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Cornell University Library 1993.THE BRAVES’ REST;
OR,
THE OLD SENECA MISSION CEMETERY.
COMMUNICATED TO THE SOCIETY.
BY WILLIAM C. BRYANT.
There are few sights more saddening, more humbling to hu-
man pride, than one of those neglected graveyards occasionally
found in the suburbs of our American cities. It is usually a
wild, unkempt field, dotted with sunken graves—graves hidden
in a riotous growth of weeds, tangled vines and briers—graves
marked by stained and fractured slabs of marble rudely sculp-
tured, and either prostrate or tottering to their fall—graves
tramped and defiled by grazing cattle—graves enclosed by rot-
ting and dilapidated fences—graves which reproach and beseech
us with the mute eloquence of things holy and precious, when
they are fallen into neglect and decay.
The friends of the dead who so long ago were tenderly laid
to rest there, are either themselves dead or have drifted far away;
and among the new and busy generation which has succeeded
them there is found no pious hand to plant flowers or trail vines
about the tombs—no Old Mortality to scrape away the lichens
from the record of the graver’s chisel—no Good Samaritan to
lift into position the fallen slab, or even to replace the broken
picket which shut out the four-footed vandals, and the more
cruel and wanton gamins of the street. The din and roar of82
THE BRA VES' REST.
the great city comes faintly swelling on the ear; but these lowly
sleepers are not more heedless of the life surging through its
streets, than are the living toilers there oblivious of the mem-
ory of the dead pioneers who helped to lay broad and deep its
foundations.
We have had several such neglected graveyards in the sub-
urbs of Buffalo. The expansion of the city has swept some of
them away, but one or two remain; and one, the most venera-
ble and interesting of all, the old Mission burial ground, four^
miles east of Main street. Buffalo was but a hamlet when the
missionaries first planted the banner of the cross on this holy
spot. Near by was the principal village of the Senecas. In
close proximity was the grand council-house, which often re-
sounded to the eloquent tones of Farmers’ Brother and Red
Jacket; the latter of whom long but ineffectually strove to pre-
vent the introduction of Christianity among his people. The
name Buffalo Creek is often used in our earlier annals to desig-
nate the place where important treaties were held and war par-
ties formed in the olden time. But long before the advent of
the white man, and during the period of aboriginal sovereignty,
it was one of the most important points on the continent. An
ancient race called the Kah-Kwahs erected their bark houses'on
the banks of the creek, and hunted the deer through the forests
at this extremity of Lake Erie. Still earlier, a mysterious tribe
called the Eries claimed sovereignty over this territory. Both
of these tribes in turn were exterminated by the fierce and war-
like Iroquois or Six Nations, of which league the Senecas were
the most powerful member. Until a fewT years since a large
mound,* close to the old cemetery, filled with the bones of slain
Kah-Kwahs, remained a monument to the prowess of the Sen-
ecas. But there were other remains still more interesting to
the antiquarian and archaeologist. The old cemetery occupied
the site of one of those ancient circular forts whose origin has
* See Buffalo Cemeteries, ante, p. 64, for reference to a similar mound.THE BRA VES' REST.
83
given rise to so much speculation and controversy. Twenty
years ago the intrenchments were plainly discernible, but the
plow and the spade have now obliterated the last trace of them.
A diagram of this ancient intrenchment can be found in School-
craft’s “ Notes on the Iroquois,” and it is noticed in other kin-
dred works.
Our old settlers, the boys of fifty years agoy preserve a vivid
recollection of what they saw in the old Indian villages scat-
tered along Buffalo creek from the locality of the cemetery to
near the present village of Aurora. Men like Hon. Orlando
Allen can remember when, on the occasion of the arrest of
Tommy Jemmy by the whites, on the charge of murder, the
town swarmed with scowling warriors. They remember how
the Indians gathered on Ellicott Square were aroused to a pitch
of frenzy by the fierce arraignment of the pale-faces by Red
Jacket; how the stoutest hearts began to quail at the thought
of an Indian massacre, and how the noble sachem, Captain
Pollard, scarcely inferior to Red Jacket as an orator, replied
to that chief, and stilled the tumultuous waves of passion by
his eloquence.
