According to Suquamish oral history, Chief Seattle gave his now-famous speech in December, 1854, during treaty negotiations with Isaac I. Stevens, the new governor and Commissioner of Indian Affairs for the Washington Territories. He was 67 or 68 at the time.
Author’s note: The first printed version of the speech was written by Dr. Smith and appeared in the October 29, 1887, edition of the Seattle Sunday Star newspaper in an article entitled, “Early Reminiscence Number 10, Scraps from a Diary.”
One of the people in attendance at the meeting was Dr. Henry Smith, who took extensive notes on Chief Seattle’s speech. Dr. Smith had lived in the area for two years and is said to have learned Lushootseed, the primary indigenous language spoken throughout Puget Sound. Although the chief may have spoken some English, he delivered his speech in Lushootseed and not Chinook, which he refused to speak. According to the Suquamish, Dr. Smith spent several years visiting Chief Seattle, discussing the content of the speech so that Smith’s recording would convey the chief’s true meaning.
Several authors have felt free to create their own versions of the speech from Smith’s original. The most widely circulated version of Chief Seattle’s speech was written by Ted Perry, a theater arts professor and playwright at the University of Texas. Perry had heard an adaptation of the speech that had been delivered in an address by William Arrowsmith, a professor of classical literature at the University of Texas, during Earth Day in 1970. He asked Arrowsmith’s permission to use the speech as the basis for a new fictitious speech which would serve as the narration for a film on pollution and ecology called Home. Without notifying Perry, the film’s producers revised the text even further, adding phrases referring to God and the line, “I am a savage and do not understand.” Also, without Perry’s knowledge or permission, the film’s credits stated that the script was a speech spoken by Chief Seattle and gave no acknowledgement that Perry had, in fact, written it. To promote the film, the producers sent out 18,000 posters with their version of Perry’s script, claiming it was a speech given by Chief Seattle.
In a letter to the Book Publishing Company, Ted Perry states:
I left the project before post-production and awaited the film’s showing on television many months later. When the film, Home, aired on ABC-TV in 1972, I was more than surprised to find that my ‘written by’ credit did not appear on the film. No one consulted with me about this change in credit, and I had not given my permission. When I contacted the producer, he wrote me that he thought the text would sound more authentic if the emphasis were placed on Chief Seattle. Objecting very strongly, I ended my work relationship with the producers, even though my contract called for me to write one more film for them. A few times I have written letters trying to correct the way the speech is presented, asking at the very least that the text be represented as ‘inspired by’ Seattle, but usually my letters are ignored.
Dr. Smith’s version and Ted Perry’s version are reprinted here.
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.
Author’s note: There is disagreement among historians and researchers about the authenticity of Dr. Smith’s translation of Chief Seattle’s speech. Smith’s version is the one the Elders of the tribe consider to be the most accurate account of the great chief’s speech, irrespective of the flowery Victorian embellishment.
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.
Other speakers followed but I took no notes. Governor Steven’s 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. (Smith, “Early Reminiscences,” October, 1887)
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 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 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. (Grant, 1891)
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 land 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.
Author’s notes: Negotiations between the United States and Britain had resulted in the international boundary being moved north to the 49 parallel, thus giving the United States control over the Puget Sound region.
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 Hydas will no longer frighten our women and old men. Then he will be our father and we will be his children.
Governor Stevens had promised protection from aggressive tribes in the north if Chief Seattle’s people would agree to the terms of the treaty.
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 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. We 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 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 valleys, 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 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 the 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 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 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 man 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.
Every part of this earth is sacred to my people. Every shining pine needle, every tender shore, every vapor in the dark woods, every clearing, and every humming insect are holy in the memory and experience of my people. The sap which courses through the trees carries the memories of the red man.
The white man’s dead forget the country of their birth when they walk among the stars. Our dead never forget this beautiful earth, for it is the mother of the red men. Our dead always love and remember the earth’s swift rivers, the silent footsteps of spring, the sparkling ripples on the surface of the ponds, the gaudy colors of the birds. We are a part of the earth and it is a part of us. The perfumed flowers are our sisters; the deer, the horse, the great condor, these are our brothers. The rocky crests, the juices in the meadows, the body heat of the pony, and man all belong to the same family.
So when the Great Chief in Washington sends word that he wishes to buy our land, he asks much of us. What Chief Seattle says, the Great Chief in Washington can count on as surely as our white brothers can count on the return of the seasons. My words are like the stars. They do not set.
Chief Washington also sends us words of friendship and goodwill. This is kind of him.
So we will consider your offer to buy our land. It will not be easy. This land is sacred to us. We take our pleasure in the woods and the dancing streams. The water that moves in the brooks is not water but the blood of our ancestors. If we sell you the land, you must remember that it is sacred to us, and forever teach your children that it is sacred. Each ghostly reflection in the clear water of the lakes tells of events and memories in the life of my people.
The water’s gurgle is the voice of my father’s father. The rivers are our brothers; they quench our thirst. The rivers, between the tender arms of their banks, carry our canoes where they will.
If we sell our land, you must remember, and teach your children, that the rivers are our brothers, and yours, and you must henceforth give the rivers the kindness you would give to any brother.
So Chief Seattle will consider the offer of Chief Washington. We will consider. The red man has always retreated before the advancing white man, as the mist on the mountain slopes runs before the morning sun. To us the ashes of our fathers are sacred. Their graves are holy ground, and so these hills, these trees. This portion of earth is consecrated to us.
