Benjamin Disraeli - "Lord George Bentinck"

Leonard Woolsey Bacon - "A History of American Christianity"

Charles Felton Pidgin - "The Further Adventures of Quincy Adams Sawyer and Mason's Corner Folks"

James Whitcomb Riley - "A Defective Santa Claus"

Editorial
This paper argues that discourses of love in Ghanaian market literature for youth offer a view into complex negotiations of agency and empowerment. Drawing on Deborah Durham's notion of youth as "social `shifters'" and Francis Nyamnjoh's conception of the "interconnectedness" of agency, I take Ghanaian market literature as one specific case of how African literature for youth foregrounds questions of continuity and change as African societies enter into increasingly complex global relations. In this literature for youth, received notions of love, often constructed out of impressions from American pop and hip hop music, carry new notions of agency that compete with existing "domesticated" forms. Authors like Ike Tandoh and Evelyn Tay employ discourses of love to offer youth alternative avenues for empowerment in a context of socio-economic disenfranchizement. In a creative process of "straddling", this writing both reveals and reproduces the contradictions that obtain in youth configurations of agency.

The Canadian Elocutionist

A >> Anna Kelsey Howard >> The Canadian Elocutionist




_Marianne Farningham._

* * * * *

I REMEMBER, I REMEMBER.

I remember, I remember
The house where I was born--
The little window where the sun
Came peeping in at morn;
He never came a wink too soon,
Nor brought too long a day,
But now I often wish the night
Had borne my breath away!

I remember, I remember
The roses red and white,
The violets and the lily-cups,
Those flowers made of light;
The lilacs where the robin built,
And where my brother set
The laburnum on his birthday--
The tree is living yet!

I remember, I remember
Where I was used to swing,
And thought the air must rush as fresh;
To swallows on the wing;
My spirit flew in feathers then,
That is so heavy now,
And summer pools could hardly cool
The fever on my brow.

I remember, I remember
The fir trees dark and high;
I used to think their slender tops
Were close against the sky;
It was a childish ignorance,
But now 'tis little joy
To know I'm further off from heaven
Than when I was a boy.

_Thomas Hood._

* * * * *

NEVER GIVE UP.

Never give up! it is wiser and better
Always to hope than once to despair:
Fling off the load of Doubt's cankering fetter,
And break the dark spell of tyrannical care;
Never give up! or the burden may sink you--
Providence kindly has mingled the cup;
And, in all trials or trouble, bethink you
The watchword of life must be--Never give up!

Never give up!--there are chances and changes
Helping the hopeful a hundred to one,
And through the chaos High Wisdom arranges
Ever success--if you'll only hope on;
Never give up!--for the wisest is boldest,
Knowing that Providence mingles the cup;
And of all maxims the best, as the oldest,
Is the true watchword of--Never give up!

Never give up!--though the grapeshot may rattle,
Or the full thunder-cloud over you burst,
Stand like a rock--and the storm or the battle
Little shall harm you, though doing their worst.
Never give up!--if adversity presses,
Providence wisely has mingled the cup;
And the best counsel, in all your distresses,
Is the stout watchword of--Never give up.

_Anon._

* * * * *

MARMION AND DOUGLAS.

Not far advanced was morning day,
When Marmion did his troop array
To Surrey's camp to ride;
He had safe-conduct for his band,
Beneath the royal seal and hand,
And Douglas gave a guide:
The ancient Earl, with stately grace,
Would Clara on her palfrey place,
And whispered in an undertone,
"Let the hawk stoop, his prey is flown."--
The train from out the castle drew,
But Marmion stopped to bid adieu:--
"Though something I might plain," he said,
"Of cold respect to stranger guest,
Sent hither by your King's behest,
While in Tantallon's towers I stayed,
Part we in friendship from your land,
And, noble Earl, receive my hand."--
But Douglas around him drew his cloak,
Folded his arms, and thus he spoke:--
"My manors, halls, and bowers shall still
Be open, at my Sovereign's will,
To each one whom he lists, howe'er
Unmeet to be the owner's peer.
My castles are my King's alone,
From turret to foundation-stone,--
The hand of Douglas is his own;
And never shall in friendly grasp
The hand of such as Marmion clasp."

