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OLD CANEADEA COUNCIL HOUSE
AND
ITS LAST COUNCIL FIRE.
I. The Keepers of the Door.
Three centuries ago, when the first pioneers of European
emigration crossed the ocean to plant their homes in the New
World, they found within the borders of what we now call
the Empire State an extraordinary confederacy whose he-
reditary seats stretched from the Hudson to the Genesee.
Here the “Five Nations/’ joined together in a federated gov-
ernment (the ancient League of the Iroquois), held an abso-
lute and undisputed sway; their League remarkable alike for
its ties of organization and the wisdom of its unwritten laws,
as well as for the sagacity which marked their administra-
tion.
Proud and ambitious masters of the art of conquest, the
strong arm of the League was felt far and near as1 their war
parties fell upon other, ofttimes distant, tribes and, with the
lust of empire, compelled them to subservience. In 1535,
when Jacques Cartier first sailed up the St. Lawrence, their
ancient enemies at the North had been driven down the
river as far as Quebec. In 1607 Captain John Smith saw
them on the upper waters of the Chesapeake sweeping down
upon the tribes of Powhattan. Far westward upon the Mis-
sissippi the Spanish explorers met their warriors, and in 1609
97OLD CANEADEA COUNCIL HOUSE
Champlain encountered them as he passed up the lake which
now bears his name.
The Dutch, with prudent forethought, made friendship
with them, when establishing the first trading post at Fort
Orange (now Albany) in 1615, and when the Dutch rule
yielded to that of England a half century later, this friend-
ship was wisely fostered by the British, who made the Iro-
quois their allies in that long-continued struggle for the su-
premacy of a great continent.
They called themselves the Ho-de'-no-sau-nee, the “Peo-
ple of the Long House/' likening their confederacy to the
form of their bark dwellings, which were often extended to a
length sufficient for ten or even twenty families. Its easterly
wardens were the Mohawks at the Hudson, while to .the
westward burned in succession the council fires of the Onei-
das, the Onondagas, the Cayugas and last of all that of the
Senecas, the Ho-nan-ne-ho'-ont, the hereditary “Keepers of
the door" of the Long House.*
With the Onondagas burned the central fire of the
League, and there its general councils were held, when the
assembled sachems from all the nations discussed with elo-
quence and grave dignity affairs of common interest, guard-
ing each canton with jealous care against neighborly aggres-
sion, preserving for each its undisputed right of local self-
government and by wise counsels securing for all, harmony
of purpose for the welfare of the League and united action
for its protection.
Of these Five Nations the Senecas were the most power-
ful and warlike, as they were the most numerous. By 1651
they had conquered the Kah-Kwas or Neutral Nation, 'who
had occupied the territory between the Genesee and the Ni-
agara Rivers, and within five years thereafter had extermi-
nated the Eries, who dwelt still further to the West and
South.
At this time their four principal castles or palisaded vil-
lages were To-ti-ac-ton, on the Honeoye outlet, near the pres-
*The Tuscaroras, who came in 1715 as refugees from the South, were at
that time admitted to the League which was afterward known to the British as
“the Six Nations.”AND ITS LAST COUNCIL FIRE.
99
ent site of Honeoye Falls; Gan-da-chi-o-ra-gou, near Lima,
ten miles to the eastward; Gan-da-ga-ro, in the township of
Victor; and Gan-dou-ga-rae, in that of East Bloomfield. In
these “castles” the intrepid Jesuit fathers established their
missions as early as 1656.
In 1687 these villages were destroyed by the French
Governor, the Marquis de Denonville, and were abandoned
by the Senecas, who gradually drifted southward and west-
ward, finally establishing their homes in what they called the
Gen-nis-he'-o, the “beautiful valley” of the river which we
still know by their melodious name.
Here and there along its borders for nearly a hundred
miles their villages multiplied and prospered. They were
tillers of the soil as well as hunters, and summer after sum-
mer in these fertile meadows their corn fields blossomed, and
autumn after autumn brought its plentiful harvests of maize
and beans and pumpkins to be stored for winter’s needs.
Hiding in the sparkling brooks and the river riffles were
abundant supplies of fish which they captured with their rude
hooks and spears. From the great forests on either hand the
timid deer came down to drink of those clear waters and
their somber woodland depths teemed with game to be had
for the seeking.
Here they planted their orchards and gathered the wild
grapes which fringed their wooded borders, and here, in the
midst of their rich fields, they built their long lodges of logs
and bark, which in the larger and more important towns
were clustered about a central council house. Around its
lighted fire the fathers of the people, old sachems- and painted
chiefs, gathered for grave and eloquent deliberation. Within
its rude walls at the stated seasons, they met for those cere-
monial festivals peculiar to their worship by which they
marked the changes of the year; invoking the Great Spirit
at springtime to bless the planting of their seed; rendering
up thanksgiving for the berries of the fields, the fresh green
corn or the ripened harvest, or ushering in each returning
year with their supreme act of piety and devotion, the sacri-
fice of the white dog, their faithful messenger, whose spirit
should carry their words of thanks and praise with their100
OLD CANEADEA COUNCIL HOUSE
humble petitions to the listening ear of the great Master of
Life.
Here, too, as the years multiplied and generation after
generation passed away, the graves of their fathers gave to
their beautiful valley the hallowed associations of memory
and filial love. It was to them their home, a veritable Garden
of Eden, which they loved with an abiding affection that still
lingers in the hearts of their scattered descendants, and like
the dwellers in Eden of old, they were driven from it by the
flaming sword.
They had been faithful brothers to the British, and when
the war of the American Revolution began, although the
counsels of the Ho-de'-no-sau-nee were no longer united, and
the Oneidas as well as a portion of the Tuscaroras remained
neutral, the Senecas took the warpath with their allies and
fought with their savage instincts of ferocity.
