Journal articles on the topic 'Sovereignity was never ceded'

According to the Supreme Court of Canada, Aboriginal title is a property right, albeit of a distinctive kind. Most significantly, the right is subject to an inherent limit: title lands cannot be used in a way that deprives present and future generations of the right to use the land. Aboriginal title is also encumbered by a restraint on alienation, and has its source in Aboriginal legal systems that predate and survive the assertion of Crown sovereignty. In this paper, we argue that these features of Aboriginal title are not burdensome judicial innovations on a property right, but are instead the essential contours of a sovereign right. That is, the Court’s own description of Aboriginal title does not comport with sound theoretical understandings of a property right. Aboriginal title is much more akin to a right of sovereignty—the right to make laws about the use of a territory. Aboriginal title is the right of law-making jurisdiction over the title lands. The existing literature, while edging towards the view that Aboriginal title is a sovereign right, has lacked the unifying theoretical basis needed to decisively dispatch the Court’s property paradigm. In particular, all extant accounts find the inherent limit inexplicable. The account in this article theorizes and explains the inherent limit, as well as all of the sui generis elements of Aboriginal title, and shows their interconnectedness. Our view additionally answers a number of questions that the Court’s property paradigm does not, including: (1) what laws primarily govern title lands; (2) who has standing to question whether any particular use of title land violates the inherent limit; (3) what is the status of private land interests that overlap with Aboriginal title lands; and (4) how should the doctrine of Aboriginal title be updated in light of jurisprudential developments emphasizing that Indigenous peoples never ceded their sovereignty?

The outbreak of further hostilities between Chad and Libya in August 1987 was occasioned by a dispute concerning sovereignty over the so-called Aouzou Strip in northern Chad. The extent of Libyan involvement in Chad is motivated to a large degree by this territorial claim. This dispute must be distinguished from Libya's wider ambitions for Arab unity or its involvement in Chad's civil war, although it would appear true to say that Libya was thereby seeking to consolidate its hold on the Aouzou Strip. Documentary evidence exists to support the contention that a genuine territorial claim exists. In addition, it is interesting to note that, while Libya appeared to have resigned itself to the victory of President Habre's forces in the civil war and the defeat and expulsion of its forces from the rest of Chad in the early part of 1987, the capture of Aouzou by Habre's forces in August 1987 resulted in an ongoing military response brought to a tentative conclusion in September 1987 by the OAU. Colonel Gadafi has been reported as saying that, if Chad ceded the Aouzou Strip, he would regard the war as over and would never again interfere in Chad's internal affairs. Moreover, Colonel Gadafi's support for the rival factions in Chad has wavered according to their position on the question of the Aouzou Strip. The purpose of this short article is to analyse Libya's territorial claim to the disputed territory.

Abstract The long-standing dispute between Spain and the United Kingdom over the British overseas territory of Gibraltar was characterized in 2012 by repeated Spanish incursions into Gibraltar’s territorial sea. Spain claims these waters as Spanish historic waters that were never ceded to Great Britain under the Treaty of Utrecht 1713, and therefore insists that Gibraltar has no territorial sea. The United Kingdom maintains that Gibraltar’s entitlement to a territorial sea is in keeping with international law. Although the terms of the Treaty of Utrecht are open to interpretation, the Spanish position does not appear to be compatible with the law of the sea.

The Scottish referendum of autumn 2014 has been debated as if it was a unique moment in the country's history, and in several senses it was indeed unprecedented – in the level of engagement by citizens which it stimulated, in the acceptance by all sides to the debate that the decision on independence was Scotland's alone (which was an implicit recognition of popular sovereignty), and in its being the first ever democratic and explicit endorsement of the Union by Scotland. Nevertheless, there is also a sense in which the pattern of protest and compromise that led to the referendum and that pervades its aftermath is very familiar – the latest in a series of such processes that have characterised Scotland's always evolving place in the Union since 1707. Radical challenge is followed by pragmatic adjustment as the state cedes just enough power to keep the Union intact for the time being, a compromise which sows the seeds of the next phase of radical rebellion. That is why Scotland's position never fully satisfies anyone, and why, on this occasion, the basis for a new challenge to the Union (and for a new compromise to that new challenge) has probably already been laid before even the outcome of this referendum has been fully settled.

This paper reports the salvage excavations of a shell midden at Hope Island, Gold Coast City, southeast Queensland. Archaeological investigations were carried out in the Gold Coast region during the late 1960s and early 1970s (e.g. Haglund-Calley and Quinnell 1973; Haglund 1975, 1976), but as academic input into the area waned it became something of a folk theory in the mainstream Anglo-Saxon community that nothing worthwhile in the way of archaeological evidence remained in the area. The Kombumerri people, traditional owners who have never ceded title to their land, knew differently. This paper follows an extensive site recording program undertaken by the Kombumerri Cultural Centre and the Anthropology Museum, University of Queensland, which has clearly demonstrated the correctness of their view: material evidence of significance to the local Aboriginal community abounds within the Gold Coast City limits and its environs.

First Nations’ self-government treaties have arisen solely in British Columbia, to the exclusion of every other Canadian province. At first glance, the amount of historical treaties enacted in what is now Ontario prevents new claims from being pursued. Therefore, the assumption exists that because the majority of British Columbia’s land mass was never formally ceded to the Crown, the opportunity to do so has now presented itself. However, identifying the amount of historical treaties as the sole influence over the contemporary process of land claims is an assumption that excludes the importance of regional circumstances in emerging self-government treaties. Therefore, the intention of this paper is to establish that this assumption is inadequate, and that regionalism better explains the historical, political, legal, and geographical reasons why First Nations’ self-government has surfaced exclusively in BC.

The article examines how the "native city" is constructed and remembered in the works of the Italian refugee and later emigrant, Gianni Angelo Grohovaz. Born in Fiume (Italy) in 1926, Grohovaz was forced to abandon his city when it was ceded, as spoils of war, to Yugoslavia. After eventually emigrating to Canada, Grohovaz became not only an eloquent voice on behalf of Italian-Canadians, but also a passionate poet for a world and a civilization destroyed, in his view, first by the aftermath of the war and then by Italy's own perfidy towards Fiume and Istria. Though never able to overcome the pain, Grohovaz does eventually reconcile himself with this irreparable loss of a home, a hometown, and a way of life by suggesting that Canada is, in some ways, very much like Fiume and Fiume is, in some ways, very much like Christ.