The old Indian village was a favorite place of resort to the
truant school boy; and to the good boys likewise who had the
freedom of >a holiday, forty or fifty years ago. It was a rare
treat to behold the mystic sacrifice of the white dog; to see the
dusky maidens and stalwart warriors engaged in the monoto-
nous, but not ungraceful, measures of the strawberry dance; to
behold the mysteries of the green-corn festival and other pagan
ceremonies. We call them “pagan,” but the Senecas wor-
shipped, as we do, the one great and good Spirit, the Creator
and Sovereign of the universe. Not rarely was it the good for-
tune of the boys aforesaid, to be spectators at one of those ex-
citing ball plays between the picked youth of rival tribes, naked
to the waist, plumed and painted, and withal marvelously agile,
expert and graceful. How we admired their proud bearing;
their dark, flashing eyes, gleaming through a mask of paint,THE BRA VES’ REST.
‘ 84
and their lithe, Apollo-like forms. If nothing was going on to
interrupt the lazy current of Indian life, there was still enough
queer and phenomenal about it to interest the pale-faced spec-
tator; to see the squaws pounding samp with the primitive pes-
tle and mortar, or engaged in their rude husbandry; while their
little wind-rocked pappooses swung from the branches of a
tree; to watch the lazy fisherman bending over his bark canoe to
catch a glimpse of bass or pickerel, or the Indian boy scouting
along the edge of the woods, bow and arrow in hand, in quest
of feathered trophies. If it were winter, and a firm crust was
on the snow, one never tired of seeing the Indian youth propel
the snow-snakes. Heads erect, as if in anger, with what amaz-
ing velocity these wooden serpents would glide along; and woe
to the reckless wight whose foot opposed their career; it would
be long ere he was afforded another holiday. And then, O boy
of forty years ago, what strange intimacies we formed; what
queer friendships with our Seneca playmates! How they taught
us to ensnare the birds and squirrels; how they confided to us
the secret hiding place of the furry and feathered denizens of
the woods—where the ripe red strawberry gemmed the mead-
ows, where the blueberries and the luscious Indian plums hung
their sweets. How wfith them we chased and mounted the
saucy, incorrigible little Indian ponies; and—confess it with a
heart throb—how persi tently we essayed to win from the shy,
black eyes of the Seneca girls one look of favor, and how we
loved to listen to their soft, gleeful laughter and the music of
their speech. The admixture of races had developed in some of
these Indian girls the highest type of beauty. There was in the
countenances of these half-caste maidens a painful, wounded,
yet disdainful look, that was very touching, and reminded one
of Powers’ statue of the Greek slave. The Anglo-Saxon in-
tellect, refinement and delicacy asserted themselves, even though
in barbaric bonds.
A grand Indian council was a great event in those days.
When the weather was fair, and in the season of blossoms, theTHE BRA VES’ REST.
85
council fire was frequently lighted in the open air. The paint-
ing by Stanton entitled “The Trial of Red Jacket,” chromo
copies of which can be found in all our art stores, gave a very
good idea of the scenery in the vicinity of the council house.
The artist made a study of the scene, I believe, in his early
days. One of these councils called together the bulk of the
nation. Groups of gaily dressed squaws, of stern and stalwart
warriors, were scattered about the grove with a look of sober
expectancy on their swarthy faces. Subordinate chiefs, in all
the pomp of paint and feathers, flitted about the scene, but
nothing could exceed the air of grandeur, of sublime indiffer-
ence to all mundane affairs, with which the great sachems stalked
through the silent and respectful crowd.