From Cherry Creek, from Wyoming, and from scores of
border settlements to which had come the war-whoop and the
scalping-knife, went up the cry of desolation. In August,
1779, General Sullivan with an army of 5,000 men was sent
by Washington on his avenging errand. The retribution
was, as had been intended, swift and sure and fatal. The
beautiful valley of the Genesee was swept with the besom of
destruction and town after town of the Senecas was burned
to the ground, their crops and stores of grain destroyed, their
orchards of peach and apple and pear trees cut down, until
the smiling land had become a scene of almost total devasta-
tion. From the ruin of their homes the dwellers fled in a
confused and panic-stricken rout to the protection of the
British at Fort Niagara; and when the war had ceased and
the days of peace once more returned, only a remnant of the
people came back to rebuild a few of their villages along the
Genesee.
In these they lingered for half a century more, while the
tides of immigration, attracted by the tales of wondrous fer-
tility which were told by the soldiers of Sullivan’s raid, swept
around and beyond them; holding the small reservations
which they had retained when they sold their wide domain at
the Big Tree Treaty of 1797, until in 1826 they parted withAND ITS LAST COUNCIL FIRE.
101
these also, and turning their faces westward to Buffalo Creek
and to the lands which they still hold along the Tonawanda,
the Cattaraugus and the Allegheny, the last of the “keepers
of the door” departed and the beautiful valley of their
fathers knew them no more.
To this fair land, which had been their earthly paradise,
the bringers of civilization came; and where their rude vil-
lages once stood are now populous towns and pleasant vil-
lages, centers of traffic for the rich farming communities that
thrive upon the fertile fields which they first tilled. To their
primitive arts have succeeded those of a more complex life
and only here and there in hill or valley, in glen or water-fall
there lingers some musical name that whispers of the past
and breathes in its melody some accent that suggests those
long-forgotten days and “the pathos of a vanished folk.”
II. The Old Council House.
Leaving Can-a-wau-gus, opposite Avon Springs, the
northernmost of the river towns, the ancient Seneca trail, fol-
lowing the river southward, led from village to village, until
at Squakie Hill, near Mt. Morris, it reached Da-yo-it-ga-o
(“Where the river issues from the hills”). Thence it passed
through the Gardeau flats, the home until 1831 of the famous
white captive, Mary Jemison, known to history as “the White
Woman of the Genesee”; and approached the canon through
which for many miles the river has cut its way before it
emerges into the bright sunlight of the open valley.
It is a wild and picturesque region. From the mighty
rock-hewn walls one may look 700 feet down the precipitous
cliffs to the somber depths wherein the river winds its way
beneath. At the lower falls, where the old trail left the river
bed and climbed its banks for the great portage that has
given its name to the whole region, the river pours in a re-
sistless torrent through its narrow flume of rock to the
treacherous calm of the deep whirlpool far below. Now fol-
lowing the eastern ridge, the trail looked down upon that
charmed region about the middle falls, rich in legendary102
OLD CANEADEA COUNCIL HOUSE
story and song, with its shaded meadows and sunlit plateaus,
its sparkling brooks that leap the cliffs to join the river;
richest of all in these latter days in that beautiful home which
looks from its open friendly doors upon the fretted lace-
work that the river weaves in fleecy whiteness as it plunges
downward for a hundred feet and sends up clouds of spray to
gather in the sunlight the rainbow hues that give its name to
far-famed Glen Iris.
Traces may still be found of the old trail as it wound its
way around the upper falls, the river’s first great leap at the
entrance to the gorge, and crossing the clear, still reaches
above, passed on for several miles to Caneadea, an open syl-
van glade through which the river ran, shut in on either side
by the dense forests and in front by the open sky, where
nestled Ga-6-ya-de-o (“Where the Heavens rest upon the
earth”), the last Seneca “castle” on the Genesee.
It was an ancient village on the very threshold of the
Long House, so far distant from the lower river towns and
so protected by Nature’s almost impenetrable barriers below,
that it escaped the vengeance of Sullivan’s army which had
turned northward from Da-yo-it-ga-o.
Its twenty or thirty houses stood somewhat back from a
high bank that overlooked the stream, and its central feature
was the old Caneadea Council House, so fortunately still pre-
served to tell its story of a far-off past. This was built of
well-hewn logs, a foot or more in thickness, neatly dove-
tailed at the corners, their crevices packed with moss plas-
tered in with clay. In length it measured about fifty feet, by
twenty feet in width, and was roofed with “shakes” or large
split shingles held in place by long poles fastened at the ends
with withes, an opening being left in the center of the roof
through which the smoke of the council fire might make its
escape. Its eaves were low and at one end was built a rude
stone fireplace with three large flat hearth stones taken from
the river bed, covering a space ten feet square. There was
a door on either side.
Its age we do not know, but Indian traditions ascribe to it
a venerable antiquity and it is believed to long antedate the
American Revolution. Upon the inner surface of one of the103
AND ITS LAST COUNCIL FIRE.
legs the sign of the cross is deeply carved and another bears
the rudely cut totem of the Snipe clan.
About it cluster thickly the memories of long ago ; upon
its earth floor has been lighted many a famous council fire,
and its walls, smoke-begrimed and dark with age, have list-
ened to the glowing words of many a red-skinned orator
whose eloquence fired his people to action or perchance
calmed the heated passion of debate.
From this last of the Seneca villages went out the great
war parties of the Iroquois that followed the Ohio trail to
the great river of the Southwest. Here, too, they gathered
for the border forays that carried terror to the Pennsyl-
vania frontiers; and here the returning warriors brought
ttitir captives to run the gauntlet, to their death it may be,
or in rare cases to escape their torturers and to find refuge
and safety within the walls of their desperate goal, this an-
cient council house.
Here, with their scarcely less savage allies, it is believed
they gathered as the rallying point before the massacre of
Wyoming; and in those ruthless days the old council house
had doubtless heard the crafty but not inhumane counsels of
Thay-en-da-na-ge-a, the great Mohawk chief whom we
know as Joseph Brant, the silver tongue of that most famous
of Indian orators, Red Jacket, the wise and compelling ut-
terance of Cornplanter and the speech of Hudson and Young
King and Pollard, Little Beard1 and Tallchief and Halftown
and many beside whose very names are now but dim tradi-
tions, but who wrought their part and were loved or feared,
as the case might be, by their people and by those who knew
their power a century or more ago.