Abstract The golden line, a Latin versification exercise in British classrooms since at least 1612, appears to have no basis in the classical tradition. It was resisted by the academy for decades — if not centuries. Then, as Latin versification ceded its central role in schools and universities, resistance withered. New generations of scholars had never encountered the golden line as a composition exercise, and they saw instead the golden line as a critical tool for interpreting Latin poetry. After the 1950s, the golden line spread to Italy, Spain, Belgium, Germany, France, and beyond. A classroom exercise helped shape scholarship worldwide. Yet the golden line is an even more striking example of scholarship from below, because it thrived due to its documented appeal to the students who identified and composed them. From the 1600s until today, students have expressed pride and joy in identifying and composing golden lines. Student preferences often shape pedagogical canons and classroom practice, but the golden line went still further. Today, Latinists worldwide analyse poets of the classical canon by counting and discussing their golden lines. Student preferences for a school exercise have changed not only pedagogy but scholarly practice.

Rumors circulated for years about the fabulous wealth to be found in the Black Hills, an area in Dakota Territory, U.S.A., ceded to the Sioux Nation in 1868. Although the Sioux Nation was determined to keep all outsiders out, the U.S. government decided to send an expedition into the hills during the summer of 1874, partly to map them for military purposes and partly to quell rumors about gold and other economic commodities. The expedition was led by Lieutenant Colonel George A. Custer (1839-1876) of the U.S. Seventh Cavalry. Newton Horace Winchell (1839-1914), director of the Geological and Natural History Survey of Minnesota, was invited to join as chief geologist. His official reason for participating was to collect geologic specimens together with skins of animals for a newly formed Museum of Natural History. Prospectors also accompanying the expedition purportedly found gold at several places. Their finds were described in official dispatches written by Custer and in unofficial accounts prepared by newspaper reporters accompanying the expedition. Upon his return from the field, Custer emphasised the discoveries and their economic potential. At about the same time Winchell told reporters that the reports and the newspaper accounts were greatly exaggerated and that he had personally seen no trace of gold. Controversy continued over the next several months, mainly in the newspapers. In late 1874, Custer suggested that Winchell never saw gold because he never looked for it. Custer's view prevailed as pressure mounted to open the Black Hills to exploration. In the summer of 1875, the government sent a second expedition to the hills primarily to resolve the differing views of Custer and Winchell. That expedition found considerable evidence for economic quantities of gold, an act that further inflamed the Sioux. Consequently, many fled the reservation for parts of Montana and in January 1876 the Army was ordered to force the Native Americans back onto the reservation. That campaign led to the Battle of the Little Big Horn and to the death of Custer and his Seventh Cavalry on 21 June 1876. Although Winchell continued to serve as Minnesota State Geologist for 28 years and lived until 1914, he never again mentioned his role in the discovery of gold in the Black Hills.

This article aims to examine how Matacong Island, a small island just off the coast of the Republic of Guinea, West Africa, was claimed its possession by local chiefs, how it was leased to and was used by European and Sierra Leonean merchants, and how it was colonized by Britain and France in the 19th century. In 1825 the paramount chief of Moriah chiefdom agreed to lease the island to two Sierra Leonean merchants, and in 1826 it was ceded to Britain by a treaty with chiefs of the Sumbuyah and Moriah chiefdoms. Since the island was considered as a territory exempted from duty, British and Sierra Leonean merchants used it as an important trading station throughout the 19th century. Major exports of Matacong Island included palm kernels, palm oil, hides, ivory, pepper and groundnuts, originally brought by local traders from the neighboring rivers, and major imports were tobacco, beads, guns, gunpowder, rum, cotton manufactures, iron bars and hardware of various kinds. In 1853 alone, some 80 vessels, under British, American, and French flags, anchored at Matacong Island. By the convention of 1882, Britain recognized the island as belonging to France. Although the convention was never ratified, it was treated by both countries as accepted terms of agreement. The article considers various dynamics of usage, property, and territorial possession as relates to the island during the 19th century, and reveals how complex they were, widely making use of the documents of The Matacong Island (West Africa) Papers at the University of Birmingham Library in Britain. The collection purchased by the library in 1969 is composed of 265 historical documents relating to Matacong Island, such as letters, agreements, newspaper-cuttings, maps and water-color picture

Even in learned journals on African and imperial history, few references have been made to the records contained in the archives in Cameroon, West Africa. Kamerun was a German colony (Schutzgebiet) from 1884-1916/19. In 1911, the Germans took over New Cameroon (Neu Kamerun), 295,000 km2 of land of French Equatorial Africa, ceded during the second Morocco Crisis. After World War I this transaction was reversed and the German colony was separated into French and British League of Nations Mandates in 1919. These mandates were transformed into United Nations Trusteeships in 1946. Finally, French Cameroun became independent in 1960, and after a plebiscite in 1961, one part of the British Cameroons joined Nigeria and the other part reunited with the formerly French part, now the independent Federal Republic of Cameroon.Due to the involvement of three colonial powers in Cameroon, the national archives in Yaoundé and Buea are an excellent source for the colonial history of West Africa, allowing for a simultaneous analysis of German, French, and British files. Whereas the colonial files in the European archives mainly give us the point of view of high politics, the archives in Cameroon offer a different dimension. The files reveal the intricacies of the colonial system on the ground, and the problems with which the colonial administrator had to cope in the bush: How did one introduce European legal tender in a territory never touched by Europeans before? How did one cope with the colonial rivals, who were couching at the frontiers to take over the territory? How did one attempt to win peoples' hearts and minds day in and day out? What happened when the new colonial power took over a territory with an already developed administration from another colonial power, as it took place in Cameroon in 1911 and 1916/19? The national archives of Cameroon contain potential answers to these questions. Hence this paper will focus on the sources that are available for the colonial period in these archives.