A friend told me that when a boy he attended a council con-
vened to listen to the overtures of the Ogden Land Company,
who sought to purchase the Indian title to this region. Wan-
dering curiously from one picturesque group to another, my in-
formant relates that he came across a noble looking chief, ele-
gantly costumed, but stretched at full length under a wide-
spreading tree. His head rested upon his elbow, and one hand
was employed in separating into two piles a bundle of small
sticks, while his lips moved as if he were rehearsing some part
of a drama. It was Red Jacket recounting the heads of his
great speech. The agent, or spokesman, of the Land Company
was an able, adroit and eloquent man, but his oratory was far
less effective than that of the Indian. “I was struck,” said the
narrator, “with the exordium of each. The white speaker made
no allusion to a Supreme Being or a protecting Providence. The
Indian commenced, withjhis arms outstretched towards heaven,
thanking the Great Spirit for sparing their lives, and surround-
ing them with so many mercies. Then, turning to the agent of
the land speculator with a look of withering scorn, and in tones
deep and measured, he said:	‘I told you six years ago never
to ask the Senecas to bargain away their country while Red
Jacket lived, and?Red Jacket stands before you! ’ ”86
THE BRA VES' REST.
Then there was the little mission church. It was a treat to
go there on a Sunday and hear the gospel as it is in English,
transmuted into the language of the woods; to hear the bird-like
voices of the young choir, and to witness the devout air of fhe
little crowd of worshippers. The interpreter was a white cap-
tive taken somewhere in Pennsylvania during the Revolutionary
war when he was a little child. His little sister managed to es-
cape, but all the family save himself and her, fell victims to the
tomahawk. He was adopted into an Indian family and kept
in ignorance of his origin until he had arrived at manhood.
Then an irresistible impulse urged him to revisit the scenes of
his childhood, and look upon the face of his long-lost sister.
With such information as the Indians could impart he set out
on foot on his long journey through the wilderness, which
stretched from Buffalo creek to the Pennsylvania settlements.
He found his sister at last, the mistress of a beautiful home,
surrounded by her children. He watched her movements and
listened to her tones with a yearning heart, while the bread she
gave the famished wanderer almost choked him. Then, with-
out disclosing his identity, and with a heavy heart, he retraced
his steps to the home of his adopted people. His sister lived
and was happy; he would not reveal to her the sad fate of
her brother, whom her fancy pictured as an angel in heaven,
rather than as a barbarian of the woods.
We were always sure to meet among the little throng of rev-
erent worshippers such men as Seneca White, Deacon Two-
Guns, Captain Pollard and Young King. Pollard was a tall,
benevolent-looking old man, with features and complexion ap-
proaching the type of Southern Europe. He was a man liter-
ally “ without guile.” Who that ever heard him pray and ex-
hort in that little chapel, and witnessed his gentle, blameless
life, could believe that he was a fierce warrior in Revolutionary
days, and one of the leaders in the massacre of Wyoming!
Young King was a very Goliath in bulk and stature; his face
seamed with scars, the rim of his ears slit with a knife and pen-THE BRA VES’ REST.
87
dent to liis shoulders, one arm gone and the other crippled, and
yet as noble looking as a dethroned and battered Colossus. Red
Jacket was never seen in church until the missionaries brought
his dead body there. Chief Stevenson was always there. I can
see him now—his long, dark, waving hair sweeping to his
shoulders—his pensive and Raphael-like face. Stevenson was
a half-breed, his mother a Seneca princess, his father a colonial
military officer. When the Senecas decided to cast their for-
tunes with the British, a.t the opening of the Revolutionary war,
his. mother was constrained by her fierce and jealous relatives
to abandon the hated offspring in the Woods, near Cayuga Lake;
and the agonized parent, with the rest of her family, was hur-
ried to the British post, Fort Niagara. Her poor babe, but
little more than three years old, wandered for two days in the
woods, subsisting on such wild berries as chance threw in his
way. When almost famished, a kind Providence directed the
poor child’s steps to a rude hut on the banks of the lake, which
was the home of an Indian recluse—a Penobscot hunter who
had wandered far from the home of his tribe in the wilds of
Maine. This kind old man took the child into his cabin, fed
and nourished him, taught him to fish and hunt, and treated
him with fatherly kindness. When the long and dreary war
was over, the babe, grown to be a handsome stripling, took an
affectionate leave of his adopted father, and wandered back to
Buffalo creek, where he was soon clasped in the arms of his de-
lighted and weeping mother.
