DOUGLAS JERROLD'S SHILLING MAGAZINE. TWIDDLETHUMB TOWN.* BY DOUGLAS JERROLD. MAY-DAY IN TWIDDLETHUMB.-HOW CELEBRATED BY THE MAY-DAY with Adam! TOWNSFOLK. For know, it is the custom of Twiddlethumb solemnly to dedicate the thoughts of the first of May to the first of men; to sacrifice to the shade of Adam. To call up the awful presence in some green solitude, and essay a soul-communion with man when new to his inheritance, and awed and wondering at the wealth about him. It is thought a goodly season to strip off the daily garb of daily common-place, and in naked purity of heart to contemplate the teeming life of tree, and herb, and flower. Anew to take possession of Paradise-to have seisin of Eden. For with these strange folks it is thought that Eden still remains to them. And is it not so? If we resolutely will it, may we not, at certain seasons, overtop the fiery sword of cherubim, leaping the wall with desperate hopefulness? Therefore, at earliest sun-peep, every Twiddlethumber leaves his home; betakes him to the fields; walks deep into the woods; lies far apart upon the margin of a stream, that talks to him in the earnest confidence of solitude. Yes. Every townsman cleanses himself of his daily doings; washes his hands of the money-box, and with his soul as naked as it may be, reverently seeks the shade of Adam. * Continued from page 382, Vol. VII. NO. XLII.-VOL. VII. I I Can May-Day have a better service? Twiddlethumb sets up no flower-pole; weaves no garlands; sets no musicians fiddling, no men and maidens laughing, dancing; taps no ale-cask to the glory of May-Day,-but sends her people forth, each a lonely pilgrim to the fields, and lanes, and woods, to find the spirit of Adam. And they do find it. Wheresoever in earnestness they seek the spirit of the primal tenant, of the first landowner, it is made manifest to them. Now Adam calls to them from the rooftops of cedars, and now identity eyes them from the cup of a flower. And so, on this day, all Twiddlethumb lives apart. There is no evening merry-meeting; no toss-pot revelry at night in glory of the time; but every man, with his heart full of his talk with Adam, full-yea overbrimming-silently, reverently lifts his latch, and goes to bed hallowed by the thoughts of the past communion. He feels that Adam has holily laid hands upon him, and blessed him. Anew, he acknowledges the wealth of his present inheritance, and in the greatness of the present, the inevitable future. To-day is May Day; and Twiddlethumb is silent-empty. This way, to the fields. Did ever God walk the earth in finer weather? And how gloriously the earth manifests the grandeur of the Presence! How its blood dances and glows in the Splendour! It courses the trunks of trees, and is red and golden in their blossoms. It sparkles in the myriad flowers, consuming itself in sweetness. Every little earth-blossom is as an altar, burning incense. The heart of man, creative in its overflowing happiness, finds or makes a fellowship in all things. The birds have passing kindred with his winged thoughts. He hears a stranger, sweeter triumph in the skiey rapture of the lark, and the cuckoo-constant egoist !speaks to him from the deep, distant wood, with a strange swooning sound. All things are living a part of him. In all, he sees and hears a new and deep significance. In that green pyramid, row above row, what a host of flowers! How beautiful and how rejoicing! What a sullen, soulless thing, the Great Pyramid, to that blossoming chesnut! How different the work and workmen. A torrid monument of human wrong, haunted by flights of ghosts that not ten thousand thousand years can lay—a pulseless carcase built of sweat and blood to garner rottenness. And that Pyramid of leaves grew in its strength, like silent goodness, heaven blessing it: and every year it smiles, and every year it talks to fading generations. What a congregation of spiritsspirits of the spring!-is gathered, circle above circle, in its blossoms; and verily they speak to man with blither voice, than all the tongues of Egypt. And at this delicious season, man listens and makes answer to them; alike to them and all: to the topmost blossom of the mighty tree as to the greensward daisy, constant flower, with innocent and open look still frankly staring at the mid-day sun. And so with this sentence the one ink-drop offering to the spirit of the season-we close the day; for evening has stolen, like a pensive thought upon us; the moon hangs, a silver shield in heaven, and the nurse nightingale sings to the sleeping flowers. THE ROAD TO THE PILLARS OF YES AND NO-WITH A FULL ACCOUNT BY THE WAY OF THE AMARANTH LEGEND OF MARTYRSFIELD. To-day, the town seems stirring with holiday life. But there is no feast afoot; none. The blithe looks of the people, the cheeriness of their morning greetings, is the remaining part of yesterday. Every man feels that he is yet fresh from Adam. His blood runs gaily to the light of the sun, and he still perceives in his May-day soul the scent of buds and blossoms. The lark that seems to be in heaven, is, for all that, singing in the Twiddlethumber's bosom. For the man cannot at once break from the high enchantment of yesterday; he still feels as newmade, warm, and ductile from the