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REVIEW.-The Amulet.


by Edw. Atherstone; some pretty things by Mrs. Hemans; several good poems by T. K. Hervey and Kennedy; and two very exquisitely poetical and simple Scottish pieces by William Motherwell: they are entitled "Wearies Well" and the wooing song of "Jarl Egill Skallagrin." The former we shall transplant into our poetical corner. The prose pieces and tales are also of a very superior description; and we were particularly pleased with the glowing powers of the editor's lady, whose tells to the heart what her own tender feelings conceive. The "Rose of Fennock Dale" is one of those too numerous instances of the


effects of pride in the female heart which lays them open to conquest, and that devotion which even a sense of the bitterest wrongs cannot lessen or repress. We wish we had room to extract it :-it is so creditable to the fair author's feelings and her talents. But we must make room for Dr. Walsh's highly important paper on the Canadian Indians. Setting aside his assertion that the Canadas are the most favorable of all places for emigration, which we really believe, and that emigration is the only remedy against the ill effects of a temperate way of living! we have a most interesting description of the manners, habits, feelings, and languages of the aboriginal Americans the Red Men-or, as they are erroneously called, Indians. We shall make one or two extracts which will convey a favourable idea of the general interest of the communication, commencing with the initiation of a young warrior into the Society or College of Magicians.

"The ceremony is conducted with a deal of mystery, and none but distinguished chiefs admitted to be spectators. By special favour, I was allowed to stand in the circle. The aspirant had been severely disciplined, in a state of probation, for some time before. There was a small arched hut constructed, very close, and barely high enough for him to sit up. A dog having been previously sacrificed, the bones were scraped, and wrapped up in its skin. The aspirant was placed, sitting, at the little door; he was entirely naked; his body oiled, and painted in stripes of black, white, and red, and his head decorated with porcupine quills, and powdered with swansdown. All being now ready, the most extraordinary figure that was ever seen among the demons of the theatre, strode out of his wigwam. He was a Miamee chief, gaunt and big-boned, and


upwards of six feet high. His face was terrific. Projecting brows overhung a pair of keen, small, black eyes; the nose large, prominent, and angular; visage lengthy; chin square and long, with a bushy beard; and a mouth which appeared to extend from ear to ear. A white line divided his features; one side was painted black, the other red. His head-dress was made of the shaggy skin of a buffalo's forehead, with the ears and horns on. A buffalo robe hung

on his broad shoulders; the inside of which was wrought in figures of sun, moon, and stars, and other hieroglyphics. The OkamaPaw-waw, or chief worker of miracles, now addressed the young aspirant, in a short speech, uttered with a deep intonation, as from the bottom of his breast. He then

flung a small pebble at him, with some force. The Indian, the instant he was hit, fell back, and appeared to be in a swoon. Two assistants, with hooded skins over their heads, thrust him head foremost, in this state of insensibility, into the hut, which had previously been heated with hot stones, upon which water was thrown, to raise a vapour. While this was performing, the grand Paw-waw threw himself on the ground, muttering words, as if he was talking to somebody; rolling himself from side to side, and working like one in strong convulsions. In this state he was dragged into his wigwam, and left there to dream. In about half an hour he sallied forth, and made a sign; upon which the assistants drew out by the heels the miserable candidate from his oven.

He was bathed in a

clammy sweat, and had the appearance of having actually expired, evincing no perceptible respiration or pulse. The great Pawwaw, no ways disconcerted, stooped over him, and uttered aloud his incantations. The two assistants sat on either side, each with a skin pouch, in which was some ignited substance, the smoke of which they puffed into his ears. In a few minutes, he fetched a deep sigh, and opened his eyes. The High Priest then put a calabash, in which was some liquor, to his mouth; after which he soon recovered. The spectators then testified the strongest signs of approbation, crying altogether, hu! hu!“hu? hogh! hogh!"

The Calumet Dance, or Dance of Peace.

