, and gained admittance to Oxford instead. She was not yet clear what she wanted to do, apart from gaining a further, more rounded education – but she was fortunate in having a family who would, and could, support her.31 But then, as she later recollected, she had not known a single woman at Melbourne University who was from the working class.32

At Somerville College she responded to the warmth and concern of a kindly principal, but Oxford was an uphill battle for Kathleen. For a start, the riverine vapours of the place did not agree with her, and she succumbed to bronchitis and a perpetual cold, abetted by the severity of her first English winter. She also had to cope with the coldness of the English: for her first ten days in Somerville, Kathleen later recalled, at the meal table no-one spoke to her. Whatever notions Australians then had of a broader British kinship, the English seemed to share none of them. Later she did make friends, but Kathleen was acutely aware of her isolation as an Australian woman. Her male counterparts were more numerous, and linked up with each other in a variety of ways.

To make matters worse, the presence of women at Oxford was still problematic. It still felt like a concession: there were subtle forms of discrimination practiced by lecturers, while the women’s colleges, edgy about their status, imposed strict discipline. The male students were indifferent, if not hostile; Oxford would accept only one woman for every four men, so of necessity they were earnest and scholarly rather than frivolous upper class types. The men responded by asking London debs to their balls, or professional actresses to take part in student theatre productions – anything but college girls. This was a shock to Kathleen, who remembered that in Melbourne ‘the men students had quite liked the women students and mixed freely with them’. But she was up against the strong homosocial mores of the English public school and, indeed, of English public life – even if they were probably less homosexual than she imagined.33

Having been persuaded to abandon all thoughts of a research degree, Kathleen was to find that the second BA she now undertook was but a drudge and a disappointment. She felt, as Arthur Phillips did, that after Melbourne it added surprisingly little to her intellectual development.34 Nevertheless she applied herself, indeed too much so: Kathleen was debilitated and defeated from overwork as she sat in the examination hall reading her final papers. She knew her material, but could not martial her facts and arguments. She slunk home with a second. But, as Kathleen put it, ‘I had been “Home” and now was coming home’.35

In her autobiography, Solid Bluestone Foundations, Kathleen refers to male colleagues who ‘looked back with evident nostalgia ... to the Paradise Lost of Oxford’.36 There is much truth in this remark, but as this chapter demonstrates, the response was often more complex and mixed. Hancock probably exemplifies this best, with his self-diagnosis of a basic tension between country and calling. He professed to have never cared much for the English countryside, and indeed the greater pull of the Australian bush (and what it represented) propelled him back to Australia. Ultimately it made an environmental historian of him. The opposite was his old friend ‘Sam’/Clem Lazarus/Leslie, who did become an anglophile, with his CBE, and chairmanship of the editorial board of Round Table: but as suggested earlier, his wide range of interests, fluctuating valencies and eye for the main chance made this a sensible outcome. It must also be remembered that for a long time the public service in Australia would not recruit graduates, preferring to take people directly from school.

The other three coped with their Oxford legacy in various ways. A.A. Phillips bided his time, and then when Leavis produced The Great Tradition, Phillips responded by calling his book of 1958, centred on Lawson and Furphy, The Australian Tradition. ‘I was deliberately flying a skull-and-crossbones’, he later recalled.37 For those more seriously damaged, such as Kathleen Fitzpatrick and Esmonde Higgins, the process was more protracted. While conceding that she gained certain things from Oxford, Kathleen was left with a scholarly inferiority complex. Nonetheless Oxford significantly crystallised her sense of being Australian, and made her active for women’s causes – notably the University Women’s College at Melbourne. Meanwhile her own progress, after a temporary reprieve at Sydney, was long and arduous: it took ten years, via the detour of business education and typing and shorthand, to get to the desired lectureship at Melbourne.38 Similarly Esmonde Higgins turned to postgraduate study only at the end of his life, after a long period in adult education and a slow return to democratic socialism. It was as though he had finally got – after many defeats but by his own efforts – to the fast-forward position in which his Uncle Henry had placed him at Oxford all those years before.

There was once a terrible white South African joke describing a black man on a bicycle. However racist the description, it certainly fits Esmonde Higgins: an accident looking for a place to have it. But he, like the other Australians followed here, were all products of a small country, indeed community – for there was not much linkage then between the major Australian cities. For a long time Australians went to Oxford as much to be completed as to gain qualifications. Like people from the north of England, or later from working class backgrounds – with whom they found affinity – Australians came up against unshakeable patrician rigidities. The expectation was one of assimilation; the result more usually one of helping to define a distinctive sense of being Australian. In the process such people often found their personalities sharpened and their priorities reordered in ways they might never have imagined.