We have almost forgotten the existence of our old neighbors
—our predecessors in the proprietorship of this beautiful re-
gion—and what we owe them. We have forgotten that when
the tocsin of war rang out along this frontier, Farmer’s Brother,
Young King, Little Billy and their warriors volunteered their
services to their white brothers, and fought bravely in several
hotly-contested battles. The British set the example of em-
ploying savage warriors, and the atrocities of the River Raisin
and Fort Miami are an indelible stain on the British arms.88
THE BRA VES' REST.
We can scarcely realize to-day the horror and fear inspired by
these ruthless allies of King George. Our Senecas met these
savages at Chippewa, and so effectually chastised them that
they could never again in any considerable numbers be per-
suaded to take the war-path against the Yankees. To the glory
of our Senecas, be it said, they took no scalps, mangled or
killed no wounded prisoner, and conducted themselves with as
much moderation and humanity as their blue-coated allies.
Even Red Jacket, never renowned as a warrior, freely exposed
his life, and fought bravely on this occasion.
Yes, let us forget the Senecas. The renin ants of them which
survive are no longer our neighbors. All are gone. How we
robbed them of their Reservation—let us forget that, too, if
we can. The Quakers, and occasionally some historian, will
let out the dreadful secret, but the masses care little for the
red man or his wrongs. The Indian stands no longer in the
path of progress. The great city, year by year, expands and
reclaims a portion of his hunting grounds. Soon the sites of
the old council house and mission, the homes of Red Jacket,
the captive Mary Jemison, Pollard and Young King, will be
covered by busy manufactories or marts of traffic. Where the
“Cicero of the wilds” declaimed to a grave and dignified con-
course of blanketed sachems and warriors,. ward politicians
will discuss, over foaming mugs of lager, schemes of plunder,
or devise new ways to thwart the popular will; and the city
will grow; men Will wax rich and die, and be forgotten; law
and philanthropy will grapple, as if in a death struggle, with
the irrepressible forces of vice and squalor and crime, and
some cynic will by and by wonder if, after all, the children of
the woods were not as wise and happy as we.
The old mission church, for years degraded to the office of a
barn, has at last been torn down. Near by was the dwelling
of the captive, Mary Jemison, and within sight was Red Jacket’s
cabin. Both have long since disappeared. A few logs and a
heap of stones mark the locality of the old council house.
/THE BRA VES’ REST.
89
The old Hebrew cemetery at Newport was deemed a fitting
theme for Longfellow’s muse; but the old Mission burial ground
of Buffalo is voiceful of greater pathos and a more thrilling
story. It is connected with the history of a wronged and nearly
extinct race. It is the only memorial of their presence which
the ancient lords of the soil have left us. There in their dream-
less slumber repose the stern warriors of the wilderness—a long
line of forest chieftains, braves and sages. There sleep in their
forgotten graves, and side by side with their dusky neophytes,
the patient and self-denying missionaries and their families.
There lies the faithful warrior who guided the youthful Wash-
ington on his mission to Fort Du Quesne; and there, too, re-
poses many a captive, the narrative of whose life surpasses the
wildest dream of romance. When the proud heart of Red
Jacket was stilled in death,—when the far-famed captive, the
“ White Woman,” died with the prayer her murdered mother
taught her in infancy on her aged lips, this holy ground received
them into its bosom. Every foot of its surface has been watered
with tears wrung from hearts that were breaking. Let us spare
this ancient graveyard. It has been consecrated by the prayers
of many whose lives were saintly and beautiful/ and who now
wear the white robes and the crown of glory. It belongs to a
romantic era, tearful with the pathos of the retiring red men,
and shining with the heroism of advancing pioneers. Oh, Mr.
Stettenbenz! Oh, Mr. Mahoney!* whichever, Teuton or Celt,
the unsympathetic and blind goddess decrees to be the lord of
our public grounds, be merciful and be pleased to spare this
ancient and historic burial-ground!
“ But ah! what once has been shall be no more;
The groaning earth in travail and in pain
Brings forth its races, but does not restore,
And the dead nations never rise again.”
*This sketch was written some years ago, during the pendency of a law suit which was
to determine the rival claims of Mr. Stettenbenz and Mr. Mahoney to the office of street
superintendent.	W. C. B.