Of all the many captives of those bloody years, who ran
the gauntlet at Caneadea,—and who may now tell their num-
ber !—no story is so well-remembered and so oft-repeated as
that of Moses Van Campen, that famous old Indian fighter
and pioneer, the hero of so many fireside tales of thrilling
border warfare; a Jersey lad, born in 1757, but living in
Pennsylvania and in the strength of early manhood when the
war of the Revolution began. He was a man of mighty
prowess and daring, unacquainted with fear, and had made104
OLD CANEADEA COUNCIL HOUSE
his strong arm felt in many a fierce encounter with the
painted redskins in the northern wilderness of the Pennsyl-
vania frontier.
Once before he had been captured by an Indian war party
and had made his escape after a deadly struggle in which he
had slain five of his captors* with his own hand and with a
tomahawk which he had wrested from their leader, John
Mohawk. In March, 1782, he was a lieutenant of the Penn-
sylvania line in the Continental Army, commanding a com-
pany ordered to rebuild a fort at Muncey in Northumber-
land Co., Pa., which had been destroyed by the Indians in
x779-
While on a scouting expedition with a small force up the
west branch of the Susquehanna he was surprised by a war
party of Senecas led by Lieutenant Nellis of Butler’s Ran-
gers in the British service, and after most of his soldiers had
been killed or disabled, Van Campen surrendered and was
carried captive to Caneadea. Fortunately he had not been
recognized or his life would not have been spared.
As they approached the village with echoing war-whoops,
old and young came to meet the victorious warriors and
preparations for the savage ordeal of running the gauntlet
were speedily made. At a distance of thirty or forty rods
stood the council house with its open doors and on either side
of the running course thereto were lines of men and women
armed with hatchets, knives and sticks with which to strike
the victim as he ran. There was but slight chance of escape,
but as the word came and the captives dashed forward, Van
Campen followed and dexterously avoided the many blows
aimed at him until he saw directly in his path two young
squaws with uplifted whips who blocked the way. With
quick thought he gave an unexpected leap into the air, strik-
ing both squaws with his feet and sending both to the
ground. He fell with them, but before they or the warriors
around could recover from their astonishment, he quickly
picked himself up and reached the council house unharmed.
His life was saved, and having been taken thence to Fort
Niagara and finally to Montreal and New York, he was re-
leased on parole before the end of the year.AND ITS LAST COUNCIL FIRE.
105
A gentler association is that which the old council house
holds with the memory of the white captive, Mary Jemison,
“Deh-he-wa-mis,” for here in the autumn of 1760, that
weary-footed traveler (whose life of scarce eighteen years
had already seen such strange vicissitudes, adopted by her
captors five years before and married by their wish to an
Indian husband), rested with her adoptive brothers, who
accompanied her on her long and toilsome journey of nearly
600 miles through an almost pathless wilderness, from the
lower Ohio to the Genesee country.
Through all the fatigues and sufferings of those weary
miles, thinly clad, without protection from the drenching
rains, sleeping at night upon the naked ground, unsheltered
and with no covering but her wet blanket, the poor little
child-wife and mother—for she was small and delicate—had
carried her infant child upon her back or sheltered him
within her arms. It sometimes seemed to her, she said, as if
the utmost of endurance had been reached-, but after resting
here she journeyed on to Little Beard's town. The Senecas
of the beautiful valley became her people, their country her
home, and for more than seventy years the “White Woman
of the Genesee" lived among them through many sorrows
and many joys until, in that strange fellowship of her
adopted kin whom she steadfastly refused to leave, her
earthly days were ended.
By whose hand was carved the deeply cut symbol of the
Christian faith within those ancient walls we may not know.
Its presence would seem to show that in their time they have
heard gentle teachings from lips that have told those husky
hearers of long ago of the God of Revelation, of Christ the
Saviour, of a gospel of love and peace and in their own
tongue perhaps made known to them the story of the
Cross. Could the old council house but speak of all that it
has seen, how filled with riches would be the record of its
years!
But times change, and we change with them. The years
swept by and the changes of another century than its own
crept slowly around the council house. Little by little its old-
time friends passed away, and when in 1826 the Senecas sold106
OLD CANEADEA COUNCIL HOUSE
the last of their Genesee Valley lands they parted with
Caneadea and soon the old council house was left alone and
deserted.
Shortly thereafter Joel Seaton, who had purchased the
land where it stood, moved it to a new position near the
roadside some thirty or forty rods eastward from its old site
and used it as a dwelling, making no changes in it, however,
except to put on a new roof and to add three or four logs to
its height, as was readily to be seen. Slowly it began to de-
cay ; it ceased to be used as a dwelling; neglected and for-
lorn it stood by the roadside, marked only by the curious
gaze of the passer-by, until when it' was about to be de-
stroyed, shortly after 1870, it came to the notice of Hon.
William Pryor Letchworth of Glen Iris, whose deep interest
in the historic associations of the Genesee Valley led' him to
take prompt measures for its rescue and preservation.
With painstaking care he caused each timber to be marked
when taken down, so that it might be replaced where it be-
longed, and effected its removal without injury, to the beau-
tiful plateau overlooking the river and valley at Glen Iris,
where it now stands. There it was carefully reerected in
precisely the position and the form in which it originally
stood, even to the roof of shakes with withe-bound poles and
its own old fireplace with the original hearth-stones as in
days of yore; the rotting timbers were repaired where this
was necessary for its preservation and when all was com-
pleted and the venerable structure stood as of old time, the
scattered children of those who had been most famous in the
history of the Seneca occupation of the Genesee Valley were
bidden to the memorable council of October 1, 1872. It was
a strange and impressive occasion to those who gathered to
hold a council of their people after the lapse of half a cen-
tury, in the very house where generation after generation of
those that slept had gathered before; to them it brought un-
told memories of pathos and regret. Doubly strange and
impressive was it to the fortunate guests of another race who
came at the wish of the Guardian of the Valley to witness
such an unwonted sight; it dwells within their hearts in un-
fading recollection.AND ITS LAST COUNCIL FIRE.
