Chief Seattle delivered a speech in is native language, Duwamish, to his tribal assembly in the Pacific Northwest in 1854. Notes on the speech were jotted down by a Dr. Henry Smith, who emphasized that his translation was inadequate to render the beauty of Chief Seattle's imagery and thought. The following is his translation of that eloquent speech:
Scraps from a Diary:
Chief Seattle—A gentleman by Instinct
His Native Eloquence, etc., etc.
by
Henry A. Smith
10th article in the series “Early
Reminiscences”
Seattle Sunday Star, October 29,
1887
Old Chief Seattle was the largest
Indian I ever saw, and by far the noblest-looking. He
stood 6 feet full in his moccasins, was
broad-shouldered, deep-chested, and finely
proportioned. His eyes were large, intelligent,
expressive and friendly when in repose, and faithfully
mirrored the varying moods of the great soul that
looked through them. He was usually solemn, silent,
and dignified, but on great occasions moved among
assembled multitudes like a Titan among Lilliputians,
and his lightest word was law.
When rising to speak in council or to
tender advice, all eyes were turned upon him, and
deep-toned, sonorous, and eloquent sentences rolled
from his lips like the ceaseless thunders of cataracts
flowing from exhaustless fountains, and his
magnificent bearing was as noble as that of the most
cultivated military chieftain in command of the forces
of a continent. Neither his eloquence, his dignity, or
his grace were acquired. They were as native to his
manhood as leaves and blossoms are to a flowering
almond.
His influence was marvelous. He might
have been an emperor but all his instincts were
democratic, and he ruled his loyal subjects with
kindness and paternal benignity.
He was always flattered by marked
attention from white men, and never so much as when
seated at their tables, and on such occasions he
manifested more than anywhere else the genuine
instincts of a gentleman.
When Governor Stevens first arrived
in Seattle and told the natives he had been appointed
commissioner of Indian affairs for Washington
Territory, they gave him a demonstrative reception in
front of Dr. Maynard’s office, near the waterfront on
Main Street. The bay swarmed with canoes and the shore
was lined with a living mass of swaying, writhing,
dusky humanity, until old Chief Seattle’s
trumpet-toned voice rolled over the immense multitude,
like the startling reveille of a bass drum, when
silence became as instantaneous and perfect as that
which follows a clap of thunder from a clear sky.
The governor was then introduced to
the native multitude by Dr. Maynard, and at once
commenced, in a conversational, plain, and
straightforward style, an explanation of his mission
among them, which is too well understood to require
capitulation.
When he sat down, Chief Seattle arose
with all the dignity of a senator, who carries the
responsibilities of a great nation on his shoulders.
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 upon my
people for centuries untold, and which to us appears
changeless and eternal, may change. Today is fair.
Tomorrow it may be overcast with clouds. My words
are like the stars that never change. Whatever
Seattle says, the great chief at Washington can rely
upon with as much certainty as he can upon the
return of the sun or the seasons. The white chief
says that Big Chief at Washington sends us greetings
of friendship and goodwill. This is kind of him for
we know he has little need of our friendship in
return. His people are many. They are like the grass
that covers vast prairies. My people are few. They
resemble the scattering trees of a storm-swept
plain. The great, and I presume — good, White Chief
sends us word that he wishes to buy our land but is
willing to allow us enough to live comfortably. This
indeed appears just, even generous, for the Red Man
no longer has rights that he need respect, and the
offer may be wise, also, as we are no longer in need
of an extensive country.
There was a time when our people covered the land as
the waves of a wind-ruffled sea cover its
shell-paved floor, but that time long since passed
away with the greatness of tribes that are now but a
mournful memory. I will not dwell on, nor mourn
over, our untimely decay, nor reproach my paleface
brothers with hastening it, as we too may have been
somewhat to blame.
Youth is impulsive. When our young men grow angry at
some real or imaginary wrong, and disfigure their
faces with black paint, it denotes that their hearts
are black, and that they are often cruel and
relentless, and our old men and old women are unable
to restrain them. Thus it has ever been. Thus it was
when the white man began to push our forefathers
ever westward. But let us hope that the hostilities
between us may never return. We would have
everything to lose and nothing to gain. Revenge by
young men is considered gain, even at the cost of
their own lives, but old men who stay at home in
times of war, and mothers who have sons to lose,
know better.
