USA > New York > Livingston County > History of Livingston County, New York, from its earliest traditions to the present together with early town sketches > Part 55
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"From the west end of the bridge the descent into the glen is made by the aid of flights of rustic steps and a steep path through thick woods of beech, maple and hemlock, leading to the margin of the stream. Half way down, and crossed by a foot-bridge, a little brook, christened by the valley folk De-ge-wa-nus-an Indian name of note along the Genesee-dashes headlong from the mysterious green dark- ness of the upper forest, and commits suicide at the cliff of the river's bank. On the way, too, fine views are afforded of the upper fall of the Genesee, which has hewn its way backward through the rock almost to the foundations of the great bridge. As we emerge from the wood the river grows quiet again among its stones, and the valley widens into tranquil pasture lands. Looking across to the easterly side of the river, the line of the Genesee Valley canal is seen, drawn tightly around the contour of the hills and half way to their summit. The ugly gash cut to form this highland water-way long since became a chronic sore on the body politic of the State of New York, by which its treasury has been depleted to a wasteful extent.
"Ascending the slope toward the farther end of the valley, we come in sight of the second, or middle, fall, a full, rounded shoulder and flounced skirt of rock, over which the water is flung in a single broad shawl of snow-white lace, more exquisite of pattern than ever artist of Brussels or Valenciennes dared to dream. On a green tableland almost directly above this fall is the dwelling of the valley's good genius, a rustic paradise embowered in foliage of tree and vine, and islanded in wavy spaces of softest lawn. Here art has aided nature to plant a true 'garden of tranquil delights.' Each group of trees becomes the cunning frame of an enchanting picture or beautiful vignette. The hills, sentineled at their summits by lofty pines, are walls which shut the world out, while across the upper and the visible approach to the glen, the bridge stretches like a vast portal reared by
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Titans. It is the Happy Valley of fable realized, and the lulling sound of the near cataract gives fitting voice to its perfect seclusion and repose.
"I have spoken of the deep and winding canon into which the Gen- esee rushes, below Glen Iris and the middle fall. Following its on- ward course, the tourist makes his way cautiously along the dizzy brink of the westerly wall of the gulf. Higher and higher, as he progresses, towers the perpendicular rampart on which he treads, until, soon, it is from a sheer height of about four hundred feet that he leans, shuddering, to descry the river in its rocky inferno, and hearken to its voice softened by distance to a rustling whisper. About a mile from the middle fall the gulf partially relaxes its hold upon the brawling prisoner, and the visitor may make his way down a steep and thickly wooded bank to what are called the lower falls of the Genesee. Here, in the midst of a wilderness still virgin and primeval, the waters shoot furiously down a narrow rock-hewn flume, their descent being nearly one hundred feet, and the width of the torrent at some points scarcely more than the compass of a good running jump. From the sombre chasm in which the cataract termi- nates, the canon once more draws the river and repeats on a still more magnificent scale the scenery at which I have hinted above. A walk of four or five miles down the river from the lower fall, and along the westerly battlement of the canon, brings us to a sudden opening and retrocession of the rocky walls, and here, a fertile ex- panse of bottom land extending from the river to the hills, are the Gardeau Flats, the ancient home of the White Woman. Nearly eighteen thousand acres of this and the scarcely less rich soil of the plateau above it were hers, the free gift of the Seneca nation to their once helpless girl captive."
We cannot forbear to set down Mr. Letchworth's brief account of his purchase of Glen Iris and the inspiration which prompted him to enhance the charm of nature's handiwork in this portion of the Genesee :
"Previous to my making a purchase of a few hundred acres of land in the immediate vicinity of the middle falls I had been impressed with the beauty of the scenery on the Genesce river in the neighbor- hood of Portage. When I first saw that portion of it between Portage bridge and the lower falls I decided at once to secure, if possible, a
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site for a residence here, and as my eye took in a beautiful rainbow arched above the falls, the name of Glen Iris suggested itself to my mind. The lumberman's axe had inade sad havoc in the surrounding forests, and the scene, with its saw mill perched on a cliff beside the middle falls, and the logs, lumber and rubbish that everywhere met the eye, made the locality seem quite forlorn. After securing title to the property in 1859 I began making improvements, directing my efforts to assisting nature in assuming her ancient reign. To shield places denuded of forest verdure I planted many trees and vines, and endeavored to develop on natural lines whatever was attractive in the landscape. Finding it necessary to protect the scenery about me, I purchased from time to time tracts adjoining my own at high prices, until finally my purchase swelled the aggregate number of acres in the Glen Iris estate to about one thousand, and included the upper, middle and lower falls of the upper Genesee.
