| HOW
many Canadians are aware that in Prince Arthur, Duke
of Connaught, and only surviving son of Queen Victoria,
who has been appointed to represent King George V in
Canada, they undoubtedly have what many wish for—one
bearing an ancient Canadian title as Governor-General
of all the Dominion? It would be difficult to find a
man more Canadian than any one of the fifty chiefs who
compose the parliament of the ancient Iroquois nation,
that royal race of Redskins that has fought for the
British crown against all of the enemies thereof, adhering
to the British flag through the wars against both the
French and the colonists.
Arthur
Duke of Connaught is the only living white man who to-day
has an undisputed right to the title of “Chief
of the Six Nations Indians” (known collectively
as the Iroquois). He possesses the privilege of sitting
in their councils, of casting his vote on all matters
relative to the governing of the tribes, the disposal
of reservation lands, the appropriation of both the
principal and interest of the more than half a million
dollars these tribes hold in Government bonds at Ottawa,
accumulated from the sales of their lands. In short,
were every drop of blood in his royal veins red, instead
of blue, he could not be more fully qualified as an
Indian chief than he now is, not even were his title
one of the fifty hereditary ones whose illustrious names
composed the Iroquois confederacy before the Paleface
ever set foot in America.
It was on the occasion of his
first visit to Canada in 1869, when he was little more
than a boy, that Prince Arthur received, upon his arrival
at Quebec, an address of welcome from his royal mother’s
“Indian Children” on the Grand River Reserve,
in Brant county, Ontario. In addition to this welcome
they had a request to make of him: would he [Page
85] accept the title of Chief and visit their
reserve to give them the opportunity of conferring it?
One of the great secrets of
England’s success with savage races has been her
consideration, her respect, her almost reverence of
native customs, ceremonies and potentates. She wishes
her own customs and kings to be honored, so she freely
accords like honor to her subjects, it matters not whether
they be white, black or red.
Young Arthur was delighted—royal
lads are pretty much like all other boys; the unique
ceremony would be a break in the endless round of state
receptions, banquets and addresses. So he accepted the
Red Indians’ compliment, knowing well that it
was the loftiest honor those people could confer upon
a white man.
It was the morning of October
first when the royal train steamed into the little city
of Brantford, where carriages awaited to take the Prince
and his suite to the “Old Mohawk Church,”
in the vicinity of which the ceremony was to take place.
As the Prince’s especial escort, Onwanonshyshon,
head chief of the Mohawks, rode on a jet-black pony
beside the carriage. The chief was garmented in full
native costume—a buckskin suit, beaded moccasins,
headband of owl’s and eagle’s feathers,
and ornaments hammered from coin silver that literally
covered his coat and leggings. About his shoulders was
flung a scarlet blanket, consisting of the identical
broadcloth from which the British army tunics are made;
this he “hunched” with his shoulders from
time to time in true Indian fashion. As they drove along,
the Prince chatted boyishly with his Mohawk escort,
and once leaned forward to pat the black pony on its
shining neck and speak admiringly of it. It was a warm
autumn day: the roads were dry and dusty, and, after
a mile or so, the boy-prince brought from beneath the
carriage seat a basket of grapes. With his handkerchief
he flicked the dust from them, handed a bunch to the
chief, and took one himself. An odd spectacle to be
traversing a country road: an English [Page
86] prince and an Indian chief, riding amicably
side-by-side, enjoying a banquet of grapes like two
schoolboys.
On reaching the church, Arthur
leapt lightly to the green sward. For a moment he stood,
rigid, gazing before him at his future brother-chiefs.
His escort had given him a faint idea of what he was
to see, but he certainly never expected to be completely
surrounded by three hundred full-blooded Iroquois braves
and warriors, such as now encircled him on every side.