Burned Marmion's swarthy cheek like fire,
And shook his very frame for ire,
And--"This to me!" he said,--
"An 'twere not for thy hoary beard,
Such hand as Marmion's had not spared
To cleave the Douglas' head!
And, first, I tell thee, haughty Peer,
He who does England's message here,
Although the meanest in her state,
May well, proud Angus, be thy mate;
And, Douglas, more I tell thee here,
Even in thy pitch of pride,
Here in thy hold, thy vassals near,
(Nay never look upon your lord,
And lay your hands upon your sword,)
I tell thee, thou'rt defied!
And if thou saidst I am not peer
To any lord in Scotland here,
Lowland or Highland, far or near,
Lord Angus, thou hast lied!"--
On the Earl's cheek the flush of rage
O'ercame the ashen hue of age;
Fierce he broke forth,--"And dar'st thou then
To beard the lion in his den,
The Douglas in his hall?
And hop'st thou hence unscathed to go?--
No, by St. Bride of Bothwell, no!
Up drawbridge, grooms,--what, Warder, ho!
Let the portcullis fall."--
Lord Marmion turned,--well was his need!--
And dashed the rowels in his steed,
Like arrow through the archway sprung;
The ponderous gate behind him rung;
To pass there was such scanty room,
The bars descending, razed his plume.

The steed along the drawbridge flies,
Just as it trembled on the rise;
Nor lighter does the swallow skim
Along the smooth lake's level brim;
And when Lord Marmion reached his band,
He halts, and turns with clenched hand,
And shout of loud defiance pours,
And shook his gauntlet at the towers.
"Horse! horse!" the Douglas cried, "and chase!";
But soon he reined his fury's pace;
A royal messenger he came,
Though most unworthy of the name.

* * * * *

St. Mary, mend my fiery mood!
Old age ne'er cools the Douglas blood,
I thought to slay him where he stood.
"'Tis pity of him, too," he cried;
"Bold can he speak, and fairly ride;
I warrant him a warrior tried."
With this his mandate he recalls,
And slowly seeks his castle halls.

_Sir Walter Scott._

* * * * *

CATILINE'S DEFIANCE.

Banished from Rome! What's banished, but set free
From daily contact of the things I loathe?
"Tried and convicted traitor!" Who says this?
Who'll prove it, at his peril on my head?
Banished? I thank you for't. It breaks my chain!
I held some slack allegiance till this hour;
But _now_ my sword's my own. Smile on, my lords;
I scorn to count what feelings, withered hopes,
Strong provocation, bitter, burning wrongs,
I have within my heart's hot cells shut up,
To leave you in your lazy dignities.
But here I stand and scoff you! here I fling
Hatred and full defiance in your face!
Your Consul's merciful. For this all thanks:--
He _dares_ not touch a hair of Catiline!
"Traitor!" I go; but I _return_. This--trial!
Here I devote your Senate! I've had wrongs
To stir a fever in the blood of age,
Or make the infant's sinews strong as steel.
This day's the birth of sorrow! This hour's work
Will breed proscriptions! Look to your hearths, my lords
For there, henceforth, shall sit for household gods,
Shapes hot from Tartarus!--all shames and crimes;--
Wan Treachery, with his thirsty dagger drawn;
Suspicion poisoning his brother's cup;
Naked Rebellion, with the torch and axe,
Making his wild sport of your blazing thrones;
Till Anarchy comes down on you like night,
And Massacre seals Rome's eternal grave.
I go; but not to leap the gulf alone.
I go; but when I come, 'twill be the burst
Of ocean in the earthquake,--rolling back
In swift and mountainous ruin. Fare you well!
You build my funeral-pile; but your best blood
Shall quench its flame.