107
III. The Last Council Fire.*
The morning of that perfect day in the beautiful month of
falling leaves dawned brightly; early frost had tinged the
forests and loosened the leaves that dropped softly in the
mellow sunlight. Some of the invited guests had come on
the previous day and when the morning train arrived from
Buffalo the old King George cannon on the upper plateau
thundered its welcome, as once it was wont to wake the
echoes from the fortress of Quebec, and all climbed the hill
to the spot where the ancient council house stood with open
doors to receive them. They were the lookers-on who found
their places at one end of the council hall where rustic seats
awaited them, save that in a suitable and more dignified chair
was seated a former President of the Republic, Hon. Millard
Fillmore of Buffalo, whose gracious and kindly presence—
that of a snowy-haired gentleman of the old school—honored
the occasion.
The holders of the council were “robed and ready.” Upon
the clay floor in the center of the building burned the bright
council fire, and as the blue smoke curled upward it found
its way through the opening in the roof to mingle with the
haze of the October day.
Upon low benches around the fire sat the red-skinned
children of the Ho-de'-no-sau-nee who had gathered from
the Cattaraugus and the Allegheny and from the Grand
River in Canada as well; for on that day, for the first time
in more than seventy years, the Mohawks sat in council with
the Senecas. They were for the most part clad in such cos-
tumes as their fathers wore in the olden days, and many of
the buckskin garments, bright sashes and great necklaces of
silver or bone and beads, were heirlooms of the past, as were
the ancient tomahawk pipes which were. gravely smoked
while their owners sat in rapt and decorous attention as one
after another their orators addressed them. No sight could
*For Mr. Gray’s beautiful poem, read at the close of the council, and for
the translated Seneca speeches, I am indebted to “The last Indian Council on
the Genesee,” by David Gray, in Scribner’s Magazine for July, 1877. With
these exceptions this account is written from notes made by myself at the time
of the council.—H. R. H.108
OLD CANEADEA COUNCIL HOUSE
be more picturesque than was that combination of bright col-
ors and nodding plumes, the drifting smoke of the council
fire, and, most of all, the strong faces of the score or more of
councillors, the appointed representatives of their people, to
speak for them that day.
They had been wisely chosen, for they were the grand-
children of renowned men and almost all bore the names of
those who had been the recognized leaders of their nation in
council and in war. As might well be expected, the person-
ality of each was striking and noteworthy.
A commanding presence, that gave an especial interest to
the occasion, was that of Col. W. J. Simcoe Kerr, “Te-ka-re-
ho-ge-a,” the grandson of the famous i.^ohawk chief, Captain
Brant, whose youngest daughter, Elizabeth, had married
Colonel Walter Butler Kerr, a grandson of Sir William
Johnson, the Indian agent for the British Government, whose
influence had been so potent with the Iroquois in colonial
days. Colonel Kerr was a man of fine physique, an educated
gentleman and himself the principal chief of the Mohawks in
their Canadian home, as well as the acknowledged head of
all the Indians in Canada. He wore the chieftain’s dress in
which he had been presented to Queen Victoria: a suit of
soft, dark, smoke-tanned buckskin with deep fringes, a rich
sash, and a cap of doeskin with long straight plumes from an
eagle’s wing. He carried Brant’s tomahawk in his belt. By
his side sat his accomplished sister, Mrs. Kate Osborne,
whose Mohawk name was Ke-je-jen-ha-nik. Through her
gentle-hearted interest in such an unusual event she had
urged her brother to accept the invitation which had1 been
tendered him, but he came with some reluctance, for the
long-cemented friendship of the great League had been
broken.
When the War of the Revolution had ended, the Mohawks
left their former seats and followed their British allies to
Canada, where they still live on the Grand River. The Sen-
ecas remained in Western New York and by the celebrated
treaty at Fort Stanwix in 1784, became the friends of the
Americans, a friendship to which they continued steadfast,
so that when war with Great Britain was again declared inAND ITS LAST COUNCIL FIRE.
109
1812, they were our allies, and on its battle-fields, side by
side with the soldiers of the United States, they fought the
Mohawks, their ancient friends, who had now become their
enemies. It could not be forgotten, and even when the Mo-
hawk chief had been persuaded to attend the council, he
wore an air of coldness and reserve, because, as he said to
one of the guests before he tardily took his place, “the Sen-
ecas are not my people.”
For a short time these children of time-honored sachems
and chiefs sat and smoked in dignified silence as became so
grave an occasion, and when the proper moment had arrived,
as prescribed by the decorum of Indian observance, one of
their number arose and, following the ceremonial method of
the ancient custom, announced in formal words and in the
Seneca tongue, that the council fire had been lighted and that
the ears of those who were convened in council were now
opened to listen to what might be said to them. Resuming
his seat, there was a moment of quiet waiting, as if in expec-
tation, and then the opening speech was made by Nicholson
H. Parker, “Ga-yeh-twa-geh,” a grand-nephew of Red
Jacket and a brother of General Ely S. Parker, who served
with distinction upon General Grant’s staff during the Civil
War.
Mr. Parker was a tall, well-built man, with a fine clear
face not unlike that of his distinguished brother, and with
great dignity of speech and bearing. Around his sleeves
above the elbows and at the wrists were wide bands of
beaded embroidery, and besides a long fringed woven belt of
Lright colors, he wore an ample shoulder scarf that was also
richly embroidered. His tomahawk pipe was one that had
belonged to Red Jacket. Mr. Parker was a well educated
man, had served as United States interpreter with his people
and was a recognized leader among them.
All of the speeches made in the council that day, until it
approached its close, were in the Seneca language, which is
without labials, very guttural and yet with a music of its
own, capable of much inflection and by no means monoto-
nous. Its sentences seemed short and their utterance slow
and measured, with many evidences of the earnest feeling110
OLD CANEADEA COUNCIL HOUSE
aroused by the unwonted occasion and its associations with
the past, and as each speaker in turn touched some respon-
sive chord in the breasts of his hearers, they responded with
that deep guttural ejaculation of approval which cannot be
written in any syllable of English phrasing.
