LESSON 52

NORTH AMERICAN INDIANS

北美印第安人

Charles Sprague, 1791-1875, was born in Boston, and received his education in the public schools of that city. For sixteen years he was engaged in mercantile pursuits, as clerk and partner. In 1820 he became teller in a bank; and, from 1825, he filled the office of cashier of the Globe Bank for about forty years. In 1829 be gave his most famous poem, “Curiosity,” before the Phi Beta Kappa society, in Cambridge. An active man of business all his days, he has written but little either in prose or poetry, but that little is excellent in quality, graceful, and pleasing.

The address from which this extract is taken, was delivered before the citizens of Boston, July 4th, 1825.

Not many generations ago, where you now sit, encircled with all that exalts and embellishes civilized life, the rank thistle nodded in the wind and the wild fox dug his hole unscared. Here lived and loved another race of beings. Beneath the same sun that rolls over your head, the Indian hunter pursued the panting deer; gazing on the same moon that smiles for you, the Indian lover wooed his dusky mate. Here the wigwam blaze beamed on the tender and helpless, and the council fire glared on the wise and daring. Now they dipped their noble limbs in your sedgy lakes, and now they paddled the light canoe along your rocky shores. Here they warred; the echoing whoop, the bloody grapple, the defying death song, all were here; and when the tiger strife was over, here curled the smoke of peace.

Here, too, they worshiped; and from many a dark bosom went up a fervent prayer to the Great Spirit. He had not written his laws for them on tables of stone, but he had traced them on the tables of their hearts. The poor child of nature knew not the God of Revelation, but the God of the universe he acknowledged in everything around. He beheld him in the star that sank in beauty behind his lonely dwelling; in the sacred orb that flamed on him from his midday throne; in the flower that snapped in the morning breeze; in the lofty pine that defied a thousand whirlwinds; in the timid warbler that never left its native grove; in the fearless eagle, whose untired pinion was wet in clouds; in the worm that crawled at his feet; and in his own matchless form, glowing with a spark of that light, to whose mysterious source he bent in humble though blind adoration.

And all this has passed away. Across the ocean came a pilgrim bark, bearing the seeds of life and death. The former were sown for you; the latter sprang up in the path of the simple native. Two hundred years have changed the character of a great continent, and blotted forever from its face a whole, peculiar people. Art has usurped the bowers of nature, and the anointed children of education have been too powerful for the tribes of the ignorant. Here and there a stricken few remain; but how unlike their bold, untamable progenitors. The Indian of falcon glance and lion bearing, the theme of the touching ballad, the hero of the pathetic tale is gone, and his degraded offspring crawls upon the soil where he walked in majesty, to remind us how miserable is man when the foot of the conqueror is on his neck.

As a race they have withered from the land. Their arrows are broken, their springs are dried up, their cabins are in the dust. Their council fire has long since gone out on the shore, and their war cry is fast fading to the untrodden west. Slowly and sadly they climb the distant mountains, and read their doom in the setting sun. They are shrinking before the mighty tide which is pressing them away; they must soon hear the roar of the last wave which will settle over them forever. Ages hence, the inquisitive white man, as he stands by some growing city, will ponder on the structure of their disturbed remains, and wonder to what manner of persons they belonged. They will live only in the songs and chronicles of their exterminators. Let these be faithful to their rude virtues as men, and pay due tribute to their unhappy fate as a people.

【中文阅读】

并非在很久以前，就在诸位坐着的地方，围在一起欢呼的全都是穿戴光鲜的文明人。蓟花在风中摇曳婆娑，野狐旁若无人地掘洞。在这里生活和相亲相爱的是另一个族类。在同一片阳光下，印第安猎人在追逐跑得气喘吁吁的梅花鹿；还是那个冲每个人都绽开笑脸的月亮，印第安情侣向在黑暗中伫立的同伴求爱呢。微风吹拂着棚屋，镇政务会会场里燃起的篝火映红了睿智的长者和勇敢的青年人的脸庞。现在，他们将高贵的腿浸在属于你们的莎草丛生的湖里，现在他们沿着你脚下那岩石嶙峋的堤岸摇着轻舟。就在这里，他们开始作战。带着回音的呐喊声，血淋淋的搏斗，誓死抵抗的战歌，所有这一切都是在这里上演的。当猛虎间的你死我活的搏斗结束后，和平的火光袅袅升起。

这里，也是他们向神献祭的地方，虔诚的祷告者在他们许多黝黑的胸膛里激发出伟大的精神。神没有在石桌上为他们写下他拟定的戒律，贫穷的孩子自然不晓得上帝的神启，但是他认为在自己的周围上帝无处不在。他在那遗世而立的居所后面，看到上帝就是那颗美丽的星星，就是从正午的骄阳向他喷射火焰的神圣的天体，就是清晨微风吹拂下突然折断的花儿，就是在呼啸的旋风中傲然而立的高耸的松树，就是从未离开过故乡小树林的小鸟儿，就是无所畏惧的雄鹰，在白云间它那不知疲倦的爪子上浸出汗珠，就是爬到他腿上的小虫儿，就是他举世无双的自己，在星光的映衬下熠熠生辉，他向那神秘的光源谦卑地膜拜，尽管有些盲从。

所有这一切都已然成为过去。跨过海洋而来的是朝圣的喧嚣，载来的是主宰生与死的种子。先前的种子是为你们播下的，后来的便在乡间小道上破土而出。两百年的岁月更替已经改变了这片广袤大陆的性格，从外表到全体在这块土地上生根的民众都永远打上了鲜明的烙印。人的创造力已经凌驾于对大自然卑服之上；对于无知的部落而言，奉神意选定的受过教育的孩子的创造力超出了他们的想象。在各地，遭受艰难困苦的人很少了。这与他们鲁莽和难以驯服的祖先不可同日而语。在猎鹰的注视下和狮子的养育下，在聆听伤感的民谣和令人唏嘘的英雄传奇的过程中繁衍起来的印第安人已经一去不复返了。他们退化了的后代拜倒在祖先昂首阔步走过的土地上，不禁令我们想到当征服者的铁蹄踩在一个人的脖颈上时是何等可悲。

作为一个民族，他们已经从这块土地上渐渐消失了。他们背上的弓箭已经折断，他们赖以生存的泉水已经干涸。在水滨，部落大会已经很长时间不见篝火了，在人迹罕至的西部他们打仗时的呐喊声很快就消弭了。他们缓缓地爬上高山，神情悲戚，在落日下他们依稀分辨着自己家的茅屋。在巨大的潮汐面前他们退缩着。他们必然很快就能听到将他们永远冲到这里定居的最后的波涛咆哮之声。因此，多年以后当他站在旁边凝望成长中的城市时，好盘根问底的白人考虑的是印第安人被破坏的遗迹的建筑结构，会对住在这样的建筑物里的人的生活方式感到好奇。他们只存在于歌谣和灭杀他们的人的编年史里。还是让这些记录忠实于他们作为人的原始的德性吧，理应对他们作为一个民族不幸的命运进行凭吊。