_Rev. George Croly._

* * * * *

THE WORN WEDDING-RING.

Your wedding-ring wears thin, dear wife; ah, summers not a few,
Since I put it on your finger first, have passed o'er me and you;
And, love, what changes we have seen--what cares and pleasures too--
Since you became my own dear wife, when this old ring was new.

O blessings on that happy day, the happiest in my life,
When, thanks to God, your low sweet "Yes" made you my loving wife;
Your heart will say the same, I know, that day's as dear to you,
That day that made me yours, dear wife, when this old ring was new.

How well do I remember now, your young sweet face that day;
How fair you were--how dear you were--my tongue could hardly say;
Nor how I doted on you; ah, how proud I was of you;
But did I love you more than now, when this old ring was new?

No--no; no fairer were you then than at this hour to me,
And dear as life to me this day, how could you dearer be?
As sweet your face might be that day as now it is, 'tis true,
And did I know your heart as well when this old ring was new!

O partner of my gladness, wife, what care, what grief is there,
For me you would not bravely face,--with me you would not share?
O what a weary want had every day if wanting you,
Wanting the love that God made mine when this old ring was new.

Years bring fresh links to bind us, wife--young voices that are here,
Young faces round our fire that make their mother's yet more dear,
Young loving hearts, your care each day makes yet more like to you,
More like the loving heart made mine when this old ring was new.

And bless'd be God all He has given are with us yet, around
Our table, every little life lent to us, still is found;
Though cares we've known, with hopeful hearts the worst we've struggled
through;
Blessed be His name for all His love since this old ring was new.

The past is dear; its sweetness still our memories treasure yet;
The griefs we've borne, together borne, we would not now forget;
Whatever, wife, the future brings, heart unto heart still true,
We'll share as we have shared all else since this old ring was new.

And if God spare us 'mongst our sons and daughters to grow old,
We know His goodness will not let your heart or mine grow cold;
Your aged eyes will see in mine all they've still shown to you,
And mine in yours all they have seen since this old ring was new.

And O when death shall come at last to bid me to my rest,
May I die looking in those eyes, and leaning on that breast;
O may my parting gaze be blessed with the dear sight of you,
Of those fond eyes--fond as they were when this old ring was new.

_W. C. Bennett._

* * * * *

ROLL-CALL.

The battle was over--the foemen were flying,
But the plain was strewn with the dead and the dying,
For the dark angel rode on its sulphurous blast,
And had reaped a rich harvest of death, as he passed;
For, as grass he mowed down the blue and the gray,
With the mean and the mighty that stood in his way,
While the blood of our bravest ran there as water,
And his nostrils were filled with the incense of slaughter.

The black guns were silent--hushed the loud ringing cheers,
And the pale dead were buried, in silence and tears;
And the wounded brought in on stretchers so gory,
Broken and mangled but covered with glory,
Whilst the surgeons were clipping with expertness and vim,
From the agonised trunk each bullet-torn limb,
And the patient, if living, was carefully sent
To the cool open wards of the hospital tent.

Within one of those wards a brave Highlander lay,
With the chill dews of death on his forehead of clay,
For a shell had struck him in the heat of the fray,
And his right arm and shoulder were carried away;
No word had he spoken--not a sound had he made,
Yet a shiver, at times, had his anguish betrayed,
And so calmly he lay without murmur or moan,
The gentle-voiced sister thought his spirit had flown.

The lamps burning dimly an uncertain light shed,
While the groans of the wounded, the stare of the dead,
Made an age of a night to the gentle and true,
That had waited and watched half its long hours through;
When the surgeon came in with a whisper of cheer,
And a nod and a glance at the cot that stood near,
When--"_Here_!" like a bugle blast, the dying man cried,
"_It is roll-call in Heaven_!" He answered and died.