Many of the orators spoke at great length, and it is un-
fortunate that the full texts could not be preserved. Such
portions as we have of three or four of the principal speeches
were taken down after the council from the lips of the speak-
ers themselves; they are, however, but brief epitomes of
their full orations. Such was the case, for example, in this
opening speech of Nicholson Parker, who thus addressed the
council:
“Brothers: I will first say a few words. We have come
as representatives of the Seneca nation to participate in the
ceremonies of the day. In this ancient council-house, before
its removal to this spot, our fathers, sachems and chiefs,
often met to deliberate on matters of moment to our people
in the village of Ga-o-yah-de-o (Caneadea). We are to rake
over the ashes on its hearth, that we may find perchance a
single spark with which to rekindle the fire, and cause the
smoke again to rise above this roof, as in days that are past.
The smoke is curling upward and the memories of the past
are enwreathed with it.
“Brothers: When the confederacy of the Iroquois was
formed, a smoke was raised which ascended so high that all
the nations saw it and trembled. This league was formed, it
may be, long before the kingdom of Great Britain had any
political existence. Our fathers of the Ho-de'-no-sau-nee
were once a powerful nation. They lorded it over a vast ter-
ritory, comprising the whole of the State of New York.
Their power was felt from the Hudson to the banks of the
Mississippi, and from the great basins of sweet water in the
North to the bitter waters of the Mexican Gulf. We have
wasted away to a remnant of what we once were. But,
though feeble in numbers, the Iroquois are represented here.
We have delegates from the Mohawks, who were the keepers
of the eastern door of the long house; and of the Senecas,
who were the guardians of the western door. When the bigAND ITS LAST COUNCIL FIRE,
111
guns of General Sullivan were heard in this valley, we were
one people. But the tribes of the Iroquois are scattered, and
will soon be seen no more.
“Brothers: We are holding council, perhaps for the last
time, in Gen-nis-he'-o. This beautiful territory was once our
own. The bones of our fathers are strewn thickly under its
sod. But all this land has gone from their grasp forever.
The fate and the sorrows of my people should force a sigh
from the stoutest heart.
“Brothers: We came here to perform a ceremony, but I
cannot make it such. My heart says that this is not a play or
a pageant. It is a solemn reality to me, and not a mockery of
days that are past and can never return. Neh-hoh—this
is all.”
As he took his seat, the repeated monosyllabic utterance
of his hearers showed that he had spoken well and had
opened and smoothed the way for those who should follow.
All were eager to say what was in their hearts, but there was
a quiet dignity in their procedure which might well be copied
by Anglo-Saxon conclaves. There was no presiding member
in the sense in which we know the term. It was the office
and apparently the duty of Nicholson Parker to open and to
close the council, and in all formal procedures, as in the com-
mon habit of their life and speech, the Indian shows a respect
and reverence for age which is worthy of high praise.
When each orator had spoken, there was a short pause of
silence, a little smoking of pipes as if in seemly expectation,
and then another orator rose quietly in his place and with
gentle manner and low speech and with occasional graceful
gesticulations that pointed his statements, sometimes hold-
ing his tomahawk pipe in his hand and using it to excellent
effect in his gestures (for Nature made the red man an ora-
tor,) he addressed his listening brothers. Nearly all of the
men in council spoke during its session, some at length, some
more briefly, as the message chanced to be. The thought of
their fathers was uppermost in their minds and the deeds of
their fathers in the old days was the burden of their utter-
ance.
That great orator of the Senecas, Red Jacket, “Sa-go-ye-112
OLD CANEADEA COUNCIL HOUSE
wat-ha” (“He keeps them awake”) was represented at this
council not only by Nicholson Parker, who made the opening
speech, but also by his grandson, John Jacket, “Sho-gyo-a-
ja-ach,” an elderly man and a full-blooded Seneca, as his
strong, dark face betokened, with feathered head-dress and
broad-beaded shoulder sash, who was one of the later speak-
ers. He died in 1901 on the Cattaraugus reservation.
Beside him at the council fire sat George Jones, “Ga-o-do-
wa-neh,” in all the glory of full Indian costume with waving
plumes and beaded leggings, bright shoulder sash and belt
girding his light hunting shirt; the grandson of “Tommy
Jemmy,” who. was tried for murder in 1821, for putting to
death an aged beldam whom his people had found guilty of
witchcraft and according to their custom had sentenced to
death. His acquittal undoubtedly resulted from the efforts
of Red Jacket, who appeared as his advocate at the trial,
where he thundered his famous phillipic against those who
accused his people of superstition. “What!” said he, “do
you denounce us as fools and bigots because we still believe
that which you yourselves believed two centuries ago? Your
black-coats thundered this doctrine from the pulpit, your
judges pronounced it from the bench and sanctioned it with
the formalities of law; and you would now punish our un-
fortunate brother for adhering to the faith of his fathers and
of yours. Go to Salem! Look at the records of your own
Government, and you will find that hundreds have been exe-
cuted for the crime which has called forth the sentence of
condemnation against this woman and drawn down upon her
the arm of vengeance. What have our brothers done more
than the rulers of your people? And what crime has this
man committed, by executing, in a summary way, the laws of
his country, and the command of the Great Spirit?” It was
a fitting and noteworthy circumstance that the grandsons of
Red Jacket and Tommy Jemmy should sit side by side at the
Glen Iris council-fire.
Two grandsons of Deh-he-wa-mis, the famous “White
Woman,” sat in the council that day. One, known as “Doc-
tor” James Shongo, “Ha-go-go-ant,” from the Allegheny
reservation, a stalwart man of fifty-three years, was theAND ITS LAST COUNCIL FIRE.
113
youngest son among her daughter Polly’s five children. His
father, George Shongo, was the son of that “Colonel”
Shongo who was in Revolutionary times a prominent chief of
the Senecas at Caneadea; a man of commanding stature and
mighty voice, a fierce warrior, who is believed1 by some to
have led the Senecas at the Wyoming massacre. James
Shongo was a lad eleven years old when his grandmother,
the “White Woman,” removed from her old home at Gar-
deau to Buffalo in the spring of 1831; and when he spoke
he told the story of that journey in which he walked all the
way, a foot-sore boy, who helped to drive the cattle and to
minister in his small way to the wants of his mother and of
his aged, feeble, grand-dame.
