’雅圖酋’’’說
Chief Seattle's Oration
’我’’民’’’’’’’’’’’都’’’’’’’個’’’’’條’谷’’’塊平原’樹’都由’’’’那早’’’’歲月裏’’傷’’快’’件’而變成’’’’
’雅圖酋’’’’太平’’’’’區六個’’’部落’酋’’1854’12月’’對’’准’’’’白’移民’’’’’’’’’’’內’集’’’’說’’’講話’’對’’伊薩’’’’’蒂文斯’’’蒂文斯’’剛’華盛’’區’’’’’購’’’’’’’’’’’’’’’’區’’示’’’’成爲’雅圖市’’方’酋’’’’’們稱之爲“葬禮’說”’’說’“天’’終之’”’’說’’’示’接’’邦’’’提議’不’動戰’’反抗’’’’’絕對’勢’’’’’爲那’註’’失敗’’早期歷’’’反覆’載移民’’’’’之間’’’聽’’戰’’’’’當’’數’’’’部落’’趕’’部’’馴化’’’殘之’’’’’’成’’們’情’’傷’’件’成’“’’”’’’說’不’避’’’’’’’雅圖酋’’’說’’’重’’不’爲’’傷’’’’爲之’’’’們’而’’爲’動’’’’’’種’’白種’之間’’異’’文’’’’雅圖酋’’’說’該文’’’’’’’’斯博’’’’’’1854’那個’有歷’’’’’件中’’’雅圖酋’’翻譯’
’’說不’有’少’’’’’天爲我’’民’’’’少動情’’’’它’我們’’’’恒不變’’’’’’’變’’今天晴’’里’’天’’’’雲’布’不’’我’話’像那’’’’永’不變’’’日落日’’’’’而’’’不’’疑’’樣’’雅圖酋’說’’切’華盛’’’首領’樣’’須’疑’白’’領說’華盛’’’’領’我們’示友誼’善’’’’’’’’’’爲我們’’’’’本’需我們’友誼’爲’報’’們’’’’’’像那覆’著’闊’原’’’’我’’民’少’薄’’像風暴’’’’’’’平原’’樹木’白’’首領’我’’’爲’’善’’首領’’’給我們’說’’望購’我們’’’’不’’’允’我們擁有足夠我們’’生’’’’’’’’’’’公正’’’’’’’’’爲’種’不’擁有’必須’重’’’’’’’’’’’智’’’爲我們’不’需’遼闊’’’’’
我們’’民曾’’像’風攪亂’’’覆’著’滿貝殼’’’’樣覆’著’’’’’’’’那’’早’’’’’部落’’成爲’’’而那’部落’’’不’’’樁’’’傷’’憶’我不’細’’’悼我們不’’’’’敗’我’不’斥’那’’’’我們’敗’’’白’’’’’爲我們對’’’’有’任’
’’’’’’情衝動’’當我們’’輕’對’’’正’’’’’’’而’憤’’候’’們用黑顔’’改變’們’面’’’’’’們’心’黑’’’們’’’殘暴’酷’’我們’邁’老’’’老太’’’’’’們’’情’’’’’當白’最’’我們’’’’’趕’’情’’’’樣’不’’讓我們’望我們之間’敵’永遠’’’生’我們’喪失’切’而’’’獲’’輕’’’’著報仇’’’’犧’’們’’’生’’’’’不辭’’’’那’’戰’’’’中’老’’’那’’失’’’’母親比較’智’’’們不’答應’’
我們’華盛’’’’’’’爲我’’’’’’’’我們’’親’’’’們’’親’’’喬’國’’’’’’邊’’’移’’’我們偉’’’’’’給我們’’示’’我們’照’說’話辦’’’’’我們’’’’’戰’對我們’說’’成爲’’’’’銅牆’壁’而’那頂’’’戰艦’’’我們’港’’’樣’我們’方’’敵’’’’斯’’’’斯部落’不’’唬我們’婦’’’童’老’’’那麽’實際’’’成爲我們’’親’而我們’成爲’’’’嗎?’’’嗎?’們’’’不’我們’’’’’們’’’’’’們’’民’’’’’我’’民’’們’’’用’有’’’’’’’’著白’’’’’’像’親領著幼’’樣手把手’領著’’’’’’’’遺忘’’’’種’’’’’’’們’’’’’’’話’我們’’’’偉’’’’’’’’’’遺忘’我們’’們’’’’’們’’’日’’’’’快’們’’’斥整個’’’而我們’’’’’像迅’’’而’’不’漲’潮’’樣’’’’少’白’’’’不’’’’我們’’民’不’’’’’’’們’’’們’像’’’’’嬰’’’樣’我們’麽’成爲’’’?’們’’’’麽’成爲我們’’’’?’們’’’’麽’’’我們’’盛’喚醒我們心中’’重’’’’’’夢’’?’’說我們’有’’天國之’’那麽’’’’偏心’’’’爲’’’望’’白’’’’我們’未見’’’’賦予’們’’’’’對’’’種’’’’有’言隻’’儘管’’’’’’曾’’興’’’’’斥’’’’’’陸’’像’’’斥’太’’樣’不’我們’’個不’’種族’’源不’’’’’不’’我們之間’有什麽’’之’’
’’’骨灰對我們’說’’’’’’們’’之場’’’’’’們遠離’’’墓’漫’’’’’’’’任’遺憾’’覺’’們’’教’’們’’’用’’’’’手’’’’’石’’’’樣’們’不’遺忘’’種’永遠’’’解’’’’’’’們’’教’我們’’教’我們’’’傳統’’’偉’’’’’’莊’’’’交給我們老’’夢’’’我們酋’心中’幻’’我們’’教’’’我們’民’心中’
’們’’’’旦邁’’墓’’’’’遠’’際’不’鍾’’們’不’鍾’’’’’們’’’’’們’快’’遺忘’’永遠不’’’’我們’’’永遠不’忘’那給予’們身心’’’’園’’們’舊’戀那碧綠’’谷’潺潺’’’’巍巍’’’’’’’絕’溪’’’著’綠堤’’湖’’’’’’們’’’情’’’’’那’仍’’’’間’心中’寞’’們’’’’’樂’’’場’身’’探望’’引’撫問’’慰’們’晝’不’’’’’種’’’’白種’’’’’’’’像晨霧’晨’’’’’樣’
不’’’們’’議’’還公平’我’’我’’民’接’’’’’’’’們爲我們提’’’’區內’那’’我們’’分’生’’’平之中’’爲白’’首領’話’’’’那冥冥’’’’’對我’’民說’’樣’