_Anon._

* * * * *

THE DEAD DOLL.

You needn't be trying to comfort me--I tell you my dolly is dead!
There's no use in saying she isn't--with a crack like that in her head.
It's just like you said it wouldn't hurt much to have my tooth out that day;
And then when the man most pulled my head off, you hadn't a word to say.

And I guess you must think I'm a baby, when you say you can mend it with
glue!
As if I didn't know better than that! Why, just suppose it was you?
You might make her _look_ all mended--but what do I care for looks?
Why, glue's for chairs and tables, and toys, and the backs of books!

My dolly! my own little daughter! Oh, but it's the awfullest crack!
It just makes me sick to think of the sound when her poor head went whack
Against that horrible brass thing that holds up the little shelf,
Now, Nursey, what makes you remind me? I know that I did it myself!

I think you must be crazy--you'll get her another head!
What good would forty heads do her? I tell you my dolly is dead!
And to think I hadn't quite finished her elegant New Year's hat!
And I took a sweet ribbon of hers last night to tie on that horrid cat!

When my mamma gave me that ribbon--I was playing out in the yard--
She said to me most expressly: "Here's a ribbon for Hildegarde."
And I went and put it on Tabby, and Hildegarde saw me do it;
But I said to myself, "Oh, never mind, I don't believe she knew it!"

But I know that she knew it now, and I just believe, I do,
That her poor little heart was broken, and so her head broke too.
Oh, my baby! my little baby! I wish my head had been hit!
For I've hit it over and over, and it hasn't cracked a bit.

But since the darling _is_ dead, she'll want to be buried of course;
We will take my little wagon, Nurse, and you shall be the horse;
And I'll walk behind and cry; and we'll put her in this--you see,
This dear little box--and we'll bury them under the maple tree.

And papa will make a tombstone, like the one he made for my bird;
And he'll put what I tell him on it--yes, every single word!
I shall say: "Here lies Hildegarde, a beautiful doll who is dead;
She died of a broken heart, and a dreadful crack in her head."

_St. Nicholas._

* * * * *

AUNTY DOLEFUL'S VISIT.

How do you do, Cornelia? I heard you were sick and I stepped in to cheer
you up a little. My friends often say, "It's such a comfort to see you,
Aunty Doleful. You have such a flow of conversation, and _are_ so
lively." Besides, I said to myself, as I came up the stairs, "Perhaps it's
the last time I'll ever see Cornelia Jane alive."

You don't mean to die yet, eh? Well, now, how do you know? You can't tell.
You think you are getting better; but there was poor Mrs. Jones sitting up,
and every one saying how smart she was, and all of a sudden she was taken
with spasms in the heart, and went off like a flash. But you must be
careful, and not get anxious or excited. Keep quite calm, and don't fret
about anything. Of course, things can't go on just as if you were down
stairs; and I wondered whether you knew your little Billy was sailing about
in a tub on the mill-pond, and that your little Sammy was letting your
little Jimmy down from the verandah roof in a clothes-basket.

Gracious goodness! what's the matter? I guess Providence'll take care of
'em. Don't look so. You thought Bridget was watching them? Well, no, she
isn't. I saw her talking to a man at the gate. He looked to me like a
burglar. No doubt she let him take the impression of the door-key in wax,
and then he'll get in and murder you all. There was a family at Kobble Hill
all killed last week for fifty dollars. Now, don't fidget so, it will be
bad for the baby.

Poor little dear! How singular it is, to be sure, that you can't tell
whether a child is blind, or deaf and dumb or a cripple at that age. It
might be _all_, and you'd never know it.

Most of them that have their senses make bad use of them though;
_that_ ought to be your comfort, if it does turn out to have anything
dreadful the matter with it. And more don't live a year. I saw a baby's
funeral down the street as I came along.