The other grandson was Thomas Jemison, “Shoh-son-do-
want,” old “Buffalo Tom,” as he was familiarly called; an
old man, esteemed by all who knew him and respected as one
of the worthiest of men. He was the firstborn grandchild of
the “White Woman,” born at Squakie Hill, and was the son
of the little babe whom she carried on her back in that weary
journey from the Ohio to the Genesee. All the virtues of his
gentle grandmother had found place in his character and had
made him throughout his long life an example to his people
of industry, truthfulness and thrift. Of stalwart frame,
more than six feet in height, with broad, manly shoulders,
only his earnest, wrinkled face and snowy hair told of his
nearly eighty years when he arose to address the council. In
part his words were these:
“Brothers:	I am an old man, and well remember when
our people lived in this valley. I was born in a wigwam on
the banks of this river. I well remember my grandmother,
‘The White Woman/ of whom you have all heard. I remem-
ber when our people were rich in lands and respected by the
whites. Our fathers knew not the value of these lands, and
parted with them for a trifle. The craft of the white man
prevailed over their ignorance and simplicity. We have lost
a rich inheritance; but it is vain to regret the past. Let us
make the most of what little is left to us.
“The last speaker spoke of the former power of our peo-
ple. They used to live in long bark houses, divided into dif-114
OLD CANEADEA COUNCIL HOUSE
ferent compartments, and giving shelter often to five or six
families. These families were frequently connected by ties
of blood. When the confederacy was formed, which the
French called the Iroquois and the English the Five Nations,
our New York Indians called,themselves Ho-de-no-sau-nee,
or People of the Long House. It was the duty of the Mo-
hawks to guard the eastern door against the approach of
enemies, and the Senecas were to guard the west. The prin-
cipal sachem of .the Senecas is entitled Don-e-ho-ga-wa, the
door-keeper. Between these two nations sat the Oneidas,
Onondagas and Cayugas, making the Five Nations. After
their expulsion from North Carolina, our brothers, the Tus-
caroras knocked at the door of the Long House and we gave
them shelter. We adopted them as one of our family and
thenceforward were known as the Six Nations.
“I regret that our fathers should have given away their
country, acre by acre, and left us in our present state, but
they did it in their ignorance. They knew not the value of
the soil, and little imagined that the white people would
cover the land as thickly as the trees from ocean to ocean.
“Brothers: These are painful thoughts. It is painful to
think that in the course of two generations there will not be
an Iroquois of unmixed blood within the bounds of our
State; that our race is doomed, and that our language and
history will soon perish from the thoughts of men. But it
is the will of the Great Spirit and doubtless it is well.”
Among those of noteworthy parentage who took part in
the council were William and Jesse Tallchief,“Sha-wa-o-nee-
gah,” whose grandfather, “Tall Chief,” lived at Murray Hill
near Mt. Morris, and was well known to the early pioneers.
He is remembered as a wise counsellor of his nation and had
in his day dined with Washington and smoked the pipe of
peace with the great President.
Another, William' Blacksnake, “Sho-noh-go-waah,” was
a grandson of old “Governor” Blacksnake, whose title was
bestowed upon him by the father of our country. More than
any other of the Senecas did Governor Blacksnake’s length
of days link us with the past, for he lived until 1859 and
reached the great age of 117 years. He was a boy of thirteenAND ITS LAST COUNCIL FIRE.
115
at the capture of Fort Duquesne, which he remembered well.
With others who were also present were Maris B. Pierce,
“Ha-dya-no-doh,” a man of fine address and education, in
his early years a graduate of Dartmouth College; and John
Shanks, “Noh-Sahl,” an aged man who spoke the first words
of formal announcement; whose memory ran back to the
time when he as a boy had lived with his people on the
Caneadea Reservation before the title to its 10,000 acres had
passed away from their hands.
Most picturesque of all who lingered around that dying
council fire was the figure of old Solomon O’Bail, “Ho-way-
no-ah,” the grandson of that wisest of Seneca chiefs, John
O’Bail, “Ga-yant-hwah-geh,” better known as “Corn-
planter.” His strong, rugged face, deeply seamed with the
furrows of advancing age, was typical of his race and of his
ancestry and was expressive of a remarkable character. His
dress was of smoke-tanned buckskin with side fringes and all
a-down his leggings were fastened little hawk-bells, which
tinkled as he walked. Shoulder sash and belt were embroid-
ered with old-time bead work and around his arm above the
elbows were broad bands or armlets of silver. From his ears
hung large silver pendants and, strangest of all his decora-
tions, deftly wrought long ago by some aboriginal silver-
smith, was a large silver nose-piece that almost hid his upper
lip. His head-dress was an heirloom made of wild turkey
feathers fastened to the cap with such cunning skill that they
turned and twinkled with every movement of his body.
He had been an attentive listener to all who had spoken,
and as the memories of the past were awakened, the signif-
icance of the occasion filled his heart and the expression of
his honest face showed that he was deeply moved. Espe-
cially significant to him was the presence at this council fire
of the Mohawk chief, Colonel Kerr, and the burden of his
soul was that the broken friendship of the League should
once more be restored. His speech was the most dramatic
incident of the day. Rising gravely in his place he said:
“Brothers: I will also say a few words. In olden times,
on occasions of this kind, after lighting the council-fire, our
fathers would first congratulate each other on their safe ar-116
OLD CANEADEA COUNCIL HOUSE
rival and their escape from all the perils of the journey from
their widely separated homes to the scene of the council. In
the Ga-no-nyok (speech of welcome) the orator would wipe
the sweat from the brows of the guests and pluck the thorns
from their moccasins. Next, and most important, thanks
would be offered to the Great Spirit for their preservation
and safety. Imitating the example of our fathers, while we
felicitate ourselves on our safe arrival here and our presence
on this occasion, we, too, give thanks to the Good Spirit who
has kept us until this moment.
“Brothers: It is true, as has been said by the speakers
who preceded me, that our fathers formed and established a
nfighty nation. The confederacy of the Iroquois was a
power felt in the remotest regions of this continent before
the advent of the pale-face, and long after the white men
came and began to grow numerous and powerful, the friend-
ship of the Iroquois was courted as Dutch and English and
French struggled for the contest. They poured out their
blood like water for the English, and the French were driven
from this great island. Our fathers loved their nation and
were proud of its renown. But both have passed away for-
ever. Follow the sun in its course from the Hudson to the
Niagara, and you will see the pale faces as thick as leaves in
the wood, but only here and there a solitary Iroquois.