Flemming A. J. Nielsen And Thorkild Kjærgaard:The First Greenlandic Book Ever since the arrival of Norse peasants in south-west Greenland in the second halfof the tenth century there have been links between the immense island (2.2 millionkm2) in the north-eastern corner of the American hemisphere and the Scandinavianworld. At the end of the twelfth century, the ancestors of today’s Inuit, a whale- andseal-hunting people speaking a language of the Eskimo-Aleut group, migrated fromEllesmere Island across the narrow Smith Sound to northern Greenland. Within twoand a half centuries, the Norse peasants had, it seems, been exterminated by the Inuit,but Greenland was never forgotten in Scandinavia. In the European world it was generallyrecognised that Greenland was Norwegian territory. In 1380 Norway enteredinto a union with Denmark, and the dream of restoring connections with Greenlandtherefore became a shared Danish-Norwegian dream, although it seemed less and lesspracticable as time went by and the Davis Strait between Baffin Island and Greenlandbegan to teem with Dutch and British whalers and trading ships.However, in 1721 the course of history changed. A Norwegian priest, Hans Egede(1686‑1758), who had been offering his services for more than a decade, was appointed‘Royal Missionary in Greenland’ and was given the necessary support for an expeditionaiming to re-establish the old connection and to reintroduce Christianity into Greenland.Egede’s Greenlandic adventure succeeded, and over the course of the eighteenthcentury Greenland was reintegrated, bit by bit, into the multicultural, multinationalDanish-Norwegian state and society.In 1814 Norway was divided as a result of the Napoleonic Wars. Mainland Norway(what we know as Norway today) was ceded to Sweden while the remote Norwegianislands in the North Atlantic (Greenland, the Faroe Islands and, until 1944, Iceland)were annexed to the kingdom of Denmark.Being a true officer of the Danish-Norwegian empire, where every child had tobe taught to read and appreciate Luther’s Small Catechism, Egede struggled fromthe outset with the exotic Greenlandic language, not just to learn to speak a vaguelyunderstandable ‘kitchen-Greenlandic’ but also to acquire the deeper understandingof phonetic and grammatical structures that was needed in order to develop a writtenversion of the language.During Egede’s fifteen years in Greenland (1721‑36), all the documents pertainingto the mission were handwritten. This was true also for the basic Christian texts inGreenlandic which Egede and his helpers began to produce and distribute among thegrowing number of converts from as early as 1723. Back in Copenhagen in 1736, Egede founded the so-called Seminarium Groenlandicum. The purpose of this institution wastwofold: to teach basic Greenlandic to new missionaries and catechists before they wentto Greenland, and to produce books printed in Greenlandic in order to have a moremajor and focused impact on Greenlandic society than the sporadic effects obtainablewith handwritten texts that were constantly being altered by being laboriously copiedout by hand again and again.The first book published in Greenlandic as part of this programme was a spellingbook containing reading exercises based on Luther’s Small Catechism in addition to acollection of prayers and eight hymns translated from the Danish, comprising a total offorty pages prepared by Egede and printed in Copenhagen in 1739 to be sent to Greenlandthe same year. As a bridge between written and printed culture in Greenland, thissmall book marked an important milestone in early modern Greenland. Until now it hasbeen known only from uncertain and elusive bibliographical sources – sceptical voiceshave even doubted whether it ever existed, but two copies of the book have recentlybeen located and identified in the holdings of the Royal Library. Our article providesa thorough study of the book: how it came to be forgotten, how it was rediscovered,the nature of its contents and details of its typographical layout.Less than a century after Hans Egede’s arrival in Greenland, almost everybody inwestern Greenland had learned to read and write, and the local vernacular had becomea literary language. Later, in 1861, Greenland’s first newspaper was established.It was written and edited from the outset by Greenlanders eagerly discussing their ownaffairs. As a result of the discussions, scattered groups of individuals throughout theenormous but thinly populated island coalesced into a nation, and, thanks to Egede’sendeavours and those of his many successors throughout the eighteenth and nineteenthcenturies, Greenlandic is today the only native American language that is used for anyand every purpose by its speakers, whether it be literature, pop music, government,church services or legislation.

