Yonder sky that has wept tears of compassion on our fathers for
centuries untold, and which, to us, looks eternal, may change.
To-day it is fair, to-morrow 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 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 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 and 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 our 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 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 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 or comprehend it.
Our religion is the traditions of our ancestors, the dreams of our old men, given 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 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 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 tilled 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 the sea.
A tear, a
tamanamus [a religious ritualQEd.], 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 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.