"From the outset I set about improving the public highways, and making private roads and woodland paths along the cliffs, with stair- ways leading to heretofore inaccessible places, for the benefit of lovers of nature. Notwithstanding the many rocks and cliffs which came into my possession, my purchase included some good farming lands. It soon became evident that my property here could be made of great benefit to mankind, and I have aimed to so improve it as to render it available for future benevolent purposes. It has seemed to me that the place being at the point of an angle about equi-distant from the large and growing cities of Buffalo and Rochester, it could be made a great health resort, especially for invalid children, who might be ben- efited by the pure air and natural delights of this elevated region. The possibility of this has afforded me great satisfaction in develop- ing this project, and has more than compensated me for the large sums I have expended."
Having thus pictured the scene of the old council house, we will further borrow from Mr. Howland a description of what occurred within its walls on an October day in 1872, when the last council fire was lighted :
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
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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 suit- able 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 costumes 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 decorons attention as one after another their orators addressed them. No sight could be more picturesque than was that combination of bright colors and nodding plumes, the drifting smoke of the council fire, and, most of all, the strong faces of the score or more of coun- cillors, the appointed representatives of their people, to speak for them that day.
They had been wisely chosen, for they were the grandchildren of renowned men and alnost 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 personality 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, "Teka-re-ho-ge-a," the grandson of the famous Mohawk chief, Captain Brant, whose youngest daughter, Elizabeth, had married Colonel Walter Butler Kerr, a
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Group of Notables In attendance at the Last Council of the Genesee. Reading Irom left to right, James Shongo, son of Colonel Shongo, principal Chief of Caneadea; George Jones, a noted warrior ; William Blacksnake, grandson of the celebrated chief Governor Black- snake; Kate Osborn, granddaughter of Capt. Brant ; W. J. Simcoe Kerr, grandson of Capt. Brant and great grandson of Sir Wm. Johnson ; Nicholson H. Parker, brother of General Parker and a descendant of Red Jacket ; Solomon Obail, son of Major O'Bail and grandson of Cornplanler ; John Jacket, grandson of Red Jacket; Thomas Jemison, grandson of Mary Jemison.
1
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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 pre- sented 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 had 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 Senecas 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 in 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 Mohawk 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 Senecas 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, fol- lowing 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 expectation, and then the opening speech was made by Nicholson H. Parker, "Ga-yeh-
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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 bright colors, he wore an ample shoulder scarf that was also richly embroidered. IIis 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 gutteral and yet with a music of its own. capable of much inflection and by no means monotonous. Its sentences seemed short and their utterance slow and measured, with many evidences of the earnest feeling aroused by the unwonted occasion and its associations with the past, and as each speaker in turn touched some responsive chord in the breasts of his hearers, they responded with that deep gutteral ejaculation of approval which cannot be written in any syllable of English phrasing.
Many of the orators spoke at great length, and it is unfortunate 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 speakers themselves; they are, however, but brief epitomes of their full orations. Such was the case, for example, in the opening speech of Nicholson Parker, who thus ad- dressed the council:
"Brothers: I will first say a few words. We have come as repre- sentatives 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 in its hearth, that we may find per- chance 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
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smoke is curling upward and the memories of the past are en- wreathed 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 king- dom 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 territory, 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 big 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 pre- siding 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 common habit of their life and speech, the Indian shows a respect and rever- ence 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
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orator rose quietly in his place and with gentle manner and low speech and with occasional graceful gesticulations that pointed his state- ments, sometimes holding his tomahawk pipe in his hand and using it to excellent effect in his gestures (for Nature made the red man an orator), 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 utterance.
That great orator of the Senecas, Red Jacket, "Sa-go-ye-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 speakers. 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 philippic against those who accused his people of supersti- tion. "What!" said he, "do you denounce us as fools and bigots because we still believe that which you yourselves believed two cen- turies ago? Your blackcoats 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 unfortun- ate 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 executed 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 note-
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worthy 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 "Doctor" James Shongo, "Ha-go-go-ant," from the Allegheny reservation, a stalwart man of fifty-three years, was the youngest son among her daughter Polly's five children. His father, George Shongo, was the son of that "Col- onel" 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 believed 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 Gardeau 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 remember 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.
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"The last speaker spoke of the former power of our people. They used to live in long bark houses, divided into different 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 Mohawks to guard the eastern door against the approach of enemies, and the Sen- ecas were to guard the west. The principal 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 Tusca- roras, knocked at the door of the Long House and we gave them shel- ter. 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 pain- ful 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 grand- father, "Tall Chief," lived at Murray Hill near Mt. Morris, and was well known to the early pioneers. He is remembered as a wise coun- cillor 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 thirteen at the capture of Fort Duquesne, which he remem- bered well. With others who were also present were Maris B. Pierce,
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"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 announce- ment; 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.
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