AbstractThe nucleus of the collection of paintings in the Mauritshuis around 130 pictures - came from the hereditary stadholder Prince William v. It is widely believed to have become, the property of the State at the beginning of the 19th century, but how this happened is still. unclear. A hand-written notebook on this subject, compiled in 1876 by - the director Jonkheer J. K. L. de Jonge is in the archives of the Mauritshuis Note 4). On this basis a clnsor systematic and chronological investigation has been carried out into the stadholder's. property rights in respect of his collectcons and the changes these underwent between 1795 and 1816. Royal decrees and other documents of the period 1814- 16 in particular giae a clearer picture of whal look place. 0n 18 January 1795 William V (Fig. 2) left the Netherlands and fled to England. On 22 January the Dutch Republic was occupied by French armies. Since France had declared war on the stadholder, the ownership of all his propergy in the Netherlands, passed to France, in accordance with the laws of war of the time. His famous art collections on the Builerth of in. The Hague were taken to Paris, but the remaining art objects, distributed over his various houses, remained in the Netherlands. On 16 May 1795 the French concluded a treaty with the Batavian Republic, recognizing it as an independent power. All the properties of William v in the Netehrlands but not those taken to France, were made over to the Republic (Note 14), which proceeded to sell objects from the collections, at least seven sales taking place until 1798 (Note 15). A plan was then evolved to bring the remaining treasures together in a museum in emulation of the French. On the initiative of J. A. Gogel, the Nationale Konst-Galerij', the first national museum in the .Netherlands, was estahlished in The Hague and opened to the public on ,31 May 1800. Nothing was ever sold from lhe former stadholder's library and in 1798 a Nationale Bibliotheek was founded as well. In 1796, quite soon after the French had carried off the Stadholder, possessions to Paris or made them over to the Batavian Republic, indemnification was already mentioned (Note 19). However, only in the Trealy of Amiens of 180 and a subaequent agreement, between France ararl Prussia of 1 802, in which the Prince of Orarage renounced his and his heirs' rights in the Netherlands, did Prussia provide a certain compensation in the form of l.artds in Weslphalia and Swabia (Note 24) - William v left the management of these areas to the hereditary prince , who had already been involved in the problems oncerning his father's former possessions. In 1804 the Balavian Republic offered a sum of five million guilders 10 plenipotentiaries of the prince as compensation for the sequestrated titles and goods, including furniture, paintings, books and rarities'. This was accepted (Notes 27, 28), but the agreement was never carried out as the Batavian Republic failed to ratify the payment. In the meantime the Nationale Bibliolkeek and the Nationale Konst-Galerij had begun to develop, albeit at first on a small scale. The advent of Louis Napoleon as King of Hollarad in 1806 brought great changes. He made a start on a structured art policy. In 1806 the library, now called `Royal', was moved to the Mauritshuis and in 1808 the collectiorts in The Hague were transferred to Amsterdam, where a Koninklijk Museum was founded, which was housed in the former town hall. This collection was subsequertly to remain in Amsterdam, forming the nucleus of the later Rijksmuseum. The library too was intended to be transferred to Amsterdam, but this never happened and it remained in the Mauritshuis until 1819. Both institutions underwent a great expansion in the period 1806-10, the library's holdings increasing from around 10,000 to over 45,000 books and objects, while the museum acquired a number of paintings, the most important being Rembrandt's Night Watch and Syndics, which were placed in the new museum by the City of Amsterdam in 1808 (Note 44). In 1810 the Netherlands was incorporated into France. In the art field there was now a complete standstill and in 1812 books and in particular prints (around 11,000 of them) were again taken from The Hague to Paris. In November 1813 the French dominion was ended and on 2 December the hereditary prince, William Frederick, was declared sovereign ruler. He was inaugurated as constitutional monarch on 30 March 1814. On January 3rd the provisional council of The Hague had already declared that the city was in (unlawful' possession of a library, a collection of paintings, prints and other objects of art and science and requested the king tot take them back. The war was over and what had been confiscated from William under the laws of war could now be given back, but this never happened. By Royal Decree of 14 January 1814 Mr. ( later Baron) A. J. C. Lampsins (Fig. I ) was commissioned to come to an understanding with the burgomaster of The Hague over this transfer, to bring out a report on the condition of the objects and to formulate a proposal on the measures to be taken (Note 48). On 17 January Lampsins submitted a memorandum on the taking over of the Library as the private property of His Royal Highness the Sovereign of the United Netherlartds'. Although Lampsins was granted the right to bear the title 'Interim Director of the Royal Library' by a Royal Decree of 9 February 1814, William I did not propose to pay The costs himself ; they were to be carried by the Home Office (Note 52). Thus he left the question of ownership undecided. On 18 April Lampsins brought out a detailed report on all the measures to be taken (Appendix IIa ) . His suggestion was that the objects, formerly belonging to the stadholder should be removed from the former royal museum, now the Rijksmuseum, in Amsterdam and to return the 'Library', as the collectiort of books, paintings and prints in The Hague was called, to the place where they had been in 1795. Once again the king's reaction was not very clear. Among other things, he said that he wanted to wait until it was known how extensive the restitution of objects from Paris would be and to consider in zvhich scholarly context the collections would best, fit (Note 54) . While the ownership of the former collections of Prince William I was thus left undecided, a ruling had already been enacted in respect of the immovable property. By the Constitution of 1814, which came into effect on 30 March, the king was granted a high income, partly to make up for the losses he had sulfered. A Royal Decree of 22 January 1815 does, however, imply that William had renounced the right to his, father's collections, for he let it be known that he had not only accepted the situation that had developed in the Netherlands since 1795, but also wished it to be continued (Note 62). The restitution of the collections carried off to France could only be considered in its entirety after the defeat of Napoleon at the Battle of Waterloo on 18 June 1815- This was no simple matter, but in the end most, though not all, of the former possessions of William V were returned to the Netherlands. What was not or could not be recovered then (inc.uding 66 paintings, for example) is still in France today (Note 71)- On 20 November 1815 127 paintings, including Paulus Potter's Young Bull (Fig. 15), made a ceremonial entry into The Hague. But on 6 October, before anything had actually been returned, it had already been stipulated by Royal Decree that the control of the objects would hence forlh be in the hands of the State (Note 72). Thus William I no longer regarded his father's collections as the private property of the House of Orange, but he did retain the right to decide on the fulure destiny of the... painting.s and objects of art and science'. For the time being the paintings were replaced in the Gallery on the Buitenhof, from which they had been removed in 1795 (Note 73). In November 1815 the natural history collection was made the property of Leiden University (Note 74), becoming the basis for the Rijksmuseum voor Natuurlijke Historie, The print collection, part of the Royal Library in The Hague, was exchanged in May 1816 for the national collectiort of coins and medals, part of the Rijksmuseum. As of 1 Jufy 1816 directors were appointed for four different institutions in The Hague, the Koninklijke Bibliotheek (with the Koninklijk Penningkabinet ) , the Koninklijk Kabinet van Schilderijen and the Yoninklijk Kabinet van Zeldzaamheden (Note 80) . From that time these institutions led independenl lives. The king continued to lake a keen interest in them and not merely in respect of collecting Their accommodation in The Hague was already too cramped in 1816. By a Royal Decree of 18 May 1819 the Hotel Huguetan, the former palace of the. crown prince on Lange Voorhout, was earmarked for the Koninklijke Bibliotheek and the Koninklijk Penningkabinet (Note 87) . while at the king's behest the Mauritshuis, which had been rented up to then, was bought by the State on 27 March 1820 and on IO July allotted to the Koninklijk Kabinet van Schilderijen and the Koninklijk Kabinet van Zeldzaamheden (Note 88). Only the Koninklijk Kabinet van Schilderijen is still in the place assigned to it by William and the collection has meanwhile become so identified with its home that it is generally known as the Mauritshui.s'. William i's most important gift was made in July 1816,just after the foundation of the four royal institutions, when he had deposited most of the objects that his father had taken first to England and later to Oranienstein in the Koninklijk Kabinet van Zeldzaamheden. The rarities (Fig. 17), curios (Fig. 18) and paintings (Fig. 19), remained there (Note 84), while the other art objects were sorted and divided between the Koninklijke Bibliotheek (the manuscripts and books) and the koninklijk Penningkabinet (the cameos and gems) (Note 85). In 1819 and 182 the king also gave the Koninklijke Bibliotheek an important part of the Nassau Library from the castle at Dillenburg. Clearly he is one of the European monarchs who in the second half of the 18th and the 19th century made their collectiorts accessible to the public, and thus laid the foundatinns of many of today's museums. But William 1 also made purchases on behalf of the institutions he had created. For the Koninklijke Bibliotheek, for example, he had the 'Tweede Historiebijbel', made in Utrecht around 1430, bought in Louvain in 1829 for 1, 134 guilders (Pigs.30,3 I, Note 92). For the Koninkijk Penningkabinet he bought a collection of 62 gems and four cameos , for ,50,000 guilders in 1819. This had belonged to the philosopher Frans Hemsterhuis, the keeper of his father's cabinet of antiquities (Note 95) . The most spectacular acquisition. for the Penninukabinet., however, was a cameo carved in onyx, a late Roman work with the Triumph of Claudius, which the king bought in 1823 for 50,000 guilders, an enormous sum in those days. The Koninklijk Kabinet van Zeldzaamhedert also received princely gifts. In 1821- the so-called doll's house of Tzar Peter was bought out of the king's special funds for 2.800 guilders (Figs.33, 34, ,Note 97) , while even in 1838, when no more money was available for art, unnecessary expenditure on luxury' the Von Siebold ethnographical collection was bought at the king's behest for over 55,000 guilders (Note 98). The Koninklijk Kabinel van Schilderyen must have been close to the hearl of the king, who regarded it as an extension of the palace (Notes 99, 100) . The old master paintings he acquzred for it are among the most important in the collection (the modern pictures, not dealt with here, were transferred to the Paviljoen Welgelegen in Haarlem in 1838, Note 104). For instance, in 1820 he bought a portrait of Johan Maurice of Nassau (Fig.35)., while in 1822, against the advice of the then director, he bought Vermeer' s View of Delft for 2,900 guilders (Fig.36, Note 105) and in 1827 it was made known, from Brussels that His Majesty had recommended the purchase of Rogier van der Weyden's Lamentation (Fig.37) . The most spectacular example of the king's love for 'his' museum, however, is the purchase in 1828 of Rembrandt's Anatomy Lesson of Dr. Nicolaes Tulp for 32,000 guilders. The director of the Rijksmuseum, C. Apostool, cortsidered this Rembrandt'sfinest painting and had already drawn attention to it in 1817, At the king'.s behest the picture, the purchase of which had been financed in part by the sale of a number of painlings from. the Rijksmuseum, was placed in the Koninklijk Kabinet van Schilderijen in The Hague. On his accession King William I had left the art objects which had become state propery after being ceded by the French to the Batavian Republic in 1795 as they were. He reclaimed the collections carried off to France as his own property, but it can be deduced from the Royal Decrees of 1815 and 1816 that it Was his wish that they should be made over to the State, including those paintings that form the nucleus of the collection in the Mauritshuis. In addition, in 1816 he handed over many art objects which his father had taken with him into exile. His son, William II, later accepted this, after having the matter investigated (Note 107 and Appendix IV). Thus William I'S munificence proves to have been much more extensive than has ever been realized.

