In closing this mournful record, the reader is conscious that the history of the Tasmanian is but the experience of myriads. As an exhibition of Providence, it fills us with astonishment;—of human passions, with humiliation and sadness. The current of immigration will not be diverted by abstract questions of human rights, nor will states model their policy to preserve the barbarian; but the path of history is clear, and even self love, which may carefully sift evidence, must not turn from the lessons it offers.
The original occupation of this country necessarily involved most of the consequences which followed: was that occupation, then, just? The right of wandering hordes to engross vast regions—for ever to retain exclusive property in the soil, and which would feed millions where hundreds are scattered—can never be maintained. The laws of increase seem to suggest the right of migration: neither nations nor individuals are bound to tarry on one spot, and die. The assumption of sovereignty over a savage people is justified by necessity—that law, which gives to strength the control of weakness. It prevails everywhere: it may be either malignant or benevolent, but it is irresistible. The barbarian that cannot comprehend laws or treaties, must be governed by bribes, or by force. Thus, that the royal standard was planted, need occasion no remorse; but though the native had not exclusive natural rights, he possessed the attributes of man, and the government was bound to ascertain his wants, and protect his interest in the country. England, however, forgot the aborigina: she secured him no refuge—provided no interpreter to his feelings; his language was unknown, and his testimony inadmissable.
The legal recognition of rights in the soil, pertaining to the native inhabitants of colonised regions, is attended with some difficulty, and nowhere greater than among hunting tribes: their actual possession is only definable, by admitting the wide boundaries of the chase. The Parliamentary Committee, in a review of the whole question, did not recommend treaties with savages: the terms would be liable to disputes, and a difference of interpretation would occasion distrust and animosity. A middle course might, however, be open. The natives have an equitable lien on the land, for which rulers who transfer its occupation are bound to provide effectively and for ever. Instead of making the death of the native the release of private incumbrance; instead of making it the constant interest, and daily effort of the settler, to drive him away, it ought to have been the object of the crown to identify the life of the native with the welfare of the intruder. In granting possession of lands, the terms might have given the settler a claim for remission of price—or a pecuniary reward, payable out of the proceeds of land—for every native child he might rear, and every family he might induce to choose him as their protector. Thus the shepherd princes would have felt that their interests harmonised with the existence of a race, now regarded with dislike and jealousy. The native police at Port Phillip, suggested originally by Captain Maconochie, is an adoption of this principle: they are useful, and therefore pains have been taken to attach them. It is in vain to make laws, and to issue proclamations to shield the aborigines, unless they are identified with some local interest; and for this, no sacrifice of the land revenue could be considered too great.
A youth, called Van Diemen, was nine years old when found in the wood, and adopted by Col. Davey; he was subsequently taken to England by Mr. Kermode. He had been taught to read, and could repeat several chapters of the Bible. He was remarkably keen and intelligent. [On his return to this colony, he was cut off by consumption: at the post mortem it was found that his lungs were nearly gone.] Mr. Kermode endeavoured to prevail with Lord Bathurst, to authorise a grant of land; but Mr. Wilmot Horton, then Under Secretary, objected that there were millions of British subjects, whose claims were of the same kind, and that the precedent would be inconvenient. At the same time, men in chains were receiving grants of land, and emancipists as a matter of course; but the minister was opposed to admit a claim founded on birth, orphanage, and civilisation, lest it should multiply applicants. As if anything could have been more desirable to the philanthropist and politician: who can wonder that convicts despised that which the ministers of the crown repudiated? Excepting the often pernicious donatives, occasionally conferred, the aborigine was treated only as a foreigner, a slave, and an enemy. Thus the order of Lord Hobart stood alone: it was a record of intention, not a development of government. The ministry washed their hands, and averted their eyes; and threw upon the colony the responsibility of inevitable crime.[36]
But the government of England, not only left undefined the obligations it seemed to confess: it did more; it let loose on the shores of Tasmania its outcasts, its robbers, and its homicides; it released their bonds, and sent them forth to contest with the native for the animals of chase—to cross his path unwatched—to destroy him unpunished. Crimes of every kind were visited, save this. For a word, or a look, the felon was brought to the triangle; but when he shot down the native, and acquired distinction by his butcheries, justice became scrupulous: the laws were silent—religion and humanity were silent; and the fallen black, like the uprooted forest, was thought of as an encumbrance removed!
The state of the census was equally reprehensible: England not only forgot the prescriptions of nature, and formed communities of men, but the inevitable consequence to the natives was utterly neglected. It would be impossible even to hint the series of facts, which are authenticated to the writer, and which strangely blended ferocity and lust. The sealer, or stockman, who periled his life to accomplish the abduction of a native female, thought that danger but fairly avenged by the destruction of her relatives! Thus far the government was remiss and culpable. The crimes of individuals, without diminishing their guilt, must be traced to those general causes, which are subject to the disposal of statesmen and legislators.
But when the colony was planted, and the people spread abroad, it was the duty of the crown to protect its subjects of every class: it was the duty of its officers to arrest the arm of the black man, however great the provocation that raised it. They could not stand by to investigate causes; to divide between the two races the proportions of crime, while the innocent family was exposed to violence. It was better that the blacks should die, than that they should stain the settler's hearth with the blood of his children. In this view Colonel Arthur was right: his estimate of the native character was not impartial, for he beheld it when it only appeared detestable. He had no choice; he resolved to protect his countrymen.
It is common to speak of the guilt of this community; sometimes in variance with reason and truth. That guilt belongs only to the guilty; it cannot contaminate those who were helpless spectators, or involuntary agents. The doctrine of common responsibility, can only be applicable where all are actors, or one is the representative of all. The colonist may say, "I owe no reparation, for I have done the native no wrong; I never contemplated aiding in his destruction: I have seen it with horror." May the lesson of his sufferings become the shield of his race! Those who impute guilt to this colony, forget that its worst members are not stationary, and that many have borne away their guilt with their persons. That Being, who makes requisition for blood, will find it in the skirts of the murderer, and not on the land he disdained.
No man can witness the triumph of colonisation, when cities rise in the desert, and the wilderness blossoms as the rose, without being gladdened by the change; but the question which includes the fate of the aborigines,—What will become of them?—must check exultation. The black will invade rights he does not comprehend; seize on stragglers from those flocks, which have driven off his game; and wound the heel which yet ultimately treads him to the dust. Such is the process—it is carelessly remarked, that the native is seen less often; that it is long since he ventured to cross the last line, where death set up landmarks in the slain. At length the secret comes out: the tribe which welcomed the first settler with shouts and dancing, or at worst looked on with indifference, has ceased to live.
If the accounts of discoverers have been too flattering to the native character, they are explained rather than contradicted by the early colonists. These describe, with exultation, their new acquaintance, when writing to their friends: how peaceful, light-hearted, and obliging. They are charmed by their simplicity; they sleep among them without fear: but these notes soon change; and passing from censure to hatred, they speak of them as improvident, importunate, and instrusive; as rapacious and mischievous; then as treacherous and blood-thirsty—finally, as devils, and beasts of prey. Their appearance is offensive, their proximity obstructive: their presence renders everything insecure. Thus the muskets of the soldier, and of the bandit, are equally useful; they clear the land of a detested incubus.