And underneath that face, like summer's ocean's— Its lip as moveless, and its cheek as clear,— Slumbers a whirlwind of the heart's emotions, Love, hatred, pride, hope, sorrow—all, save fear.
Love—for thy land, as if she were thy daughter; Her pipes in peace, her tomahawk in wars; Hatred—of missionaries and cold water; Pride—in thy rifle-trophies and thy scars;
Hope—that thy wrongs will be by the Great Spirit Remembered and revenged, when thou art gone; Sorrow—that none are left thee to inherit Thy name, thy fame, thy passions, and thy throne.
In the last of these stanzas is an allusion to the melancholy domestic circumstances of the subject of them. He had been the father of thirteen children, during his life-time, and had buried them all.
Red-Jacket is said to have understood English quite well, although he would never converse in it. We have often heard it from a gentleman well acquainted with him, that he once met him hastening out of Buffalo when all the neighboring country was eagerly rushing in to witness the execution of three culprits; and that the Chieftain recognized him, and made him understand by signs, that he was hurrying away from the horrid spectacle which so many thousand had already assembled to enjoy. Levasseur states, that, in his conference with Lafayette, he evidently comprehended every thing uttered in his presence, while he would speak only Indian; and that his former high opinion of the General seemed to be much increased by a few chance-medley Seneca words, which the latter had the good fortune to remember, and the courtesy to repeat. We also have been informed that, many years since, when the notorious Jemima Wilkinson compassed the country in the business of making proselytes to her doctrines, she invited some of the Senecas to a conference. Red-Jacket attended, and listened patiently to the end of a long address. Most of it he probably understood, but instead of replying to the argument in detail, he laid the axe at the root of her authority. Having risen very gravely, and spoken a few words in Seneca, he observed his adversary to enquire what he was talking about? "Ha!"—he exclaimed, with an arch look,—"She inspired,—she Jesus Christ,—and not know Indian?" The solidity of her pretensions was at once decided in the minds of at least the heathen part of her audience.
At the date of his last-mentioned visit to the Atlantic cities, the Chieftain was more than seventy years of age, and though then habitually temperate, excess had already hastened the work of time. He died in January, 1830, at the Seneca village, near Buffalo, where his funeral took place on the 21st of the month. It was attended by all parties of his own tribe, and by many Americans, drawn together by a curiosity to witness the obsequies. His body was removed from his cabin into the mission-house, where religious services were performed. In these the Pagans took but little interest. Wrapped in profound and solemn thought, they however patiently awaited their termination. Some of them then arose, and successively addressed their countrymen in their own language. They recounted the exploits and the virtues of him whose remains they were now about to bear to his last home. They remembered his own prophetic appeal—"Who shall take my place among my people?" They thought of the ancient glory of their nation, and they looked around them on its miserable remnant. The impression was irresistible. Tears trickled down the cheeks of the grave comrades of the dead.
Well might they weep! He that lay before them was indeed the "Last of the Senecas." The strong warrior's arm was mouldering into dust, and the eye of the orator was cold and motionless forever.