In a council which was held with the Senecas by General Tompkins, of New York, a discussion arose concerning some point in a treaty made several years before. The agent stated one thing, and the Indian Chief another, insisting that he was correct. He was answered that it was written on paper, and must be so.
“The paper then tells a lie,” said the orator, “for I have it written here (placing his hand upon his brow). You Yankees are born with a feather between your fingers, but your paper does not speak the truth. The Indian keeps his knowledge here; this is the book the Great Spirit has given him, and it does not lie.”
On consulting the documents more particularly, it was found that the Indian record was, indeed, the most correct! [[188]]
Although fond of good things, Red Jacket had a great contempt for the sensualist. When speaking of an Indian, whose name was Hot bread, and who was known to be indolent and gluttonous, he exclaimed, “Waugh! big man here (laying his hand upon his abdomen), but very small man here,” bringing the palm of his hand with significant emphasis across his forehead.
That he shrank from spectacles of human suffering, may have been the reason of his aversion to the war-path. He did not like to look on blood.
At one time, when three young men were to suffer death by hanging, and multitudes were rushing towards the spot, he was met hurrying in an opposite direction. When asked why he did not go to witness the execution, he answered, “Fools enough there already; the battle-field is the place to see men die.” One would certainly think, to witness the throngs which crowd around the gallows, that neither Christian nor human feeling filled the breasts of civilized beings.
The efforts were for a long time fruitless to induce Red Jacket to sit for his portrait. “When Red Jacket dies,” he would say, “all that belongs to him shall die too.” But at length, an appeal to his vanity availed, and on being assured that his picture was wanted to hang with those of Washington and Jefferson, and other great men in the National Galleries, he consented; and having once broken his resolution, no longer resisted, and was painted by several artists. The one by Weir is considered best, and was taken during a visit of the Chief to New York, in 1828, at the request of Dr. Francis. He dressed himself with great care in the costume he thought the most becoming and appropriate, decorated with his brilliant war-dress, his tomahawk, and Washington medal. He then seated himself in a large arm-chair [[189]]while around him groups of Indians were reclining upon the floor. He was more than seventy years of age at the time, but tall, erect and firm, though with many of the traces of time and dissipation upon his form and countenance. He manifested great pleasure as the outlines of the picture were filled up, and especially when his favorite medal came out in full relief; and when the picture was finished, started to his feet and clasped the hand of the artist, exclaiming, “Good! good!”
One who knew him remarks, “That his characteristics are preserved to admiration, and his majestic front exhibits an altitude surpassing every other I have ever seen of the human skull.”
His early youth was spent in the beautiful valley of the Genesee; there were his favorite hunting-grounds, and there his memory loved to linger. During the strife of wars, and the more bitter strife of treaties, he had indulged very little in his favorite pastime; and when a day of comparative quiet came, he, in company with a friend, took his gun and went forth, in hopes to find a deer for the sport of his rifle. They had gone but a little distance, when a clearing opened before them. With a contemptuous sneer, the old man turned aside and wandered in another direction. In a little while he came to another, and looking over a fence, he saw a white man holding a plough, which was turning up the earth in dark furrows over a large field. Again he turned sadly away, and plunged deeper in the forest, but soon another open field presented itself; and though he had been all his life oppressed with the woes of his people, he now for the first time sat down and wept. There was no longer any hope,—they had wasted away.
Red Jacket was decidedly aristocratic, and disposed to stand upon his dignity. No person who knew him [[190]]would venture upon familiarity with him, and he did not like to have his children mingle freely with all whom they might meet in the streets. But he never considered the manners and habits of living among white people as worthy of imitation; and after chairs and tables were introduced by his wife into his own dwelling, he scorned to use them, and took his meals, as in the olden time, sitting on the floor, or a rude bench, cushioned with deer-skin. Yet he would not eat alone. Though he talked very little, he liked to be surrounded by his family. His second wife was his favorite, and he treated her with the most affectionate kindness, except in leaving free her religion; and then he scarcely reproached her—only saying that in embracing it, she was countenancing the wrongs committed upon her people, which he could not, and if she persisted he should leave her; and knowing her affection for him, he probably thought she would not hesitate between her husband and Christianity. When he found she would not renounce her new faith, he departed and lived several months at Tonnewanda. His enmity was evidently entirely political. He understood nothing of the real nature of Christianity, and was not willing to learn any thing concerning it from those who had been guilty of the grievous wrongs the red man had suffered, whenever those calling themselves Christians had come among them.