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 loyal 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 accept the title of Chief and visit their reserve to
give them the opportunity of conferring?
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 these 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, Onwanonsyshon, 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 prince and an Indian chief, riding amicably side by side,
enjoying a banquet of grapes like two school-boys.
On reaching the church, Arthur leapt lightly to the greensward.
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 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 men 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.
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 to-day.
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."