In a 2013 interview, Alexis Wright explained the importance for Indigenous Australians of maintaining what she called a “sovereignty of the mind, even if we haven’t got sovereignty of the country or the land.” She went on to recount the story of an Indigenous leader who advised a meeting of Aboriginal people “if you think you are a sovereign people, act like it.” In her 2006 novel Carpentaria, Wright demonstrates how these two strands of Indigenous sovereignty are evident and practiced in contemporary Australia. Key Indigenous characters in the novel are revealed to both “think” sovereign and to “act like it.” Indigenous sovereignty, which has never been ceded but is still denied by Australian law, is performed on the land, in custom, in story and in song, in a multitude of ways. Wright thereby contributes to an assertion of sovereign, Indigenous epistemologies and ontologies in Australia. Significantly, cultural elders in Carpentaria are shown to take for granted their sovereign custodianship of Country regardless of who technically owns land within the colonised nation-space of the novel, thus revealing the rule of Aboriginal Law in Indigenous Australia over and against the assumed sovereign rule of the nation-state.

In light of an ongoing debate over the authorship of the Redfern address (was it then Prime Minister Paul Keating or his speechwriter, Don Watson, who was responsible for this historic piece?), the authors of this article consider notions of ownership, authorship, and acknowledgement as they relate to the crafting, delivery, and reception of historical political speeches. There is focus, too, on the often-remarkable partnership that evolves between speechwriters and those who deliver the work. We argue that by drawing on the expertise of an artist or—in the case of the article at hand—speechwriter, collaboration facilitates the ‘translation’ of the politician’s or patron’s vision into a delivered reality. The article therefore proposes that while a speech, perhaps like a commissioned painting or sculpture, may be understood as the product of a highly synergistic collaboration between patron and producer, the power-bearer nonetheless retains essential ‘ownership’ of the material. This, we argue, is something other than the process of authorship adumbrated above. Leaving aside, for the present, the question of ownership, the context in which a speech is written and given may well intensify questions of authorship: the more politically significant or charged the context, the greater the potential impact of a speech and the more at stake in terms of its authorship. In addition to its focus on the latter, this article therefore also reflects on the considerable cultural resonance of the speech in question and, in so doing, assesses its significant impact on Australian reconciliation discourse. In arriving at our conclusions, we employ a method assemblage approach including analogy, comparison, historical reference, and interview. Comprising a range of investigative modalities such as those employed by us, John Law argues that a “method assemblage” is essentially a triangulated form of primary and secondary research facilitating the interrogation of social phenomena that do not easily yield to more traditional modes of research (Law 7). The approach is all the more relevant to this article since through it an assessment of the speech’s historical significance may be made. In particular, this article extensively compares the collaboration between Keating and Watson to that of United States President John F. Kennedy and Special Counsel and speechwriter Ted Sorensen. As the article reveals, this collaboration produced a number of Kennedy’s historic speeches and was mutually acknowledged as a particularly important relationship. Moreover, because both Sorensen and Watson were also key advisers to the leaders of their respective nations, the comparison is doubly fertile.On 10 December 1992 then Prime Minister Paul Keating launched the International Year of the World’s Indigenous People by delivering an address now recognised as a landmark in Australian, and even global, oratory. Alan Whiticker, for instance, includes the address in his Speeches That Shaped the Modern World. Following brief instruction from Keating (who was scheduled to give two orations on 10 December), the Prime Minister’s speechwriter and adviser, Don Watson, crafted the speech over the course of one evening. The oration that ensued was history-making: Keating became the first of all who held his office to declare that non-Indigenous Australians had dispossessed Aboriginal people; an unequivocal admission in which the Prime Minister confessed: “we committed the murders” (qtd. in Whiticker 331). The impact of this cannot be overstated. A personal interview with Jennifer Beale, an Indigenous Australian who was among the audience on that historic day, reveals the enormous significance of the address:I felt the mood of the crowd changed … when Keating said “we took the traditional lands” … . “we committed [the murders]” … [pauses] … I was so amazed to be standing there hearing a Prime Minister saying that… And I felt this sort of wave go over the crowd and they started actually paying attention… I’d never in my life heard … anyone say it like that: we did this, to you… (personal communication, 15 Dec. 2016)Later in the interview, when recalling a conversation in the Channel Seven newsroom where she formerly worked, Beale recalls a senior reporter saying that, with respect to Aboriginal history, there had been a ‘conservative cover up.’ Given the broader context (her being interviewed by the present authors about the Redfern Address) Beale’s response to that exchange is particularly poignant: “…it’s very rare that I have had these experiences in my life where I have been … [pauses at length] validated… by non-Aboriginal people” (op. cit.).The speech, then, is a crucial bookend in Australian reconciliation discourse, particularly as an admission of egregious wrongdoing to be addressed (Foye). The responding historical bookend is, of course, Kevin Rudd’s 2008 ‘Apology to the Stolen Generations’. Forming the focal point of the article at hand, the Redfern Address is significant for another reason: that is, as the source of a now historical controversy and very public (and very bitter) falling out between politician and speechwriter.Following the publication of Watson’s memoir Recollections of a Bleeding Heart, Keating denounced the former as having broken an unwritten contract that stipulates the speechwriter has the honour of ‘participating in the endeavour and the power in return for anonymity and confidentiality’ (Keating). In an opinion piece appearing in the Sydney Morning Herald, Keating argued that this implied contract is central to the speech-writing process:This is how political speeches are written, when the rapid business of government demands mass writing. A frequency of speeches that cannot be individually scripted by the political figure or leader giving them… After a pre-draft conference on a speech—canvassing the kind of things I thought we should say and include—unless the actual writing was off the beam, I would give the speech more or less off the printer… All of this only becomes an issue when the speechwriter steps from anonymity to claim particular speeches or words given to a leader or prime minister in the privacy of the workspace. Watson has done this. (Keating)Upon the release of After Words, a collection of Keating’s post-Prime Ministerial speeches, senior writer for The Australian, George Megalogenis opined that the book served to further Keating’s argument: “Take note, Don Watson; Keating is