Chief Seattle
Placing one hand on the governor's head, and
slowly pointing heavenward with the index finger of the other,
he commenced his
memorable address in solemn and impressive tones.
Yonder sky that
has wept tears of compassion on our fathers for centuries untold, and which, to
us, appears changeless and eternal, may change. Today it is fair. Tomorrow it
may be overcast with clouds. My words are like the stars that never set. What
Seattle says, the great chief, Washington (The Indians in early times thought
that Washington was still alive. They knew the name to be that of a president,
and when they heard of the president at Washington they mistook the name of the
city for the name of the reigning chief. They thought. also, that King George
was still England's monarch, because the Hudson Bay traders called themselves
"King George men." This innocent deception the company was shrewd
enough not to explain away for the Indians had more respect for them than they
would have had, had they known England was ruled by a woman. Some of us have
learned better.) can rely upon, with as much certainty as our pale-face
brothers can rely upon the return of the seasons.The son of the white chief says his father sends us greetings of friendship and good will. This is kind, for we know he has little need of our friendship in return, because his people are many. They are like the grass that covers vast prairies, while my people are few, and they resemble the scattering trees of a storm-swept plain.
The great, and, I
presume also good, white chief sends us word that he wants to buy our lands but
is willing to allow us enough to live on comfortably. This indeed appears
generous, for the red man no longer has rights that he need respect, and the
offer may be wise, also, for we are no longer in need of a great country.
There was a time
when our people covered the whole land, as the waves of a wind-ruffled sea
cover its shell-paved floor. But that time has long since passed away with the
greatness of tribes now almost forgotten. I will not mourn over our untimely
decay, nor reproach my pale face brothers with hastening it, for we, too, may
have been somewhat to blame.
When our young
men grow angry at some real or imaginary wrong, and disfigure their faces with
black paint, their hearts, also, are disfigured and turn black, and then their
cruelty is relentless and knows no bounds, and our old men are not able to
restrain them.
But let us hope
that the hostilities between the red-man and his pale-face brothers may never
return. We would have everything to lose and nothing to gain.
True it is; that
revenge, with our young braves, is considered gain, even at the cost of their
own lives, but old men who stay at home in times of war, and old women, who
have sons to lose, know better.
Our great father
at Washington, for I presume he is now our father as well as yours, since
George has moved his boundaries to the north; our great and good father, I say,
sends us word by his son, who, no doubt is a great chief among his people, that
if we do as he desires, he will protect us. His brave armies will be to us a
bristling wall of strength, and his great ships of war will fill our harbors so
that our ancient enemies far to the northward, the Simsians and Hydas, will no
longer frighten our women and old men. Then he will be our father and we will
be his children.
But can this ever be?
Your God loves your people and hates mine; he folds his strong arms lovingly
around the white man and leads him as a father leads his infant son, but he has
forsaken his red children; he makes your people wax strong every day, and soon
they will fill the land; while my people are ebbing away like a fast-receding
tide, that will never flow again. The white man's God cannot love his red
children or he would protect them. They seem to be orphans and can look nowhere
for help. How then can we become brothers? How can your father become our
father and bring us prosperity and awaken in us dreams of returning greatness?
Your God seems to
us to be partial. He came to the white man. We never saw Him; never even heard
His voice; He gave the white man laws but had no word for His red children
whose teeming millions filled this vast continent as the stars fill the
firmament. No, we are two distinct races and must ever remain so. There is
little in common between us. The ashes of our ancestors are sacred and their
final resting place is hallowed ground, while you wander away from the tombs of
your fathers seemingly without regret.
Your religion was
written on tables of stone by the iron finger of an angry God, lest you might
forget it. The red-man could never remember nor comprehend it.
Our religion is
the traditions of our ancestors, the dreams of our old men, given them by the
great Spirit, and the visions of our sachems, and is written in the hearts of
our people.
Your dead cease to love you and the homes of their nativity
as soon as they pass the portals of the tomb. They wander far off beyond the
stars, are soon forgotten, and never return. Our dead never forget the
beautiful world that gave them being. They still love its winding rivers, its
great mountains and its sequestered vales, and they ever yearn in tenderest
affection over the lonely hearted living and often return to visit and comfort
them.
Day and night
cannot dwell together. The red man has ever fled the approach of the white man,
as the changing mists on the mountainside flee before the blazing morning sun.
However, your
proposition seems a just one, and I think that my folks will accept it and will
retire to the reservation you offer them, and we will dwell apart and in peace,
for the words of the great white chief seem to be the voice of nature speaking
to my people out of the thick darkness that is fast gathering around them in a
dense fog floating inward from a midnight sea.
It matters but
little where we pass the remnant of our days.
They are not many.
The Indian's night promises to be dark. No bright star hovers about the
horizon. Sad-voiced winds moan in the distance. Some grim Nemesis of our race
is on the red man's trail, and wherever he goes he will still hear the sure
approaching footsteps of the fell destroyer and prepare to meet his doom, as
does the wounded doe that hears the approaching footsteps of the hunter. A few
more moons, a few more winters, and not one of all the mighty hosts that once
filled this broad land or that now roam in fragmentary bands through these vast
solitudes will remain to weep over the tombs of a people once as powerful and
hopeful as your own.
But why should we
repine? Why should I murmur at the fate of my people? Tribes are made up of
individuals, and are no better than they. Men come and go like the waves of the
sea. A tear, a tamanamus, a dirge, and they are gone from our longing eyes
forever. Even the white man, whose God walked and talked with him, as friend to
friend, is not exempt from the common destiny. We may be brothers after all. We
shall see.
We will ponder
your proposition, and when we have decided we will tell you. But should we
accept it, I here and now make this the first condition: That we will not be
denied the privilege, without molestation, of visiting at will the graves of
our ancestors and friends. Every part of this country is sacred to my people.
Every hill-side, every valley, every plain and grove has been hallowed by some
fond memory or some sad experience of my tribe.
Even the rocks
that seem to lie dumb as they swelter in the sun along the silent seashore in
solemn grandeur thrill with memories of past events connected with the fate of
my people, and the very dust under your feet responds more lovingly to our
footsteps than to yours, because it is the ashes of our ancestors, and our bare
feet are conscious of the sympathetic touch, for the soil is rich with the life
of our kindred.
The sable braves,
and fond mothers and glad-hearted maidens, and the little children who lived
and rejoiced here, and whose very names are now forgotten, still love these
solitudes, and their deep fastnesses at eventide grow shadowy with the presence
of dusky spirits. And when the last red man shall have perished from the earth
and his memory among white men shall have become a myth, these shores shall
swarm with the invisible dead of my tribe, and when your children's children
shall think themselves alone in the field, the store, the shop, upon the
highway or in the silence of the woods they will not be alone. In all the earth
there is no place dedicated to solitude. At night, when the streets of your
cities and villages shall be silent, and you think them deserted, they will
throng with the returning hosts that once filled and still love this beautiful
land. The White Man will never be alone. Let him be just and deal kindly with
my people, for the dead are not altogether powerless.
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