In obedience to the summons of this ghostly visitor, the great Schemarthar quickly directed his footsteps to the garden of the palace, and came in season only to hear the final note of the fatal serenade, and witness its effects on the heart of the queen. It was to him a sad sight, and a terrible foreboding of coming evil. Here he beheld the final ruin of this goodly land approaching; for the charm which had hitherto held their destiny seemed now dissolving. Their fate appeared to him to be fulfilled, and in the excess of his agony he cried aloud: "Howl! howl! howl! ye people of the land of Karsarmar Kerselkolf, for your queen has fallen in love!" The people heard the cry, and went out suddenly from their dwellings into the darkness of the night, and there groped about, uttering loud and piercing shrieks and lamentations of wo and despair: "Howl! howl! howl! for our queen hath fallen in love, and our fate is accomplished! Wo, wo, wo! are we, for she hath not restrained her propensities!

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** Ah! alas!" And now greater still was the cry of wo and despair going up from all the land throughout which was borne this dire report, as on the rapid wings of the wind -mourning, weeping, lamenting, wailing. Even old men ran through the darkness, crying, rending their garments, tearing from their hoary heads their gray hairs, and scattering them to the wild winds. The fate little feared was now upon them-the charm of their existence now dispelled-the thread of their destiny run out the dreadful catastrophe come, and that mental agony now seized hold upon them, which is the sure precursor of death!

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This is near the close of the manuscript, where it is very obscure. From it I learn that the wailing ceased before morning, that rivers of bitter tears were poured out, and that when the sun shone again over this once happy land, all the people were found dead; whether by pestilence, by the direct hand of Fate, or by the effects of a heated and high-wrought imagination, our author, Muilharek Ben Hazri does not see fit to inform us. Of the great Schemarthar no further mention is made. Of the fate of the fair queen there remain two traditions. First, that she, with the prince, on the melancholy night of the fatal catastrophe, escaped to his own country, and there, soon after, pined away in grief, thinking of the evil she had wrought-a sad and mournful example and warning to all, of the direful consequences of woman's unconquerable propensities. The other tradition is, that after spending a long time in sorrow and penitence, she resumed again her former gayety and loveliness, and lived for many happy years the lovely bride of the prince of the dark rich locks.

ANDEN,

WE had intended to furnish our readers with our monthly sketch of incident and sentiment, and among other things, a true account of the annual celebration of the grand Yankee festival which has just passed. We are induced, however, to depart from our usual course, in order to present the following communication from one of our correspondents, opportunely adapted to time and place, and prompted, we have no doubt, by the full flow of that feeling which it is the pride and pleasure of the descendants of the Pilgrims to cherish at every recurrence of the scenes he has described. We are confident, that this description of these simple and rural festivities will commend itself to those of us who are familiar with such scenes as have lately lighted up ten thousand firesides with unwonted gladness; but who have been unfortunately excluded from a participation of " the good things” by distance or the inability to manufacture an "excuse." We also hope that it will not be without interest to such as are not so well versed in the practice and philosophy of our sectional customs, to see an exhibition of the "genuine old-fashioned" mode in which a New England thanksgiving "is cooked up.”

THANKSGIVING.

THE remark has sometimes been made, that New England has too few holydays. Life, it is said, with us presents one incessant round of toil and care, and that, as a natural consequence, we become selfish and misanthropic. Whether disposed to admit the truth of this assertion or not, we shall all, no doubt, agree on this that the few festivals we have should be scrupulously maintained.

In the anniversary of our Independence we have one great national jubilee a day of triumph and universal joy, well calculated to cherish patriotism and strengthen the bonds of our union. Perverted though it be by the vicious, we cannot doubt that it does much to keep alive the remembrance of our noble sires, and to instill into each successive generation a measure of their spirit. What the Fourth of July is to the nation, Thanksgiving is, and with still greater emphasis, to families, to villages, to states. It originated, as is well known, in the piety and the peculiar circumstances of our Pilgrim fathers. They were men who had learned elsewhere to see

a God employed

In all the good and ill that checker life;"

and here, amid the perils of the wilderness, they forgot not the lesson. When the savage foe assailed them, when their crops were destroyed, and famine and death stared them in the face, they despaired not, but resorted, with fasting and prayer, to Him whom they knew to be "mighty to save." Again, when brighter prospects greeted them, when deliverance came, or peace and plenty smiled, then

"They shook the depths of the forest gloom,

With their hymns of lofty cheer."

At length, what was at first only casual and occasional, became, by a most natural and proper transition, annual and permanent. From that time, Thanksgiving has been an essential part of our creed-a star, shedding its bright beams through the whole social system-a nucleus, around which the cheerful anticipations and fond recollections of the whole year cluster-an era oft in Cupid's calendar on which many a bright vision of bliss takes its origin, or finds its rapturous consummation.

This institution, commencing with the Pilgrims, and ever perpetuated on the soil which they trod, has indeed lost something of its original sacredness, and is hailed by many only as a day of legalized gluttony. Yet we believe that it is still observed, by thousands, with a gratitude as lively, and a piety, if less severe, yet not less acceptable, than that of its original founders.

We are happy also to see the custom extending to distant States. Yet it cannot at once, if ever, become to them what it is to us. None but those born and bred amid the villages of New England, can fully enter into the spirit of Thanksgiving. To them there is magic in the name. It awakens a thousand old and dear associations. It calls up the scenes of happy childhood, restores to fancy's eye the brothers and sisters and cousins, and all the loved companions of our early days, and sets them again before us, as light-hearted and innocent as ever. We seem to live over those long evenings, whose stories and joyous pastimes made them flit so rapidly away. It brings back the district schoolhouse with its hacked benches and scribbled walls, and the merry ring of play-mates with whom we formed many a splendid scheme for that precious week, when school should be suspended to prepare for and enjoy the great occasion. This suspension of school is in many towns claimed by prescriptive right, it having been granted from time immemorial, as the older girls are wanted at home, to pare apples and dissect pumpkins, and the boys to split oven-wood, and so forth, never forgetful of those private calls of mischief and fun which the occasion may present. Nor is the pedagogue himself wont to demur at leaving his "noisy mansion" for a week, to visit the fair one who has given him her heart, or the many who are ready to do so.

