bled, and a feast provided for
all. The warriors are painted and prepared as for battle. A post is
firmly planted in the ground, and the singers, the drummers and other
musicians, are seated within the circle formed by the dancers and
spectators. The music and the dancers begin. The warriors exert
themselves, with great energy. Every muscle is in action: and there is
the most perfect concord between the music and their movements. They
brandish their weapons, and with such apparent fury, that fatal
accidents seem unavoidable. Presently a warrior leaves the circle, and
with his tomahawk or casse-tete, strikes the post. The music and dancing
cease, and profound silence ensues. He then recounts, with a loud voice,
his military achievements. He describes the battles he has fought--the
prisoners he has captured--the scalps he has taken. He points to his
wounds, and produces his trophies. He accompanies his narrative with the
actual representation of his exploits; and the mimic engagement, the
advance and the retreat, are all exhibited to his nation as they really
occurred. There is no exaggeration, no misrepresentation. It would be
infamous for a warrior to boast of deeds he never performed. If the
attempt were made, some one would approach and throw dirt in his face
saying, "I do this to cover your shame; for the first time you see an
enemy, you will tremble." But such an indignity is rarely necessary:
and, as the war parties generally, contain many individuals, the
character and conduct of every warrior are well known. Shouts of
applause accompany the narration, proportioned in duration and intensity
to the interest it excites. His station in the circle is then resumed by
the actor, and the dance proceeds, till it is interrupted in a similar
manner.

"In the poem of Ontwa, a scene like this is so well described, that we
cannot resist the temptation to transfer it to our pages. Of all who
have attempted to embody in song, the "living manners" of the Indians,
the anonymous author of that poem has been the most successful. His
characters, and traditions and descriptions, have the spirit and bearing
of life; and the whole work, is not less true to nature than to poetry.

A hundred warriors now advance,
All dressed and painted for the dance;
And sounding club and hollow skin
A slow and measured time begin:
With rigid limb and sliding foot,
And murmurs low the time to suit;
Forever varying with the sound,
The