Luggarato

I’m just polishing off Heaven’s Command, Jan Morris’ rather ripe account of the formation of the British Empire. The chapter on the obliteration of the native Tasmanians is particularly chastening, tragic as well considering that the early British settlers had only amiable relations with them.

By the 1830s, years of harrassment and killing for sport of the Tasmanians had reduced their number to around 200. These were rounded up and shipped to the smaller island of Wybalenna to be civilised and improved by missionaries, freeing up Tasmania for full exploitation.

They were improved out of this world. In 1876 the very last Tasmanian, the famous Truganini, died in squalor.

It’s difficult to take in that this was the loss of an entire, distinct people. I can’t do better than offer up two pieces that Morris quotes in the chapter. The first is a Tasmanian dancing song transcribed into English by a Victorian missionary:

It’s wattle blossom time,
It’s spring time.
Bird whistle.
The birds are whistling.
Spring come,
Spring has come.
Cloud sun,
The clouds are all sunny.
Bird whistle,
The birds are whistling.
Dance.
Everything is dancing.
Spring-time.
Because it’s spring-time.
Dance.
Everything is dancing.
Luggarato, Luggarato, Luggarato
- Spring, Spring, Spring.
Because it’s spring-time

The second is part of the catechism used on Wybalenna to help the Tasmanians find salvation:

Q What will God do to this world by and by?
A Burn it.
Q Who are in heaven?
A God, angels, good men and Jesus Christ.
Q What sort of country is heaven?
A A fine place.
Q What sort of place is hell?
A A place of torment.
Q What do you mean by a place of torment?
A Burning for ever and ever.

It’s nice to know we had the destination of their immortal souls on our conscience. In fact, I think we still do.