"A circle of warriors, highly dressed and decorated, surround a central fire; behind them is a circle of women. The quire is seated before the fire, and the music consists of three or four drums, beat with a single stick, and a bunch or two of deer's hoofs, tied on a short pole to be rattled together. There is also a large thick flute, with only three holes and the mouth-piece. It produces a plaintive tone, not unpleasing. The head, or leader, now steps forth with the

REVIEW.-The Winter's Wreath.


calumet, which is a long pipe, the stem highly decorated with eagles' feathers, and the bowl curiously carved; he raises his eyes slowly to heaven, and puffs the smoke towards the four cardinal points: he then, in a measured step, accompanied by the drums, presents it to each warrior. Having finished the circle, he places himself at the head of the train, and leads the chorus. They move round and round; the women fall in, and they all join in the religious hymn of Yah-lah-leagh."

There are some curious ceremonies analogous to those of the Jewish rites, Dr. which are touched upon by Walsh; and their religious opinions, apologues, traditions, and customs, are most interestingly stated. These observations relate to their ideas of a subsequent life.


oldest author, Homer, describes his Infernal Regions, which are not very different from the Indian Heaven. Here the phantoms of the animals and of the weapons accompany the souls of the heroes. And Pope gives a similar creed to his Indian

"The Indians lavish all their care and affection on the remains of their friends. They bury with them their arms, dogs, and all their property, under the impression that they will be required in the next world. For three months they pay visits to their graves, and the women cry or keen over them exactly as they do in Ireland. A woman is often seen in this way shedding bitter tears over the grave of her nursling, and milking her breasts on the earth that covers it. The graves are decorated with boughs and garlands, as among the Welsh and Irish, which are all removed at the end of the mourning."

"The last ceremony they practise, is I called the feast of souls. Every three or four years, by a general agreement, they disinter all the bodies of such as have died within that time: finding the soft parts mouldered away, they carefully clean the bones, and each family wrap up the remains of their departed friends in new furs. They are then all laid together in one common cemetery, which forms a mound, or barrow, sometimes of considerable magnitude. Many such may be seen in Upper Canada, exactly

similar to those of Dorset and Wiltshire.


Who thinks-admitted to that equal sky-
His faithful dog shall bear him company."
Essay on Man.

"Most religions have an allegory of a river to be crossed in the transit from this to the invisible world. The Indian has this also. The souls of the brave and just can stem the current, and gain the celestial country; but those of cowards, liars, and cheats cannot, but are carried away by the stream, no one knows where. They do not, however, admit a Tartarus, or Hell, in their creeds."

Such remains of antiquity are indeed spread over the whole surface of the globe. This last grand ceremony is concluded with a feast, with dances, songs, speeches, games, and mock combats."-p. 53.

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"They believed that departed souls would come to lap a trench full of milk and blood like a pack of hounds. The Indians know that the victuals, arms, and dress, which they bury with the body, cannot be used by the spirit of the deceased, but they believe that each and every thing appertaining to the individual has, like himself, a spirit or shade, whether it be his venison, his dog, his gun, or his tomahawk; and that those spiritual substances become subservient to his use in the world of spirits. In the earliest state of society among the Greeks, their

The Winter's Wreath for 1829. Whittaker.


THE Winter's Wreath for the current year has been culled by different hands, and from choicer flowers than those which composed the last. We are glad of it, not that we rejoice with the editor-" that no attempt is made to produce a religious impression," but because the talents of the writers selected are of a higher order. Ranting sermons are not fit reading for youth, but an elevated religion never could be objectionable. Like its contemporaries, it boasts some "fair names" amongst its contributors, and the pictorial department is really very good. We are View of the much pleased with the Thames near Windsor," painted by W. Havell, and engraved by Wm. Miller, and the "View near Ambleside," engraved by E. Goodall after J. Rentou. 'Meleager and Atalanta" is a clever composition of George Arnold's, with romantic scenery and noble and lovely figures. It is well "Le Contreengraved by Goodall. is a very good plate; the "Scotch Peasant Girls" is rich in expression; and "O'Connor's Child" has much wild interest; but the most deep and feeling picture is Howard's parting of Medora with the Corsair. The expression is indeed intense. As we have said before, the literary efforts are in



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THIS is a neat little volume in

tended for the juvenile portion of the community; it will form a pretty little present for young masters and misses on their leaving school for the Christmas vacation. Though published at little more than half the price of other annuals, it is embellished with twelve beautiful engravings, chiefly from original designs. The tales, sketches, and poems, which constitute the literary part are adapted to the capacity of youth. They are from the pens of Mrs. Hofland, Miss Mitford, Mrs. Opie, Mrs. Hemans, and other writers of deserved celebrity; but our fair editress, we observe, has not given a single contribution. The following effusion is from the pen of Mrs. Opie.

