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Seattle, also known as Sealth, was very young when George Vancouver came
to Puget Sound to map the region. Before that time, the Duwamish and
Suquamish (his mother and father's respective tribes) had had very
little contact with the whites. Seattle's brief experience with
Vancouver impressed him greatly, which was perhaps why, in later life,
he tried to advocate a peaceful coexistence with the settlers. When he
was a young man Seattle inherited his father's position as chief, after
first having proved his leadership in warfare against other tribes in
the area. Seattle was so impressed by the French Catholic missionaries
that in the 1830's he converted to Christianity, taking the baptismal
name "Noah".
By the
1850's the settlement had begun to grow and prosper and the name was
changed from Alki Point to Seattle. More and more settlers began to move
into the area, and in 1855 the governor of Washington Territory called
together the tribes to propose a new treaty. This treaty would send the
tribes to a reservation and their lands would be controlled by the
government. Although Seattle continued to council for peace, the
conflict lasted many years. Finally Seattle moved onto a small patch of
land on the western side of Puget Sound where he spent the remainder of
his life.
Quotes from Chief Seattle:
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Every
part of all this soil is sacred to my people. Every hillside, every
valley, every plain and grove has been hollowed by some sad or happy
event in days long vanished. The very dust you now stand on responds
more willingly to their footsteps than to yours, because it is rich
with the blood of our ancestors and our bare feet are conscious of the
sympathetic touch.
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Even
little children who lived here and rejoiced here for a brief season
love these somber solitudes, and at eventide they greet shadowy
returning spirits.
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And
when the last red man shall have perished, and the memory of my tribe
shall become a myth among the white men, these shores will swarm with
the invisible dead of my tribe; and when our children’s children think
themselves alone in the field, the store, the shop, upon the highway,
or in the pathless woods, they will not be alone.
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Let
him be just and deal kindly with my people, for the dead are not
powerless. Dead, did I say? There is no death, only change of worlds.
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We
know that the white man does not understand our ways. One portion of
the land is the same to him as the next, for he is a stranger who
comes in the night and takes from the land whatever he needs. The
earth is not his brother, but his enemy - and when he has conquered
it, he moves on. He leaves his fathers' graves, and his children’s
birthright is forgotten.
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The
sight of your cities pains the eyes of the red man. But perhaps it is
because the red man is a savage and does not understand.
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The
Indian prefers the soft sound of the wind darting over the face of the
pond, the smell of the wind itself cleansed by a midday rain, or
scented with pinon pine. The air is precious to the red man, for all
things are the same breath - the animals, the trees, the man.
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Tribe
follows tribe, nations follow nations like the tides of the sea. It is
the order of nature, and regret is useless.
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Like
a man who has been dying for many days, a man in your city is numb to
the stench.
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To
us, the ashes of our ancestors are sacred.
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A few more hours, a few more winters, and
none of the children of the great tribes that once lived on this
earth, or roamed in small bands in the woods, will be left to mourn
the graves of the people once as powerful and hopeful as yours.
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The
whites, too, shall pass - perhaps sooner than other tribes. Continue
to contaminate your own bed, and you might suffocate in your own
waste.
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When
the buffalo are all slaughtered, the wild horses all tamed, the secret
corners of the forest heavy with the scent of many men, and the view
of the ripe hills blotted by talking wires, where is the thicket?
Where is the eagle? Gone.
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And
what is it to say farewell to the swift and the hunt, to the end of
living and the beginning of survival? We might understand if we knew
what is was that white man dreams, what he describes to his children
on long winter nights, what visions he burns into their minds, so they
will wish for tomorrow. But we are savages. The white man’s dreams are
hidden from us.
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Your
religion was written on tablets of stone, ours on our hearts.
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Day
and night cannot dwell together.
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His
brave warriors will be with us, a bristling wall of strength.
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Today
is fair. Tomorrow may be overcast with clouds. My words are like the
stars that never change.
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At
night when the streets of your cities and villages are silent and you
think them deserted, they will throng with returning hosts that once
filled and still love this beautiful land.
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The
white man will never be alone.
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Youth
is impulsive. When our young men grow angry at some real or imaginary
wrong, it denotes their hearts are black.
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We
are part of the earth and the earth is part of us.
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There
is no quiet place in the white man’s cities, no place to hear the
leaves of spring or the rustle of insects’ wings. Perhaps it is
because I am a savage and do not understand, but the clatter only
seems to insult the ears.
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I
will not dwell on, nor mourn over, our untimely decay, nor reproach
our paleface brothers for hastening it...
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There
was a time when our people covered the land as the waves of a
wind-ruffled sea.... that time has long since passed... I will not
mourn...
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My people resemble the scattering trees
of a storm swept plain.
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