The day, which "by the advice and consent of the council" is usually fixed upon at least a month beforehand, is briefly announced in the newspapers. But when, about two Sundays preceding the appointed day, the "Proclamation" appears, every head is erect and every ear attentive. Never did the opening of a Sybil's leaves or the unfurling of freedom's flag awaken more delightful sensations than the exhibition of that broad sheet, crowned with huge capitals, which seemed to our youthful eyes to expand with conscious dignity at the importance of the message they bore. Now we felt that Thanksgiving was indeed coming, we had seen its herald with our own eyes, and when the

sonorous voice of the minister pronounced that invocation with which, in the Bay state, the document always closes, "God save the Commonwealth of Massachusetts," every heart responded "Amen-till after Thanksgiving at least." From that time every thing is prospective. Present employments give their chief pleasure as referred to the coming festival. How we should spend that day so as to extract all its sweets, was the question. We must, of course, attend church in the morning, and as for the hour immediately succeeding public service, there was but one opinion in regard to the appropriate duties of that. But there remained an hour or two of daylight post tempus cœnandi which it was perhaps not less our policy than our pleasure to spend in some active exercise. To those of us who had arrived at that pinnacle of boyish ambition, the possession of a pair of skates, and the skill to use them, there was little hesitation in the choice of our sport. But should we have ice for our purpose. Here was a fearful contingency. Never did meteorologist watch the changing sky with more solicitude than we. We wanted frost, forgetful, like some larger children, that our schemes were not the only or the most important ones in the universe.

At length the important week arrives, big with the fate, not "of Cato and of Rome," but of many an amiable turkey and modest chicken, the only martyrs to this festal occasion. Decapitation is the order of the day. A thousand little guillotines are at work and many a fowl deed is done. Matron and maid, sons and daughters, all join in the busy preparations, with an energy befitting the interests at stake. The kitchen now becomes the grand scene of action, and the complicated culinary operations afford most admirable iflustrations of the combination of the mechanical and chemical. Plates of all diameters are called into service, and soon a constellation of pies of every magnitude appears, from the huge pumpkin whose broad disk shines, like Sirius among the lesser lights, down to the tiny, telescopic tart. Nor is mince pie any longer deemed a heretic, though it is said a Connecticut edict once banished it from the board.

Behold the anticipated morning at length fully come, and families beginning to assemble. Warm and glad are the greetings which welcome each successive arrival. With overflowing hearts they bless that Providence that has brought them together once more. The morning passes in sweet converse till the bell summons them to the place of worship. There collect the thronging villagers to offer, as we will believe, no unacceptable sacrifice. And now it is, that those who long since left their native town read on all around the thick foot prints of busy time. Where once every face was familiar, and every eye beamed recognition, all seem strangers. The gray-haired men are gone, and their places are occupied by an unknown race. The good old deacon, whose venerable form was seen year after year in yonder pew, till

he came to be regarded almost as one of the fixtures of the place, appears not, but in that tall youth who fills his seat, a closer scrutiny reveals the expanded features of his blue-eyed boy.

The audience are reminded by the speaker of the appropriate subjects of gratitude-of national, social, and individual blessings, and of the obligations which they impose. A glance is perhaps made at the early history of the country; the privations and trials of the settlers are recalled, and their spirit of meek submission blended with indomitable perseverance portrayed as worthy of all admiration. The many obstacles which opposed the establishment and perfection of our free institutions, with their final and complete removal; the ignorance, the tyranny and oppression which still like a thick cloud rests on most of the nations, our own prosperity, peace, and liberty, and the bright career of glory that awaits us if true to ourselves, are none of them forgotten. And from all these things surely the inference is by no means far fetched, that "the lines are fallen to us in pleasant places," and that we owe to the Disposer of nations a tribute of devout gratitude.

These exhortations are listened to perhaps by some portion of the audience with feelings in which gratitude for past favors is pretty well spiced with anticipations of good things yet to come.

Service ended, all return to their homes, and where it is practicable the junior branches of the same family to the house of the common patriarch. There, all assemble around a table loaded with the choicest viands which the labors of the preceding week have prepared. The blessing of Heaven is invoked, and then commences an unsparing assault upon the unresisting turkey and its tempting accompaniments. And is such then the climax of all this toil and parade? Is this the grand consummation of all their wishes and the acme of earthly felicity, to stuff to repletion with pudding and pie? Scorned be the thought! Whatever may be the sentiments of children and epicures, there are joys here, far transcending the pleasures of appetite. It is a holy scene. A family once united, now scattered in the various busy walks of life forming new associations and bonds of interest, have come back to brighten anew the chain of early love. The aged father's eye kindles with something of youthful ardor, as he gazes on that group, and the mother's heart swells with deep emotion. They think of those by-gone days when these men and women slept in their bosoms and were dandled upon their knees. Now they see some of them parents. Their children appear at their side, and come in for a double portion of a grand-parent's love. It is a bright era in the life of the aged pair. They have long looked forward to that meeting with hope, and will often recur to it with pleasure as the year rolls on.

True, the occasion is not always one of unmixed joy. Some seat that should be filled is vacant: some one whose presence