saying, ‘I can write’” (30). According to Phillip Adams, Keating once bluntly declared “I was in public life for twenty years without Don Watson and did pretty well” (154). On the subject of the partnership’s best-known speech, Keating claims that while Watson no doubt shared the sentiments invoked in the Redfern Address, “in the end, the vector force of the power and what to do with it could only come from me” (Keating).For his part, Watson has challenged Keating’s claim to being the rightfully acknowledged author of the Redfern Address. In an appearance on the ABC’s Q&A he asserted authorship of the material, listing other famous historical exponents of his profession who had taken credit for their place at the wheel of government: “I suppose I could say that while I was there, really I was responsible for the window boxes in Parliament House but, actually, I was writing speeches as speechwriters do; as Peggy Noonan did for Ronald Reagan; as Graham Freudenberg did for three or four Prime Ministers, and so on…” (Watson). Moreover, as Watson has suggested, a number of prominent speechwriters have gone on to take credit for their work in written memoirs. In an opinion piece in The Australian, Denis Glover observes that: “great speechwriters always write such books and have the good sense to wait until the theatre has closed, as Watson did.” A notable example of this after-the-era approach is Ted Sorensen’s Counselor in which the author nonetheless remains extraordinarily humble—observing that reticence, or ‘a passion for anonymity’, should characterise the posture of the Presidential speechwriter (131).In Counselor, Sorensen discusses his role as collaborator with Kennedy—likening the relationship between political actor and speechwriter to that between master and apprentice (130). He further observes that, like an apprentice, a speechwriter eventually learns to “[imitate] the style of the master, ultimately assisting him in the execution of the final work of art” (op. cit., 130-131). Unlike Watson’s claim to be the ‘speechwriter’—a ‘master’, of sorts—Sorensen more modestly declares that: “for eleven years, I was an apprentice” (op. cit., 131). At some length Sorensen focuses on this matter of anonymity, and the need to “minimize” his role (op. cit.). Reminiscent of the “unwritten contract” (see above) that Keating declares broken by Watson, Sorensen argues that his “reticence was [and is] the result of an implicit promise that [he] vowed never to break…” (op. cit.). In implying that the ownership of the speeches to which he contributed properly belongs to his President, Sorensen goes on to state that “Kennedy did deeply believe everything I helped write for him, because my writing came from my knowledge of his beliefs” (op. cit. 132). As Herbert Goldhamer observes in The Adviser, this knowing of a leader’s mind is central to the advisory function: “At times the adviser may facilitate the leader’s inner dialogue…” (15). The point is made again in Sorensen’s discussion of his role in the writing of Kennedy’s Profiles in Courage. In response to a charge that he [Sorensen] had ghost-written the book, Sorensen confessed that he might have privately boasted of having written much of it. (op. cit., 150) But he then goes on to observe that “the book’s concept was his [Kennedy’s], and that the selection of stories was his.” (op. cit.). “Like JFK’s speeches”, Sorensen continues, “Profiles in Courage was a collaboration…” (op. cit.).Later in Counselor, when discussing Kennedy’s inaugural address, it is interesting to note that Sorensen is somewhat less modest about the question of authorship. While the speech was and is ‘owned’ by Kennedy (the President requested its crafting, received it, edited the final product many times, and—with considerable aplomb—delivered it in the cold midday air of 20 January 1961), when discussing the authorship of the text Sorensen refers to the work of Thurston Clarke and Dick Tofel who independently conclude that the speech was a collaborative effort (op. cit. 227). Sorensen notes that while Clarke emphasised the President’s role and Tofel emphasised his own, the matter of who was principal craftsman will—and indeed should—remain forever clouded. To ensure that it will permanently remain so, following a discussion with Kennedy’s widow in 1965, Sorensen destroyed the preliminary manuscript. And, when pressed about the similarities between it and the final product (which he insists was revised many times by the President), he claims not to recall (op. cit. 227). Interestingly, Robert Dallek argues that while ‘suggestions of what to say came from many sources’, ‘the final version [of the speech] came from Kennedy’s hand’ (324). What history does confirm is that both Kennedy and Sorensen saw their work as fundamentally collaborative. Arthur Schlesinger Jr. records Kennedy’s words: “Ted is indispensable to me” (63). In the same volume, Schlesinger observes that the relationship between Sorensen and Kennedy was ‘special’ and that Sorensen felt himself to have a unique facility to know [Kennedy’s] mind and to ‘reproduce his idiom’ (op.cit.). Sorensen himself makes the point that his close friendship with the President made possible the success of the collaboration, and that this “could not later be replicated with someone else with whom [he] did not have that same relationship” (131). He refers, of course, to Lyndon Johnson. Kennedy’s choice of advisers (including Sorensen as Special Counsel) was, then, crucial—although he never ceded to Sorensen sole responsibility for all speechwriting. Indeed, as we shortly discuss, at critical junctures the President involved others (including Schlesinger, Richard Goodwin, and Myer Feldman) in the process of speech-craft and, on delivery day, sometimes departed from the scripts proffered.As was the case with Keating’s, creative tension characterised Kennedy’s administration. Schlesinger Jr. notes that it was an approach practiced early, in Kennedy’s strategy of keeping separate his groups of friends (71). During his Presidency, this fostering of creative tension extended to the drafting of speeches. In a special issue of Time, David von Drehle notes that the ‘Peace’ speech given 10 June 1963 was “prepared by a tight circle of advisers” (97). Still, even here, Sorensen’s role remained pivotal. One of those who worked on that speech (commonly regarded as Kennedy’s finest) was William Forster, Director of the Arms Control and Disarmament Agency. As indicated by the conditional “I think” in “Ted Sorensen, I think, sat up all night…”, Forster somewhat reluctantly concedes that while a group was involved, Sorensen’s contribution was central: “[Sorensen], with his remarkable ability to polish and write, was able to send each of us and the President the final draft about six or seven in the morning…” (op. cit.).In most cases, however, it fell on Sorensen alone to craft the President’s speeches. While Sorenson’s mind surely ‘rolled in unison’ with Kennedy’s (Schlesinger Jr. 597), and while Sorensen’s words dominated the texts, the President would nonetheless annotate scripts, excising redundant material and adding sentences. In the case of less formal orations, the President was capable of all but abandoning the script (a notable example was his October 1961 oration to mark the publication of the first four volumes of the John Quincy Adams papers) but for orations of national or international significance there remained a sense of careful collaboration between Kennedy and Sorensen. Yet, even in such cases, the President’s sense of occasion sometimes encouraged him to set aside his notes. As Arthur Schlesinger Jr. observes, Kennedy had an