lization, was growing up and occupying a space for
a village, where thousands were supported, that would
not have furnished room and verge enough for a
dozen aboriginal hunters, according to their notions
of life. But, if such men as Mr. Eddy

had been in
the Council for Indian affairs, the tribes would have
faded away, if that is their fate—and who can doubt
it?—with less suffering and less repining than is now
witnessed. His hospitable mansion was a wigwam
to the travelling Indian, where he drank when thirsty
and ate when hungry. He sometimes had a dozen
Indians, men, women, and children, in the house at
once. Among his Indian acquaintance, was the fa-
mous Red Jacket, of the Seneca tribe. This chief
was a warrior and orator of high intellectual powers
and commanding mien. His head was the admira-
tion of the phrenologist, and his rifle was as un-
erring as death. This man exhibited all that was
noble in the savage; he was brave, sagacious, and
patriotic, but he yielded to the weakness of intem-
perance, and showed the worst as well as the best
qualities of their fallen nature. His tribe once de-
posed him from power as a chief, for his imprudence;
but he had energy of character enough to redeem
himself, and regain his power in his tribe—a singu-
lar occurrence in savage or civil life. To Mr. Eddy,
Red Jacket was a study, and so was Eddy to Red
Jacket, for he, too, with all his fierceness, was a phi-
lanthropist and a philosopher. Since Mr. Eddy's death,
the state of the Indians has excited much feeling in the
community, but the time is rapidly approaching, when
this subject will only be a bygone tale. In New Eng-
land, there are a few remnants of several once power-
ful tribes, but they are mixed with the Africans, and
have no importance in the community. Though some
of their ancient territories are, in some instances, ap-
propriated to their use, and the States act as guardians,
in order that these shall not be taken from them. In
New York, the Six Nations, once so powerful, are now