"Yonder sky
that has wept tears of compassion on our fathers for centuries untold, and
which, to us, looks 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 … can rely upon, with as much certainty as
our pale-face brothers can rely upon the return of the seasons.
"The son [a
reference to Terr. Gov. Stevens] 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 the vast prairies, while my people are few, and 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 to reserve 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 for 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 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 Washington, for I presume he is now our father, as well as yours, since
George [a reference to King George III, i.e., Great Britain] 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 Simsiams [Tsimshian] and Hydas [Haidas], 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 who 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 He 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 remain ever so. There is
little in common between us. The ashes of our ancestors are sacred and their
final restingplace 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 mountain side flee before the blazing
morning sun.
"However,
your proposition seems a just one, and I think 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 like
a dense fog floating inward from a midnight sea.
"It matters
but little where we pass the remainder of our days.
They Are
Not Many.
"The Indian's
night promises to be dark. No bright star hovers above 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 as 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 a sea. A tear, a tamanawus, 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."
Governor
Stevens’ Reply
Smith’s account
continues:
“Other speakers
followed, but I took no notes. Governor Stevens’ reply was brief. He merely
promised to meet them in general council on some future occasion to discuss the
proposed treaty. Chief Seattle’s promise to adhere to the treaty should one be
ratified, was observed to the letter, for he was ever the unswerving and
faithful friend of the white man. The above is but a fragment of his speech,
and lacks all the charm lent by the grace and ernestness of the sable old
orator, and the occasion."
Sources:
Albert Furtwangler, Answering Chief Seattle (Seattle: University of Washington Press, 1997), 10-17;
Clarence B. Bagley, History of King
County, Washington (Chicago: S. J.
Clarke Publishing Co., 1929).
By Walt Crowley, June 28, 1999