instinctive feel for language and often “spoke extemporaneously” (op. cit.). The most memorable example, of course, is the 1961 speech in Berlin where Kennedy (appalled by the erection of the Berlin Wall, and angry over the East’s churlish covering of the Brandenburg Gate) went “off-script and into dangerous diplomatic waters” (Tubridy 85). But the risky departure paid off in the form of a TKO against Chairman Khrushchev. In late 1960, following two independent phone calls concerning the incarceration of Martin Luther King, Kennedy had remarked to John Galbraith that “the best strategies are always accidental”—an approach that appears to have found its way into his formal rhetoric (Schlesinger Jr. 67).Ryan Tubridy, author of JFK in Ireland, observes that “while the original draft of the Berlin Wall speech had been geared to a sense of appeasement that acknowledged the Wall’s presence as something the West might have to accept, the ad libs suggested otherwise” (85). Referencing Arthur Schlesinger Jr.’s account of the delivery, Tubridy notes that the President’s aides observed the orator’s rising emotion—especially when departing from the script as written:There are some who say that Communism is the way of the future. Let them come to Berlin. And there are some who say in Europe and elsewhere we can work with the Communists. Let them come to Berlin … Freedom has many difficulties and democracy is not perfect, but we have never had to put up a wall to keep our people in.That the speech defined Kennedy’s presidency even more than did his inaugural address is widely agreed, and the President’s assertion “Ich bin ein Berliner” is one that has lived on now for over fifty years. The phrase was not part of the original script, but an addition included at the President’s request by Kennedy’s translator Robert Lochner.While this phrase and the various additional departures from the original script ‘make’ the speech, they are nonetheless part of a collaborative whole the nature of which we adumbrate above. Furthermore, it is a mark of the collaboration between speechwriter and speech-giver that on Air Force One, as they flew from West Germany to Ireland, Kennedy told Sorensen: “We’ll never have another day like this as long as we live” (op. cit. 88; Dallek 625). The speech, then, was a remarkable joint enterprise—and (at least privately) was acknowledged as such.It seems unlikely that Keating will ever (even semi-publicly) acknowledge the tremendous importance of Watson to his Prime Ministership. There seems not to have been a ‘Don is indispensable to me’ moment, but according to the latter the former Prime Minister did offer such sentiment in private. In an unguarded moment, Keating allegedly said that Watson would “be able to say that [he, Watson, was] the puppet master for the biggest puppet in the land” (Watson 290). If this comment was indeed offered, then Keating, much like Kennedy, (at least once) privately acknowledged the significant role that his speechwriter played in his administration. Watson, for his part, was less reticent. On the ABC’s Q&A of 29 August 2011 he assessed the relationship as being akin to a [then] “requited” love. Of course, above and beyond private or public acknowledgement of collaboration is tangible evidence of such: minuted meetings between speechwriter and speech-giver and instructions to the speechwriter that appear, for example, in a politician’s own hand. Perhaps more importantly, the stamp of ownership on a speech can be signalled by marginalia concerning delivery and in the context of the delivery itself: the engagement of emphases, pause, and the various paralinguistic phenomena that can add so much character to—and very much define—a written text. By way of example we reference again the unique and impassioned delivery of the Berlin speech, above. And beyond this again, as also suggested, are the non-written departures from a script that further put the stamp of ownership on an oration. In the case of Kennedy, it is easy to trace such marginalia and resultant departures from scripted material but there is little evidence that Keating either extensively annotated or extemporaneously departed from the script in question. However, as Tom Clark points out, while there are very few changes to Watson’s words there are fairly numerous “annotations that mark up timing, emphasis, and phrase coherence.” Clark points out that Keating had a relatively systematic notational schema “to guide him in the speech performance” (op. cit.). In engaging a musical analogy (an assemblage device that we ourselves employ), he opines that these scorings, “suggest a powerful sense of fidelity to the manuscript as authoritative composition” (op. cit.). While this is so, we argue—and one can easily conceive Keating arguing—that they are also marks of textual ownership; the former Prime Minister’s ‘signature’ on the piece. This is a point to which we return. For now, we note that matters of stress, rhythm, intonation, gesture, and body language are crucial to the delivery of a speech and reaffirm the point that it is in its delivery that an adroitly rendered text might come to life. As Sorensen (2008) reflects:I do not dismiss the potential of the right speech on the right topic delivered by the right speaker in the right way at the right moment. It can ignite a fire, change men’s minds, open their eyes, alter their votes, bring hope to their lives, and, in all these ways, change the world. I know. I saw it happen. (143)We argue that it is in its delivery to (and acceptance by) the patron and in its subsequent delivery by the patron to an audience that a previously written speech (co-authored, or not) may be ‘owned’. As we have seen, with respect to questions of authorship or craftsmanship, analogies (another device of method assemblage) with the visual and musical arts are not uncommon—and we here offer another: a reference to the architectural arts. When a client briefs an architect, the architect must interpret the client’s vision. Once the blueprints are passed to the client and are approved, the client takes ownership of work that has been, in a sense, co-authored. Ownership and authorship are not the same, then, and we suggest that it is the interstices that the tensions between Keating and Watson truly lie.In crafting the Redfern address, there is little doubt that Watson’s mind rolled in unison with the Prime Minister’s: invisible, intuited ‘evidence’ of a fruitful collaboration. As the former Prime Minister puts it: “Watson and I actually write in very similar ways. He is a prettier writer than I am, but not a more pungent one. So, after a pre-draft conference on a speech—canvassing the kind of things I thought we should say and include—unless the actual writing was off the beam, I would give the speech more or less off the printer” (Keating). As one of the present authors has elsewhere observed, “Watson sensed the Prime Minister’s mood and anticipated his language and even the pattern of his voice” (Foye 19). Here, there are shades of the Kennedy/Sorensen partnership. As Schlesinger Jr. observes, Kennedy and Sorensen worked so closely together that it became impossible to know which of them “originated the device of staccato phrases … or the use of balanced sentences … their styles had fused into one” (598). Moreover, in responding to a Sunday Herald poll asking readers to name Australia’s great orators, Denise Davies remarked, “Watson wrote the way Keating thought and spoke” (qtd. in Dale 46). Despite an uncompromising, pungent, title—‘On that historic day in Redfern, the words I spoke were mine’—Keating’s SMH op-ed of 26 August 2010 nonetheless offers a number of insights vis-a-vis the collaboration between speechwriter and speech-giver. To Keating’s mind (and here we might reflect on Sorensen’s observation about knowing the beliefs of the patron), the inspiration for the Prime Minister’s Redfern Address came from conversations between he and Watson.Keating relates an instance when, on a flight crossing outback Western Australia, he told Watson that “we will never really get Australia right until we come to terms with them (Keating).” “Them”, Keating explains, refers to Aborigines. Keating goes on to suggest that by “come to terms”, he meant “owning up to dispossession” (op. cit.)