1     Information from S.J.D. Green, college historian, All Souls College, 2002.

2     Hancock, 1954, 55.

3     Hancock, 1930; Hancock, 1976,

4     Hancock, MS ‘Oxford Dinner 3 May 1969’, Hancock Papers, P96/31/15.

5     Hancock, 1954, 79.

6     Sir John Habbakuk, interview, October 1999.

7     Hancock, 1954, 126.

8     Carr, 2001, 220.

9     These two phrases are from articles written for Melbourne University Magazine in 1917 by Higgins and Harry Minogue, quoted in Carr, 2001, 97.

10    Carr, 2001, 91.

11    Nettie Palmer, Diary, 13 April 1918, NLA 1174/16/3.

12    Higgins, ‘Oxford to an Australian’, Melbourne University Magazine, 13/3 (October 1919), 137.

13    Higgins to parents, 26 August 1919, ML MSS 740/5.

14    Higgins, ‘Oxford’, ML MSS 740/3/19.

15    H.B. Higgins to Esmonde Higgins, 26 February and 6 April 1919, ML MS 740/10.

16    Carr, 2001, 110.

17    Autobiographical Notes, 23 July 1920, ML MSS 740/3/19, pp. 53–55.

18    Carr, 2001, 109, 112–114, 122.

19    Hancock to Higgins, 21 December [1920] and letter from Paris [1921], ML MSS 740/7/144, 164.

20    Carr, 2001, 116.

21    Carr, 2001, 125–130.

22    Communication from Anna Sander, Archivist, Balliol College, 25 August 2005.

23    Higgins to parents, ML MSS 740/6/343.

24    Phillips, 1983b, esp. 28, 34; Davidson, 1983, esp. 34, 39; Kiernan, 1979, esp. 7–9.

25    Lazarus on capitalism, Melbourne University Magazine 11/3 (October 1917), 94, and Wilsonianism 13/2 (August 1919), 74.

26    Lazarus to Higgins, 5 May 1920, ML MSS 740/11/129.

27    Lazarus to Mrs Higgins, 2 November 1921, ML MSS 740/6/333.

28    Watson, 1979, 17.

29    S.C. Leslie obituary, The Times, 11 January 1980.

30    Hancock to Higgins, ML MSS 740/12/89-90.

31    Fitzpatrick, 1983a, 189.

32    Fitzpatrick, 1983b, 120.

33    Fitzpatrick, 1983b, 124–126; Fitzpatrick, 1983a, 199–206.

34    Fitzpatrick, 1983b, 122; Fitzpatrick, 1983a, 206–207.

35    Fitzpatrick, 1983a, 207–208, 210.

36    Fitzpatrick, 1983a, 203.

37    Phillips, 1983a, 34.

38    Fitzpatrick, 1983b, 126–130.


Esmonde Higgins, Autobiographical Notes, 23 July 1920, Mitchell Library [ML] MSS 740/3/19.

Hancock Papers, Noel Butlin Archives Centre, Australian National University, P96.

Sir John Habbakuk, interview with the author, October 1999.

Melbourne University Magazine [MUM], 1917, 1919.

Nettie Palmer, Diary, National Library of Australia [NLA], 1174/16/3.

S.C. Leslie obituary, The Times, 11 January 1980.


Carr, Adam. 2001. ‘Three generations of Melbourne radicals 1870–1988’. PhD thesis. Melbourne: University of Melbourne.

Davidson, Jim. 1983. Sideways from the Page: The Meanjin Interviews. Sydney: Fontana, Collins.

Fitzpatrick, Kathleen. 1983a. Solid Bluestone Foundations. Melbourne: Macmillan.

Fitzpatrick, Kathleen. 1983b. ‘A Cloistered Life’. In The Half-Open Door, edited by Grimshaw, Patricia; Strahan, Lynne Sydney: Hale & Iremonger.

Hancock, W.K. 1930. Australia. London: Benn.

Hancock, W.K. 1954. Country and Calling. London: Faber and Faber.

Hancock, W.K. 1976. Professing History. Sydney: Sydney University Press.

Kiernan, Brian. 1979. ‘Introduction’ to Responses: Selected Writings, by Phillips, A.A. Melbourne: Australia International Press.

Phillips, A.A. 1983a. ‘Interview’. In Sideways from the Page, Davidson, Jim. Sydney: Fontana, Collins.

Phillips, A.A. 1983b. In Memories of Melbourne University, edited by Hume Dow, Richmond, Vic.: Hutchinson.

Watson, Don. 1979. Brian Fitzpatrick, a Radical Life. Sydney: Hale & Iremonger.


Cite this chapter as: Davidson, Jim. 2009. ‘“Home” becomes away: Melburnians in Oxford in the 1920s’. Australians in Britain: The Twentieth-Century Experience, edited by Bridge, Carl; Crawford, Robert; Dunstan, David. Melbourne: Monash University ePress. pp. 9.1 to 9.10.


Australians in Britain: The Twentieth-Century Experience

   by Carl Bridge