Hymn after a walk in the Spring. THERE seems a voice in every gale,

A tongue in every opening flower, Which tells, O Lord, the wondrous tale

Of thy indulgence, love, and power. The birds that rise on quivering wing,

Appear to hymn their Maker's praise; And all the mingling sounds of Spring,

To Thee a general paan raise.

And shall my voice, great God! alone

Be mute, 'midst nature's loud acclaim? No; let my heart with answering tone, Breathe forth in praise thy holy name. And nature's debt is small to mine; Thou bad'st her being bounded be; But, matchless proof of love divine! Thou gav'st immortal life to me. GENT. MAG, October, 1828.

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THIS is a new annual; but the editor's name is not new to the literary world; he has already distinguished himself by some pleasing productions of an imaginative character. In the present undertaking, however, his object has evidently been to outvie all his the excellence of graphic illustration. The elegance of this volume, and the transcendant beauty of its embellishments, entitle it to rank as the first of its class; though we imagine the high price of one guinea, to which, however, it is justly entitled, may restrict its circulation.


Scott in his Study" was evident Among the engravings, "Sir Walter tended by the editor to be the striking; and the letter-press which Walter's residence, is very laboured accompanies it, descriptive of Sir and diffuse. His attitude is that of profound study, and all the domestic insignia of feudal times are represented, as if characteristic of the subjects which occupy his pen. The representations of Morning and Evening, and the views of Chillon Castle, Fonthill Abbey, and Newstead, are the ne plus ultra of pictorial beauty. The Lute, the Little Gleaner, the Lost Earrings, the Young Cottagers, Beatrice, Pickaback, and other designs pourtraying human nature, breathe the most ineffable sweetness, and appear as if produced by magic touch; but we regret to say that " Psyche," which forms the frontispiece, though painted by Sir Thomas Lawrence, is a complete failure as compared with the rest. There is neither sweetness nor one characteristic feature to denote the subject for which it was designed. The vignette intended for the superscription page, is prettily and fancifully displayed. The letters of the word "Anniversary," form an ornamental wreath, on which the twelve months are emblematically represented.


The letter-press is not to be compared with the graphic department, With some few exceptions the compositions appear rather of a mediocre character; at least there is not so much beauty and interest in them as we should expect from the well-known reputation of the editor. Mr. Southey's blank effusions, tuneless as his hexameters, are the most prominent: they figure in an address to the editor, in which the chief burden of his song is, that Darton the bookseller has published a portrait of him, which is not near so handsome as the original!

REVIEW.-Montgomery's Poems.

There are many anonymous pieces, most of which we believe to be from the pen of the editor; they are certainly the best in the volume. We quote the following, which bears all the marks of Cunningham's light and airy style.


His foot's in the stirrup,

His hand's on the maneHe is up and away;

Shall we see him again? He thinks on his ladye-love; Little he heeds

The levelling of lances

Or rushing of steeds.
He thinks on his true love,
And rides in an armour
Of proof, woven sure

By the spells of his charmer.
How young and how comely,
Lo! look on him now;
How stedfast his eye,

And how tranquil his brow; The gift of his ladye-love

Glitters full gay,
As down like the eagle

He pours on his prey.
Go sing it in song,


few whose gifts and talents have been devoted to the service of the Giver. His inspiration, kindled by a ray from heaven, has been directed to the most ennobling themes, and his muse, her eye fixed on her birth-place, has walked the earth

And go tell it in story; He went in his strength, And returned in his glory.

"A spirit conscious of her native sphere."

To the same lofty argument is the present volume consecrated-perhaps as superior to the former in the depths of its feelings and its holy musings, as it is inferior in the passionate fervour of its expression. It is more solemn, more subdued, but the stamp of the divine spirit is not less legible, and we think it cannot fail to be as popular-as precursor.


