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Wikipedia Summary for Chief Seattle
Chief Seattle (c. 1786 – June 7, 1866) was a Suquamish and Duwamish chief. A leading figure among his people, he pursued a path of accommodation to white settlers, forming a personal relationship with "Doc" Maynard. The city of Seattle, in the U.S. state of Washington, was named after him. A widely publicized speech arguing in favor of ecological responsibility and respect of Native Americans' land rights had been attributed to him.
The name Seattle is an Anglicization of the modern Duwamish conventional spelling Si'ahl, equivalent to the modern Lushootseed spelling siʔaɫ IPA: [ˈsiʔaːɬ]. He is also known as Sealth, Seattle, Seathl, or See-ahth.
We are part of the earth and it is part of us. The perfumes flowers are our sisters; the deer, the horse, the great eagle: these are our brothers. All things are connected like the blood which unites one's family.
What is there to life if a man cannot hear the lonely cry of the whippoorwill or the arguments of the frogs around the pool at night?
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.
If all the beasts were gone, men would die from a great loneliness of spirit. For whatever happens to the beasts, soon happens to man. All things are connected.
The white man will never be alone. Let him be just, and deal kindly with my people. For the dead are not powerless.
How can you buy or sell the sky, the warmth of the land? ... The end of living and the beginning of survival.
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 ... cannot be exempt from the common destiny.
Contaminate your bed and you will one night suffocate in your own waste.
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.
All creation is one. What we do to one, we do to the entire web of life.
There is no quiet place in the white man's cities. No place to hear the unfurling of leaves in spring, or the rustle of an insect's wings. But perhaps it is because I am a savage and do not understand. The clatter only seems to insult the ears.
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.
The deer, the horse, the great eagle, 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 . The White Man must treat the beasts of this land as his brothers.
Tribe follows tribe, nations follow nations like the tides of the sea. It is the order of nature, and regret is useless.
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.
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.
The air is precious to the red man, for all things share the same breath-the beast, the tree, the man, they all share the same breath. The white man does not seem to notice the air he breathes. Like a man dying for many days, he is numb to the stench.
We are all children of the Great Spirit, we all belong to Mother Earth. Our planet is in great trouble and if we keep carrying old grudges and do not work together, we will all die.
Humans merely share the Earth. We can only protect the land, not own it.
Your religion was written on tablets of stone, ours on our hearts. 8. We are part of the earth and the earth is part of us.
All things are connected, like the blood that runs in your family The water's murmur is the voice of my father's father. 1854 The rivers are our brothers. They quench our thirst. They carry our canoes and feed our children. You must give to the rivers the kindness you would give to any brother.
We do not own the freshness of the air or the sparkle of the water. How can you buy them from us?
How can you buy or sell the sky, the warmth of the land? The idea is strange to us. If we do not own the freshness of the air and the sparkle of the water, how can you buy them? Every part of the earth is sacred to my people.
The white man's dead forget the country of their birth when they go to walk among the stars. Our dead never forget this beautiful Earth, for it is the mother of the red man. We are part of the Earth and it is part of us.
Like a man who has been dying for many days, a man in your city is numb to the stench.
When the green hills are covered with talking wires and the wolves no longer sing, what good will the money you paid for our land be then.
When the Earth is sick, the animals will begin to disappear, when that happens, The Warriors of the Rainbow will come to save them.
Earth does not belong to us; we belong to earth. Take only memories, leave nothing but footprints.
If all the beasts were gone, men would die from a great loneliness of spirit, for whatever happens to the beasts also happens to the man. All things are connected. Whatever befalls the Earth befalls the sons of the Earth.
The earth does not belong to man, man belongs to the earth. All things are connected like the blood that unites us all. 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.
The earth is our mother. Whatever befalls the earth befalls the sons of earth. If men spit upon the ground, they spit upon themselves.
All things are connected. Whatever befalls the Earth, befalls the children of the Earth.
We do not inherit the earth from our ancestors; we borrow it from our children.
My people are few. They resemble the scattering trees of a storm-swept plain...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.
We know that the white man does not understand our ways. One portion of 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.
To us, the ashes of our ancestors are sacred and their resting place is hallowed ground.
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.
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.
Humans merely share the earth. We can only protect the land, not own it.
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.
Humankind has not woven the web of life. We are but one thread within it. Whatever we do to the web, we do to ourselves. All things are bound together. All things connect.
Man does not weave this web of life. He is merely a strand of it. Whatever he does to the web, he does to himself.
If we do not own the freshness of the air and the sparkle of the water, how can you buy them?
Tribe follows tribe, and nation follows nation, like the waves of the sea. It is the order of nature, and regret is useless.
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.
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.
What is man without the beasts? For if all the beast were gone, man would die of a great loneliness of the spirit.
When the last red man shall have perished from the earth and his memory among the white men shall have become a myth, these shores will swarm with the invisible dead of my tribe. The white man will never be alone. Let him be just and deal kindly with my people, for the dead are not powerless.
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.
All things share the same breath -- the beast, the tree, the man... the air shares its spirit with all the life it supports.
My people are few. They resemble the scattering trees of a storm-swept plain.
All things share the same breath - the beast, the tree, the man... the air shares its spirit with all the life it supports.
What is man without the beasts? If all the beasts were gone, men would die from great loneliness of spirit.