—which is precisely what he did, to everyone’s great surprise, in the speech itself. Keating observes: I remember well talking to Watson a number of times about stories told to me through families [he] knew, of putting “dampers” out for Aborigines. The dampers were hampers of poisoned food provided only to murder them. I used to say to Watson that this stuff had to be owned up to. And it was me who established the inquiry into the Stolen Generation that Kevin Rudd apologised to. The generation who were taken from their mothers.So, the sentiments that “we did the dispossessing … we brought the diseases, the alcohol, that we committed the murders and took the children from their mothers” were my sentiments. P.J. Keating’s sentiments. They may have been Watson’s sentiments also. But they were sentiments provided to a speechwriter as a remit, as an instruction, as guidance as to how this subject should be dealt with in a literary way. (op. cit.)While such conversations might not accurately be called “guidance” (something more consciously offered as such) or “instruction” (as Keating declares), they nonetheless offer to the speechwriter a sense of the trajectory of a leader’s thoughts and sentiments. As Keating puts it, “the sentiments of the speech, that is, the core of its authority and authorship, were mine” (op. cit.). As does Sorensen, Keating argues that that such revelation is a source of “power to the speechwriter” (op. cit.). This he buttresses with more down to earth language: conversations of this nature are “meat and drink”, “the guidance from which the authority and authorship of the speech ultimately derives” (op. cit.). Here, Keating gets close to what may be concluded: while authorship might, to a significant extent, be contingent on the kind of interaction described, ownership is absolutely contingent on authority. As Keating asserts, “in the end, the vector force of the power and what to do with it could only come from me” (op. cit.). In other words, no Prime Minister with the right sentiments and the courage to deliver them publicly (i.e. Keating), no speech.On the other hand, we also argue that Watson’s part in crafting the Redfern Address should not be downplayed, requiring (as the speech did) his unique writing style—called “prettier” by the former Prime Minister. More importantly, we argue that the speech contains a point of view that may be attributed to Watson more than Keating’s description of the speechwriting process might suggest. In particular, the Redfern Address invoked a particular interpretation of Australian history that can be attributed to Watson, whose manuscript Keating accepted. Historian Manning Clark had an undeniable impact on Watson’s thinking and thus the development of the Redfern address. Per Keating’s claim that he himself had “only read bits and pieces of Manning’s histories” (Curran 285), the basis for this link is actual and direct: Keating hired Clark devotee Watson as a major speech writer on the same day that Clark died in 1991 (McKenna 71). McKenna’s examination of Clark’s history reveals striking similarities with the rhetoric at the heart of the Redfern address. For example, in his 1988 essay The Beginning of Wisdom, Clark (in McKenna) announces:Now we are beginning to take the blinkers off our eyes. Now we are ready to face the truth about our past, to acknowledge that the coming of the British was the occasion of three great evils: the violence against the original inhabitants of the of the country, the Aborigines, the violence against the first European labour force in Australia, the convicts and the violence done to the land itself. (71)As the above quote demonstrates, echoes of Clark’s denouncement of Australia’s past are evident in the Redfern Address’ rhetoric. While Keating is correct to suggest that Watson and he shared the sentiments behind the Address, it may be said that it took Watson—steeped as he was in Clark’s understanding of history and operating closely as he did with the Prime Minister—to craft the Redfern Address. Notwithstanding the concept of ownership, Keating’s claim that the “vector force” for the speech could only come from him unreasonably diminishes Watson’s role.ConclusionThis article has considered the question of authorship surrounding the 1992 Redfern Address, particularly in view of the collaborative nature of speechwriting. The article has also drawn on the analogous relationship between President Kennedy and his Counsel, Ted Sorensen—an association that produced historic speeches. Here, the process of speechwriting has been demonstrated to be a synergistic collaboration between speechwriter and speech-giver; a working partnership in which the former translates the vision of the latter into words that, if delivered appropriately, capture audience attention and sympathy. At its best, this collaborative relationship sees the emergence of a synergy so complete that it is impossible to discern who wrote what (exactly). While the speech carries the imprimatur and original vision of the patron/public actor, this originator nonetheless requires the expertise of one (or more) who might give shape, clarity, and colour to what might amount to mere instructive gesture—informed, in the cases of Sorensen and Watson, by years of conversation. While ‘ownership’ of a speech then ultimately rests with the power-bearer (Keating requested, received, lightly edited, ‘scored’, and delivered—with some minor ad libbing, toward the end—the Redfern text), the authors of this article consider neither Keating nor Watson to be the major scribe of the Redfern Address. Indeed, it was a distinguished collaboration between these figures that produced the speech: a cooperative undertaking similar to the process of writing this article itself. Moreover, because an Australian Prime Minister brought the plight of Indigenous Australians to the attention of their non-Indigenous counterparts, the address is seminal in Australian history. It is, furthermore, an exquisitely crafted document. And it was also delivered with style. As such, the Redfern Address is memorable in ways similar to Kennedy’s inaugural, Berlin, and Peace speeches: all products of exquisite collaboration and, with respect to ownership, emblems of rare leadership.ReferencesAdams, Phillip. Backstage Politics: Fifty Years of Political Memories. London: Viking, 2010.Beale, Jennifer. Personal interview. 15 Dec. 2016.Clark, Tom. “Paul Keating’s Redfern Park Speech and Its Rhetorical Legacy.” Overland 213 (Summer 2013). <https://overland.org.au/previous-issues/issue-213/feature-tom-clarke/ Accessed 16 January 2017>.Curran, James. The Power of Speech: Australian Prime Ministers Defining the National Image. Melbourne: Melbourne UP, 2004.Dale, Denise. “Speech Therapy – How Do You Rate the Orators.” Sun Herald, 9 Mar.2008: 48.Dallek, Robert. An Unfinished Life: John F. Kennedy 1917-1963. New York: Little Brown, 2003.Foye, Jonathan. Visions and Revisions: A Media Analysis of Reconciliation Discourse, 1992-2008. Honours Thesis. 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