A Universal Prayer-Death; a Vision of Heaven; and a Vision of Hell. By Robert Montgomery. 4to. Maunder. THERE are but few readers of sacred poetry to whom the previous volume of Mr. Montgomery is unknown. With no adventitious aid, but by the strength of its own transcendent excellence, it has reached a seventh edition in as many months, has procured for its author an imperishable wreath, and has ranked him among the worthier


The volume opens with the poem, entitled, the Universal Prayer. is a holy and animated address to the great Creator, Preserver, and Redeemer, full of the loftiest aspirations, and breathing the sublimest thoughts that can occupy the mind of man, comprehending prayer and praise, and abounding in passages of striking_excellence, and of surpassing beauty. The next and longest poem has for its title Death; and the various ministers by which the King of Terrors and the Tyrant of the World effects his purposes are most poetically grouped.

"With step as noiseless as the summer air
Who comes in beautiful decay? her eyes
Dissolving with a feverish glow of light,
Her nostrils delicately closed, and on
Her cheek a rosy tint, as if the tip
Of Beauty's finger faintly pressed it there.
Alas! Consumption is her name. But lo,
Sublime in aspect, and supreme in gait,
Waving a crimson banner o'er his head,
With giant pace stalks by terrific War.
His task? To shatter thrones and sully
Kings." P. 31.

To these succeed the crew of hideous maladies, Pestilence and Famine.

"The flood

And blast, the fiery breath of clouds, disease And danger, deathbed horrors, broken hearts, And exiles in their damp-wall'd dungeons doom'd."

Then follows this beautiful invocation:

"Come then, creative spirit, plume thy strength,

Unwreath thy wings, Imagination, wake! Traverse the troubled world from shore to shore,

That with a panoramic glance my soul May vision forth dark tragedies of death.”


The Shipwreck is a striking picture, and stands mournfully contrasted with a description of infancy cut off in the very blossom of its joy, an offering to the grave: A sketch of melting pathos follows:

REVIEW-Montgomery's Poems.

"In beauty radiant as a dream of love, From the damp earth behold her rise! her robe Is fair and stainless as a new-born flower! Not Eve more heavenly seem'd, when on the lake


She gazed, that glass'd her perfect self.-To The sphere of life impassion'd forth she came, And where she moved a thousand hearts adored;

But he who won her warm in virgin truth, Belied his homage, and betray'd her trust; Then, like a haunted tomb amid the world The erring maid was shunn'd, and saw, where'er

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truth and tenderness, an energy and high poetic feeling, indicating the mas ter spirit. The following allusion to himself appears to us touchingly beautiful :

"I sing of death; yet soon, perchance,
may be

A dweller in the tomb. But twenty years
Have wither'd, since my pilgrimage began,
And I look back upon my boyish days
With mournful joy; as musing wand'rers do,
With eye reverted, from some lofty hill,
Upon the bright and peaceful vale below.-
Oh! let me live, until the fires that feed
My soul, have work'd themselves away, and

Eternal Spirit, take me to Thy home!
For when a child, I shaped inspiring dreams,
And nourished aspirations that awoke
Beautiful feelings flowing from the face
Of Nature; from a child I learn'd to reap
A harvest of sweet thoughts, for future years."

The poem that follows is a Vision of Heaven, containing many passages of true poetry; but we are not quite sure that we are altogether pleased with the sensual character of the Abode of the Blessed, Garden Walks, Flowers in perennial Bloom, Leaping Fountains, Ripe Fruits, &c. &c. We are taught that neither hunger nor thirst are there; -the intellectual faculties enlarged and expanded, will be the true source of the happiness of heaven;-to be enabled to see God as he is, will be the most splendid reward which his saints can know.

It is in the next poem, entitled, a Vision of Hell, that the poet must prepare himself for the shafts of criticism. The subject, it must be admitted, is an aweful one; but we see no reason why that which is permitted to the Divine, should be denied to the Poet. His reasonings must be referred to the unerring standard of truth, the Bible; and guided by this, he is warranted in the assertion that certain actions, the result of principles at enmity with God, will consign the wicked to the regions of woe. His weapon is a legitimate one, and shame upon the liberalising spirit of the present age that is afraid to "speak of Hell to ears polite." We recognise no intermediate state; the line of demarcation between Heaven and Hell is distinctly shown. We would not blindly wander in the devious track of fancy or of fable; we would limit the powers of imagination; we would not utter what we do not find. We would not arrogate the

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