“Brothers: When the War of the Revolution was ended,
our Great Father, General Washington, said that he would
forget that we had been enemies, and would allow us to re-
possess the country we had so long called our own. Our
brothers the Mohawks chose, however, to cast their lot with
the British, and followed the flag of that people to the Grand
River, in Canada, where they have ever since sat under its
folds. In the last war with England the Mohawks met us
as foes on the war-path. For seventy-five years their place
has been vacant at our council-fires. They left us when we
were strong, a nation of warriors, and they left us in anger.
“Brothers : We are now poor and weak. There are none
who fear us or court our influence. We are reduced to a
handful, and have scarce a place to spread our blankets in
the vast territory owned by our fathers. But in our povertyAND ITS LAST COUNCIL FIRE.
117
and desolation our long-estranged brothers, the Mohawks,
have come back to us. The vacant seats are filled again,
although the council-fire of our nation is little more than a
heap of ashes. Let us stir its dying embers, that by their
light, we may see the faces of our brothers once more.
“Brothers: My heart is gladdened by seeing a grandson
of that great chief Thay-en-dan-ega-ga-onh (Captain Brant)
at our council-fire. His grandfather often met our fathers
in council when the Six Nations were one people and were
happy and strong. In grateful remembrance of that nation
and that great warrior, and in token of buried enmity, I will
extend my hand to our Mohawk brother. May he feel that
he is our brother, and that we are brethren."
The Indian character is reticent and hides the outward
evidence of deep feeling as unmanly, but as the aged man
spoke, the tears rolled down his furrowed cheeks and as he
turned and held out his beseeching, friendly hand to the
haughty Mohawk, strong ejaculations of approval broke
from the lips of all his dusky brethren. With visible emo-
tion Colonel Kerr arose and warmly grasped the outstretched
palm.
“My brother/' said he, “I am glad to take your hand once
more held out in the clasp of friendship; the Senecas and
the Mohawks now are both my people."
“My brother," said O’Bail, “may the remembrance of this
day- never fade from our minds or from the hearts of our
descendants."
As speaker after speaker had addressed the council, the
hours slipped swiftly by and only the embers of the fire still
glowed when, at a pause towards the close, there came a sur-
prise for all who were present, as one of the pale-faced guests
quietly arose, and stepping to the charmed circle of red-
skinned orators, spoke to them in their own tongue. It was
the tall figure of Orlando Allen of Buffalo, then in his seven-
tieth year, who addressed the council. As a boy of sixteen
years he had come to Buffalo to live with Dr. Cyrenius
Chapin, while it was still a rude hamlet, encircled with for-
ests, wdiich were the hunting grounds of the Senecas, who
were then still living on the Buffalo Creek and its tributary118
OLD CANEADEA COUNCIL HOUSE
streams. He had learned their speech and had known their
fathers face to face and now he spoke first in their own lan-
guage to these, their children. He addressed the council in
Seneca as follows:
“Brothers: I also will say a few words and would be glad
if I might speak to you as once I could in your own tongue,
so as to make my words clear to your understanding.
“Brothers:	This valley of the Genesee where your
fathers once ruled is filled with remembrances of old days
and we are gathered here to revive those memories. This is
of great importance, as is the preservation of this old council
house which your fathers parted with when they gave up
their lands, but which has once more been restored.
“Brothers:	The words for my thoughts come more
slowly in your speech than in former days when I knew it
well, so I will speak now in my own language. Nehdioh,—
that is all.”
An outburst of ejaculations testified to the pleased sur-
prise and gratification of his Indian auditors; then, turning
to the group of pale-faces beyond the circle, he spoke in Eng-
lish at considerable length in interesting reminiscence of the
past. He had known Red Jacket, Cornplanter, Young King,
Captain Pollard, Destroytown, Blacksnake, Little Billy,
Shongo and many besides, and related many incidents con-
nected with these celebrated characters, as he had heard them
from their own lips. In his youth it was the custom' each
year in the month of June for the Indians to gather in large
numbers at Buffalo to receive their annuities through the
hands of Captain Jasper Parrish, the United States sub-
agent, and Captain Horatio Jones, the Government interpre-
ter. Both had been Indian captives and perhaps no incident
that he related was more interesting to his hearers than the
story of how the latter ran the gauntlet at this old Council
House at Caneadea.
When he was about fourteen years old Horatio Jones was
captured by a Seneca war-party in the neighborhood of his
father’s home in Bedford County, Pa. As he ran to escape
his captors, one of whom was calling him to “stop,” he stum-
bled and fell, but to his surprise, instead of receiving the ex-120
OLD CANEADEA COUNCIL HOUSE
A characteristic incident was that related by Mr. Allen re-
garding Cornplanter, whose grandson sat before him. The
aged chief was a man moulded for greatness, whose influ-
ence and whose word were potent with his people. Upon one
occasion, at the annual council at Buffalo Creek when Corn-
planter was present, a vigorous discussion arose as to the re-
payment to a white creditor of $500 which he had loaned the
Senecas to defray the expenses of a delegation sent by them
to Washington. Some of those present argued that a portion
of this money had been used to pay the charges of an Oneida
who had accompanied the delegation, and that therefore the
Senecas should not repay the full amount. The trader very
justly claimed that he had loaned the money to the Senecas,
who had pledged themselves for its repayment and that he
could not be responsible for the way in which they had spent
it. In those days the annuities were paid in silver dollars and
half-dollars and the sum had been counted out and lay upon
a small table in the council house. The discussion waxed
warm and it began to look as if the trader might lose a por-
tion of his loan, when old Cornplanter, who had been sitting
in silence, arose and asked the trader the amount of his
claim. Pointing to the money on the table, he said, “Is that
the correct amount, interest and all ?" Upon being answered
that it was, he took the trader's hat and sweeping into it the
pile of coin from the table, handed it to the claimant, then
turning to the council, said, “The debt is paid; my name is
Cornplanter," and quietly resumed his seat.