Every Indian was in war paint and feathers, some stripped
to the waist, their copper-colored skins brilliant with
paints, dyes and “patterns”; all carried
tomahawks, scalping-knives, and bows and arrows. Every
red throat gave a tremendous war-whoop as he alighted,
which was repeated again and again, as for that half
moment he stood silent, a slim boyish figure, clad in
light grey tweeds—a singular contrast to the stalwarts
in gorgeous costumes who crowded about him. His young
face paled to ashy whiteness, then with true British
grit he extended his right hand and raised his black
“billy-cock” hat with his left. At the same
time he took one step forward. Then the war cries broke
forth anew, deafening, savage, terrible cries, as one
by one the entire three hundred filed past, the Prince
shaking hands with each one, and removing his glove
to do so. This strange reception over, Onwanonsyshon
rode up, and, flinging his scarlet blanket on the grass,
dismounted, and asked the prince to stand on it.
Then stepped forward an ancient
chief, father of Onwanonsyshon, and Speaker of the Council.
He was old in inherited and personal loyalty to the
British crown. He had fought under Sir Isaac Brock at
Queenston Heights in 1812, while yet a mere boy, and
upon him was laid the honor of making his Queen’s
son a chief. Taking Arthur by the hand this venerable
warrior walked slowly to and fro across the blanket,
chanting as he went the strange, wild formula of induction.
From time to time he was interrupted by loud expressions
of approval and assent from the vast throng of [Page
87] encircling braves, but apart from this
no sound was heard but the low, weird monotone of a
ritual older than the white man’s foot-prints
in North America.
It is necessary that a chief
of each of the three “clans” of the Mohawks
shall assist in this ceremony. The veteran chief, who
sang the formula, was of the Bear clan. His son, Onwanonsyshon,
was of the Wolf (the clanship descends through the mother’s
side of the family). Then one other chief, of the Turtle
clan, and in whose veins coursed the blood of the historic
Brant, now stepped to the edge of the scarlet blanket.
The chant ended, these two young chiefs received the
Prince into the Mohawk tribe, conferring upon him the
name of “Kavakoudge,” which means “the
sun flying from East to West under the guidance of the
Great Spirit.”
Onwanonsyshon then took from
his waist a brilliant deep-red sash, heavily embroidered
with beads, porcupine quills and dyed moose hair, placing
it over the Prince’s left shoulder and knotting
it beneath his right arm. The ceremony was ended. The
Constitution that Hiawatha had founded centuries ago,
a Constitution wherein fifty chiefs, no more, no less,
should form the parliament of the “Six Nations,”
had been shattered and broken, because this race of
loyal red man desired to do honor to a slender young
boy-prince, who now bears the fifty-first title of the
Iroquois.
Many white men have received
from these same people honorary titles, but none has
been bestowed through the ancient ritual, with the imperative
members of the three clans assisting, save that borne
by Arthur of Connaught.
After the ceremony the Prince
entered the church to autograph his name in the ancient
bible, which, with a silver Holy Communion service,
a bell, two tablets inscribed with the Ten Commandments,
and a bronze British coat-of-arms, had been presented
to the Mohawks by Queen Anne. He inscribed “Arthur”
just below the “Albert Edward,” which, as
Prince of Wales, the late king wrote when he visited
Canada in 1860. [Page 88]
When he returned to England,
Chief Kavakoudge sent his portrait, together with one
of Queen Victoria and the Prince Consort, to be placed
in the Council House of the “Six Nations,”
where they decorate the walls today.
As I write, I glance up to see,
in a corner of my room, a draping scarlet blanket, made
of British army broadcloth, for the chief who rode the
jet-black pony so long ago was the writer’s father.
He was not here to wear it when Arthur of Connaught
again set foot on Canadian shores.
Many of these facts I have culled
from a paper that lies on my desk; it is yellowing with
age, and bears the date, “Toronto, October 2,
1869,” and on the margin is written in a clear,
half-boyish hand, “Onwanonsyshon, with kind regards
from your brother-chief, Arthur.” [Page
89]
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