earth of Paradise. Wait awhile, a little while, and he may be hard and dusty as a Babylonian brick-world-baked, world-written. Let us follow yonder little boy him in the sky-blue coat, with a bunch of flowers in his hand; he is about to go to school; he is bound for the two universities of Yes and No. The Hercules of Twiddlethumb-he is so old, his own name is lost, therefore is he known by a later alias-set up two Pillars, called the Pillars of Yes and No; whereat the children of Twiddlethumb are taught the two prime lessons of the world: whereat, amidst all contrarieties, against all temptations, they learn to say the right monosyllable at the right time. YES, AND NO; FOR GOOD OR EVIL, THE GIANTS OF LIFE. These words are cut in the Pillars; and though time, for thousands of years, has beat his wings against them, the words are still sharp from the chisel. This way, for ere we reach the academy, we have a long walk before us. The road, at the beginning, is through pleasant places, and takes us by Martyrsfield, where a pretty sight awaits us. On our way there, you perceive the boy keeps straightforward, we will tell you a legend that, albeit older than man, is still fresh and blooming. You must know that in the days of its darkness-for Twiddlethumb shone not always in the light-there lived a man, who, because he was short and spare, with a thin edgy face, a burning eye, and a ledge of eyebrow, was a man of no very good report. He lived upon a high hill alone; and spent all his nights gazing at the stars, and as the people said, wickedly pulling the world to bits to see what it was made of. Nevertheless, the man, though feared, had for a long time a sort of supremacy among the people, lest, being offended, he should revenge himself upon cattle and pigs; should beckon the lightning to corn-stacks and call up devils to enter the innocent mouths of sleeping children. These things, it was believed, the man had done; and he withered in opinion by such doings. Nevertheless, all the wickedness of the man was borne with; or at the most, sullenly grumbled at. But the people of Twiddlethumb were not to be ever outraged, and no vengeance taken. Though dwelling in the twilight of Time-for the age we speak of is so dark in history that it is impossible, even by the rushlight of chronicles, to come at its date-the people knew the sweetness of revenge; and, the time arrived, took a lusty bellyfull of it. And after this manner. The conjuror had, for months, remained invisible to the people. No early shepherd had seen him on the hill. There had been a terrible storm; a thunderbolt-since used as the parish anvilhad fallen from the sky; and the lightning had consumed whole corn-fields. The wizard was not to be seen; and it began to be the wholesome belief of the people, that he had been burnt to dust, and scattered by the winds. Folks were settling down in this comfortable opinion, when one day the conjuror-keener than ever, his face set sharper, his eye burning more fiery than before -again appeared in the streets of Twiddlethumb. He walked, as seeing no one, and with a loud, singing voice, exclaimed The sun is bound: It was now plain enough that either the conjuror was stark mad, or stark wicked. He had wholly lost his wits, or rebelliously used them against the Maker of the world. He had been impiously taking the universe to pieces; and in the vilest and most abominable ignorance, was now jumbling their relationship. And now, evoked by this new wrong, all former misdoings rose up in multiplied strength against him. Hordes of cattle, droves of pigs, scores of corn-stacks pest-smitten, destroyed, were now put to the black account of the wizard; and his wickedness must be washed out by the old purifying liquidblood. The wizard should die; if, indeed, death could be made to get at him; if the conjuror had not spell-bound his body for a time against fire, iron, rope, or water. And so the wizard was seized, and carried away before the judges-dim, misty sages, shimmering down the long night of time, how vaguely solemn they show to us! The sun is bound : Said the wizard, standing with his wrists locked together with iron, before the judgment-seat. And then, the judges made all sorts of signs betokening their horror of the wickedness. What! was it for the meagre wretch at the bar to turn creation topsy-turvey? Was it for such a demon, in mortal clothing, to juggle with their senses? Had they not seen the sun sink in the sea at night, coming up on the other side the next morning-and should they now be told that the earth rolled like a bowl? How were men to keep their feet? How were the goods and chattels of honest people to keep their places in people's houses, with such upside-down work continually going on? But the man was foolish; brainsick; he would think better of his folly, and unsay his gibberish. The sun is bound: cried the wizard, when he was sent away to repent in his bonds; and again and again he uttered the wickedness when placed before his judges. Again But, see, sir; we are come to Martyrsfield. Is it not magnificent-wondrous ? What a legend is here-growing a million times in unfading amaranth. Look where you will, and the eye reads the text in tender, smiling flowers The sun is bound: |