我們’’生’’’’’’有’’關’’反正’剩’’日’不’’’’’’’’’’’’漆黑’’’’平’’’顆’望之’都’有’’風’遠’’’’’酷’情’’’’’’跟’’’種’’足迹’’論’走’’裡’都’聽’’殘’殺手’’’’’’’’木’’準備’接’’’’像’傷’母鹿聽’’’’’’’’’’’樣’
’’’個月’’’’個’天’’’日’偉’’’’’’’馳騁’’’遼闊’’’’’’’’’福’園’’’’’們’’’’’’’個’’’’悼’’’都不’’’’’那’’’曾比’們’’’’’有’望’民族’’’啊’不’’爲什麽我’對我’’民’早天折’’’’悼’?’個部落’’’’個部落’’個民族’’’’個民族’’像’’’’’’’’接’’’’’’’’’’’’’’’’濟’’’’’們’敗’’日’’還’遙遠’’’它終’’’’’’爲’’白’’’’’’’’漫’’交談’有’’友’白’’’脫不’’’’’’’我們最終’’成爲’’’我們等著’’
我們’考’’們’’議’’旦我們’’’’’’’’’’’們’不’’倘’我們接’’’們’’議’’’’’我’提’’個條件’我們’有’不’’’’祭掃我們’’’’友’’’’’墓’’我’’民’’’’’’’’’’’都’’’’’’’個’’’’’條’谷’’’塊平原’樹’都由’’’’那早’’’’歲月裏’’傷’’快’’件’而變成’’’’’石貌’麻木’’’生’’’’’那陽’普照’’’’’’’邊’著’’’顫’著’’’那’’我’’民’繫’’’’動’’’’那’’’’們’’’’’’’應’們’’比’’應’們’’’’’’著’’’’’情’’爲它’’著我們’’’’’’而我們赤’’雙足’’覺’它滿’’情’’撫’我們’’’’’’’祥’母親’’快’少’’’’還有’童’’們曾’’’生’’曾’’’’’’’暫’’’’’們’熱’’’’’僻’’’方’當潮汐平’’’’們’’’’候’’’’身’’倘’最’’’’種’’’滅’’關’我’部落’’憶’成爲白’之間’傳說’’’’’’’滿我部落中冥冥不’見’’’’當’們’’’’’’爲’們’’’’’田野’’商’裏’’’裏’公路’’’’’’’’樹’裏’’’們’’不’單’’’’’’’’有僻’’’方’’’’當’們’’市’’’’街’’’’’’’候’’們’爲’’街’’’’’捨棄’’而實際’’它們’熙熙’’擠滿’那’還’’’’’’們曾’’斥’’’街’’’們仍’鍾情
’’’’’’’’’白’永遠不’’單’’
’’公正善’’對’我’’民’’’’’不’’’爲’’’’’’’我’麽說’嗎’’’’有’’’’有轉’’
Chief Seattle's Oration
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 lands
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 men
first began to push our forefathers further 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 at 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
Hydas and Tsimpsians, will cease to frighten our women, children and old men.
Then in reality will he 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 pale face and leads him by the hand as
a father leads his 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 strong 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 tables of stone by the iron finger of your God so
that you could not forget. The Red Man could never comprehend nor remember it.
Our religion is the traditions of our ancestors--the dreams of our old men,
given them in solemn hours of 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 the 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
Indians' 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 goes 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 with 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. Every 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 to 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 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 powerless.
Dead, did I say? There is no death, only a change of worlds.
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