When Mr. Allen had ended his interesting address, Presi-
dent Fillmore with a few kindly words, presented, on behalf
of Mr. Letchworth, a specially prepared silver medal to each
of those who had taken part in the council. As old Buffalo
Tom came forward when his name was called, he thrust his
hand into his bosom and brought forth a very large silver
medal which was suspended from his neck. “Perhaps," said
he, “I ought not to have one; I have got one already which
old General Jackson gave me." He was assured that he was
entitled to both, and now his children treasure them as heir-
looms.
This ceremony ended, Nicholson Parker, who made theAND ITS LAST COUNCIL FIRE.
121
opening speech, arose and in a few words, gravely and softly
spoken in his native tongue, formally closed the council.
Then turning to the white guests, whom he addressed as his
‘"younger brothers/' he spoke the farewell words.
“We have gathered in council here to-day," said he, “the
representatives of the Mohawks, who guarded the easterly
door of the Long House, and of the Senecas, who kept its
western gate. It has been to us an occasion of solemn in-
terest, and as one after another of my brothers has spoken
around the council fire that we have lighted, we have re-
hearsed the deeds of our fathers who once dwelt in this beau-
tiful valley, and in the smoke of that council fire our words
have been carried upward. Our fathers, the Iroquois, were
a proud people, who thought that none might subdue them;
your fathers when they crossed the ocean were but a feeble
folk, but you have grown in strength and greatness, while
we have faded to but a weak remnant of what we once were.
The Ho-de'-no-sau-nee, the people of the Long House, are
scattered hither and yon; their league no longer exists, and
you who are sitting here to-day have seen the last of the con-
federated Iroquois. We have raked the ashes over our fire
and have closed the last council of our people in the valley of
our fathers."
As he ended his voice faltered with an emotion which was
shared by all present. He had spoken the last words for his
people, fraught with a tender pathos that touched the hearts
of those that heard him with a feeling of that human brother-
hood in which “whatever may be our color or our gifts" we
are all alike kin.
For a few moments there was a becoming silence and then
David Gray—name beloved of all who knew him—the poet-
editor of the Buffalo Courier, rose and read
The Last Indian Council on the Genesee.
The fire sinks low, the drifting smoke
Dies softly in the autumn haze,
And silent are the tongues that spoke
In speech of other days.122
OLD CANEADEA COUNCIL HOUSE
Gone, too, the dusky ghosts whose feet
But now yon listening thicket stirred;
Unscared within its covert meet
The squirrel and the bird.
The story of the past is told,
But thou, O Valley, sweet and lone!
Glen of the Rainbow! thou shalt hold
Its romance as thine own.
Thoughts of thine ancient forest prime
Shall sometimes tinge thy summer dreams,
And shape to low poetic rhyme
The music of thy streams.
When Indian summer flings her cloak
Of brooding azure on the woods,
The pathos of a vanished folk
Shall haunt thy solitudes.
The blue smoke of their fires once more
Far o’er the hills shall seem to rise,
And sunset’s golden clouds restore
The red man’s paradise.
Strange sounds of a forgotten tongue
Shall cling to many a crag and cave,
In wash of falling waters sung,
Or murmur of the wave.
And oft in midmost hush of night,
Shrill o’er the deep-mouthed cataract’s roar,
Shall ring the war-cry from the height
That woke the wilds of yore.
Sweet Vale, more peaceful bend thy skies,
Thy airs be fraught with rarer balm:
A people’s busy tumult lies
Hushed in thy sylvan calm.
Deep be thy peace! while fancy frames
Soft idyls of thy dwellers fled,—
They loved thee, called thee gentle names,
In the long summers dead.
Quenched is the fire: the drifting smoke
Has vanished in the autumn haze:
Gone, too, O Vale, the simple folk
Who loved thee in old days.AND ITS LAST COUNCIL FIRE.
123
But, for their sakes—their lives serene—
Their loves, perchance as sweet as ours—
O, be thy woods for aye more green,
And fairer bloom thy flowers!
It was the fitting close to a memorable day. The “dappled
shadows of the afternoon” rested on hill and valley as one by
one the picturesque figures of those who had that day so
strangely linked the present with the past, left the old council
house, bright colors and feathery plumes mingling with the
autumn foliage and the softly dropping leaves until all had
vanished. The “story of the past” had once for all been told,
but around those ancient, weather-beaten walls, which had
once more welcomed the children of those whom it had
known long ago in the days of its prime, there lingers still
the remembrance of their last council fire—a memory that
cannot be forgotten.AND ITS LAST COUNCIL FIRE.
119
pected blow of a tomahawk, the warrior who had pursued
him picked him up kindly and throwing’a string of beads
about his neck carried him off, a captive. On the long jour-
ney that followed he was kindly treated and finally reached
the Genesee River at Caneadea, where he was told that he
must run the gauntlet with his fellow-prisoners. They
forded the stream and saw before them the old council
house on which a white flag was flying—the goal of safety—
which they must reach through the long parallel lines of
men, women and children armed as usual with tomahawks,
clubs and whips for their exulting and cruel pleasure.
His captor held him back until all the other prisoners had
started, and then giving him a push said to him, “Now run
like the devil/' and he did, by his agility escaping the blows
aimed at him until the council house was nearly reached.
Just then he saw a prisoner directly in front of him struck
down by a savage blow from a tomahawk, and in the extrem-
ity of terror he sprang through an opening in the lines and
flying down a woodland path sought to make his escape. As
he passed a lodge in which two old squaws were sitting, one
of these jumped to her feet and seizing him, dragged him in,
pushed him under a rude bunk or bed and threw some gar-
ments or skins over him. Almost immediately he heard the
voices of his pursuers loudly questioning the women and
hurrying on, misled by their replies. When they had van-
ished the squaws took him from his concealment and hiding
him with their blankets between them, brought him safely to
the council house, where he learned, to his pleased surprise,
that one of them would be his adoptive mother. She had lost
a son in some wild foray and had commissioned one of the
warriors to bring her a white lad whom, she might adopt in
his place. It was her string of beads which had been thrown
about the boy's neck when he had been captured, and by it
she had recognized him as he fled past her door. He was
treated kindly and lived many years among the Senecas, be-
coming much attached to them and to their rude life. They
made him their interpreter and he was able to render many
acts of kindness to other white captives less fortunate than
himself.