Our good father in Washington—for I presume he is
now our father as well as yours, since King George
has moved his boundaries further north—our great
and good father, I say, sends us word that if we do
as he desires he will protect us. His brave warriors
will be to us a bristling wall of strength, and his
wonderful ships of war will fill our harbors, so
that our ancient enemies far to the northward — the Haidas and Tsimshians
— will cease to frighten our
women, children, and old men. Then in reality he will
be our father and we his children. But can that ever
be? Your God is not our God! Your God loves your
people and hates mine! He folds his strong
protecting arms lovingly about the paleface and
leads him by the hand as a father leads an infant
son. But, He has forsaken His Red children, if they
really are His. Our God, the Great Spirit, seems
also to have forsaken us. Your God makes your people
wax stronger every day. Soon they will fill all the
land. Our people are ebbing away like a rapidly
receding tide that will never return. The white
man’s God cannot love our people or He would protect
them. They seem to be orphans who can look nowhere
for help. How then can we be brothers? How can your
God become our God and renew our prosperity and
awaken in us dreams of returning greatness? If we
have a common Heavenly Father He must be partial,
for He came to His paleface children. We never saw
Him. He gave you laws but had no word for His red
children whose teeming multitudes once filled this
vast continent as stars fill the firmament. No; we
are two distinct races with separate origins and
separate destinies. There is little in common
between us.
To us the ashes of our ancestors are sacred and
their resting place is hallowed ground. You wander
far from the graves of your ancestors and seemingly
without regret. Your religion was written upon
tablets of stone by the iron finger of your God so
that you could not forget. The Red Man could never
comprehend or remember it. Our religion is the
traditions of our ancestors — the dreams of our old
men, given them in solemn hours of the night 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 land of their
nativity as soon as they pass the portals of the
tomb and wander away beyond the stars. They are soon
forgotten and never return. Our dead never forget
this beautiful world that gave them being. They
still love its verdant valleys, its murmuring
rivers, its magnificent mountains, sequestered vales
and verdant lined lakes and bays, and ever yearn in
tender fond affection over the lonely-hearted
living, and often return from the happy hunting
ground to visit, guide, console, and comfort them.
Day and night cannot dwell together. The Red Man has
ever fled the approach of the White Man, as the
morning mist flees before the morning sun. However,
your proposition seems fair and I think that my
people will accept it and will retire to the
reservation you offer them. Then we will dwell apart
in peace, for the words of the Great White Chief
seem to be the words of nature speaking to my people
out of dense darkness.
It matters little where we pass the remnant of our
days. They will not be many. The Indian’s night
promises to be dark. Not a single star of hope
hovers above his horizon. Sad-voiced winds moan in
the distance. Grim fate seems to be on the Red Man’s
trail, and wherever he will hear the approaching
footsteps of his fell destroyer and prepare stolidly
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
the descendants of the mighty hosts that once moved
over this broad land or lived in happy homes,
protected by the Great Spirit, will remain to mourn
over the graves of a people once more powerful and
hopeful than yours. But why should I mourn at the
untimely fate of my people? Tribe follows tribe, and
nation follows nation, like the waves of the sea. It
is the order of nature, and regret is useless. Your
time of decay may be distant, but it will surely
come, for even the White Man whose God walked and
talked with him as friend to friend, cannot be
exempt from the common destiny. We may be brothers
after all. We will see.
We will ponder your proposition and when we decide
we will let you know. But should we accept it, I
here and now make this condition that we will not be
denied the privilege without molestation of visiting
at any time the tombs of our ancestors, friends, and
children. Ever part of this soil is sacred in the
estimation of my people. Every hillside, every
valley, every plain and grove, has been hallowed by
some sad or happy event in days long vanished. Even
the rocks, which seem to be dumb and dead as they
swelter in the sun along the silent shore, thrill
with memories of stirring events connected with the
lives of my people, and the very dust upon which you
now stand responds more lovingly to their footsteps
than yours, because it is rich with the blood of our
ancestors, and our bare feet are conscious of the
sympathetic touch. Our departed braves, fond
mothers, glad, happy-hearted maidens, and even the
little children who lived here and rejoiced here for
a brief season, will love these somber solitudes and
at eventide they greet shadowy returning spirits.
And when the last Red Man shall have perished, and
the memory of my tribe shall have become a myth
among the White Men, these shores will swarm with
the invisible dead of my tribe, and when your
children’s children think themselves alone in the
field, the store, the shop, upon the highway, or in
the silence of the pathless 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 are silent and you think them
deserted, they will throng with the returning hosts
that once filled them 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.