The white man does not understand. One portion of land is the same to him as the next, for he is a wanderer who comes in the night and borrows from the land whatever he needs. The earth is not his brother, but his enemy, and when he has won the struggle, he moves on. He leaves his father’s graves behind, and he does not care. He kidnaps the earth from his children. And he does not care. The father’s graves and the children’s birthright are forgotten by the white man, who treats his mother the earth and his brother the sky as things to be bought, plundered, and sold, like sheep, bread, or bright beads. In this way, the dogs of appetite will devour the rich earth and leave only a desert.
The white man is like a snake who eats his own tail in order to live. And the tail grows shorter and shorter. Our ways are different from your ways. We do not live well in your cities, which seem like so many black warts on the face of the earth. The sight of the white man’s cities pains the eyes of the red man like the sunlight which stabs the eyes of one emerging from a dark cave. There is no place in the white man’s cities quiet enough to hear the unfurling of leaves in Spring or the rustle of insects’ wings. In the white man’s cities, one is always trying to outrun an avalanche. The clatter only seems to pierce the ears. But what is there to living if a man cannot hear the lonely cry of the thrush or the arguments of the frogs around a pond at night?
But I am a red man and do not understand. I prefer the wind darting over the face of a pond and the smell of the wind itself, cleansed by a midday rain shower. The air is precious to the red man, for all things share the same breath — the beasts, the trees, and man, they are all of the same breath. The white man does not mind the foul air he breathes. Like a man in pain for many days, he is numb to the stench.
But if we sell our land, you must remember that the air is precious to us, and our trees, and the beasts. The wind gives man his first breath and receives his last sigh. And if we sell you our land, you will keep it apart and sacred, as a place where even the white man can go to taste a wind sweetened by meadow flowers.
So we will consider your offer to buy our land. If we decide to accept, I will here and now make one condition: the white man must treat the beasts of this land as his brothers.
I have heard stories of a thousand rotting buffaloes on the prairie, left by the white men who shot them from a passing train. I do not understand. For us, the beasts are our brothers, and we kill only to stay alive.
If we sell him this land, the white man must do the same, for the animals are our brothers. What is man without the beast? Even the earthworm keeps the earth soft for man to walk upon. If all the beasts were gone, men would die from great loneliness. For whatever happens to the beasts, happens to man for we are all of one breath. We will consider your offer to buy our land.
Do not send men asking us to decide more quickly. We will decide in our time. Should we accept, I here and now make this condition: we will never be denied the right to walk softly over the graves of our fathers, mothers, and friends, nor may the white man desecrate these graves.
The graves must always be open to the sunlight and the falling rain. Then the water will fall gently upon the green sprouts and seep slowly down to moisten the parched lips of our ancestors and quench their thirst.
If we sell this land to you, I will make now this condition: You must teach your children that the ground beneath their feet responds more lovingly to our steps than to yours, because it is rich with the lives of our kin.
Teach your children what we have taught our children, that the earth is our mother. Whatever befalls the earth, befalls the sons of the earth. If men spit upon the ground, they spit upon themselves. This we know. The earth does not belong to the white man, the white man belongs to the earth. This we know.
All things are connected like the blood which unites our family. If we kill the snakes, the field mice will multiply and destroy our corn.
All things are connected. Whatever befalls the earth, befalls the sons and daughters of the earth. Man did not weave the web of life; he is merely a strand in it. Whatever he does to the web, he does to himself.
No, day and night cannot live together. We will consider your offer.
What is it that the white man wishes to buy, my people ask me? The idea is strange to us. How can you buy or sell the sky, the warmth of the land, the swiftness of the antelope? How can we sell these things to you and how can you buy them?
Is the earth yours to do with as you will, merely because the red man signs a piece of paper and gives it to the white man? If we do not own the freshness of the air and the sparkle of the water, how can you buy them from us? Can you buy back the buffalo, once the last one has died?
But we will consider your offer. In his passing moment of strength, the white man thinks that he is a god who can treat his mother (the earth), the rivers (which are his sisters), and his red brothers, as he wishes. But the man who would buy and sell his mother, his brothers, and sisters would also burn his children to keep himself warm.
So we will consider your offer to buy our land. Day and night cannot live together. Your offer seems fair, and I think my people will accept it and go to the reservation you have for them. We will live apart, and in peace.
Tribes are made of men, nothing more. Men come and go, like the waves of the sea. The whites too shall pass; perhaps sooner than all other tribes. Continuing to contaminate his own bed, the white man will one night suffocate in his own filth.
But in his perishing the white man will shine brightly, fired by the strength of the god who brought him to this land and for some special purpose gave him dominion over this land. That destiny is a mystery to us, for we do not understand what living becomes when the buffalo are all slaughtered, the wild horses all tamed, the secret corners of the forest are heavy with the scent of many men, and the view of the ripe hills blotted by talking wires.
Where is the thicket? Gone. Where is the eagle? Gone. And what is it to say goodbye to the swift pony and the hunt? The end of living and the beginning of survival.
The white man’s god gave him dominion over the beasts, the woods, and the red man, for some special purpose, but that destiny is a mystery to the red man. We might understand if we knew what it was that the white man dreams, what hopes he describes to children on long winter nights, what visions he burns onto their eyes so that they will wish for tomorrow. The white man’s dreams are hidden from us. And because they are hidden, we will go our own way.
So we will consider your offer to buy our land. If we agree, it will be to secure the reservation you have promised. There, perhaps, we may live out our brief days as we wish. There is little in common between us.
If we sell you our land, it will be filled with the bold young men, the warm breasted mothers, the sharp-minded women, and the little children who once lived and were happy here.
Your dead go to walk among the stars, but our dead return to the earth they love. The white man will never be alone unless, in some distant day, he destroys the mountains, the trees, the rivers, and the air. If the earth should come to that, and the spirits of our dead, who love the earth, no longer wish to return and visit their beloved, then in that noon glare that pierces the eyes, the white man will walk his desert in great loneliness.