How is Mr. Kobble? Well, but finds it warm in town, eh? Well, I should
think he would. They are dropping down by hundreds there with sun-stroke.
You must prepare your mind to have him brought home any day. Anyhow, a trip
on these railroad trains is just risking your life every time you take one.
Back and forth every day as he is, it's just trifling with danger.

Dear! dear; now to think what dreadful things hang over us all the time!
Dear! dear!

Scarlet fever has broken out in the village, Cornelia. Little Isaac Potter
has it, and I saw your Jimmy playing with him last Saturday.

Well, I must be going now. I've got another sick friend, and I shan't think
my duty done unless I cheer her up a little before I sleep. Good-bye. How
pale you look, Cornelia. I don't believe you have a good doctor. Do send
him away and try some one else. You don't look so well as you did when I
came in. But if anything happens, send for me at once. If I can't do
anything else, I can cheer you up a little.

* * * * *

THE MINIATURE.

William was holding in his hand
The likeness of his wife--
Fresh, as if touched by fairy wand,
With beauty, grace, and life.
He almost thought it spoke--he gazed,
Upon the treasure still;
Absorbed, delighted, and amazed
He view'd the artist's skill.

"This picture is yourself, dear Ann,
Tis' drawn to nature true;
I've kissed it o'er and o'er again,
It is so much like you."
"And has it kiss'd you back, my dear?"
"Why--no--my love," said he;
"Then, William, it is very clear,
'Tis not at all like me!"

* * * * *

THE CHIMES OF S. S. PETER AND PAUL.

Ring out, sad bells, ring out
Melody to the twilight sky,
With echoes, echoing yet
As along the shore they die;
Chiming, chiming,
Sweet toned notes upon the heart
That one can ne'er forget.

Ring louder! O louder!
Until the distant sea
Shall send thy clear vibrations
Dying back to me;
Tolling, tolling,
Beautiful, trembling notes
Of sad sweet melody.

Ring, ring, ring, a merry Christmas
And a glad New Year;
Ring on Easter morning
And at the May-day dear;
Fling, fling
Thy tones over woodland ways
All the hills adorning.

At the joyous marriage,
And at the gladsome birth
Fling thy silvery echoes
Over all the earth,
But knell, O knell
When death, the shadowy spectre
Shall kiss the lips of mirth

O blessed bells, silver bells,
Thy notes are echoing still
Like the song of an ebbing tide,
Or a mournful whip-poor-will.
As he sings, sings,
In the crimson sunset light
That dies on the burnished hill

Then ring, O softly ring
Musical deep-toned bells;
Till harmony, sweet harmony
Throughout the woodland swells.
To bring, faintly bring,
Thy dying echoes back to me,
Over fields and fells,
Bells, bells, bells.

* * * * *

THE ENGINEER'S STORY.

No, children, my trips are over,
The engineer needs rest;
My hand is shaky; I'm feeling
A tugging pain i' my breast;
But here, as the twilight gathers,
I'll tell you a tale of the road,
That'll ring in my head forever
Till it rests beneath the sod.

We were lumbering along in the twilight,
The night was dropping her shade,
And the "Gladiator" laboured--
Climbing the top of the grade;
The train was heavily laden,
So I let my engine rest,
Climbing the grading slowly,
Till we reached the upland's crest.

I held my watch to the lamplight--
Ten minutes behind time!
Lost in the slackened motion
Of the up grade's heavy climb;
But I knew the miles of the prairie
That stretched a level track,
So I touched the gauge of the boiler,
And pulled the lever back.

Over the rails a gleaming,
Thirty an hour, or so,
The engine leaped like a demon,
Breathing a fiery glow;
But to me--a-hold of the lever--
It seemed a child alway,
Trustful and always ready
My lightest touch to obey.

I was proud, you know, of my engine,
Holding it steady that night,
And my eye on the track before us,
Ablaze with the Drummond light.
We neared a well-known cabin,
Where a child of three or four,
As the up train passed, oft called me,
A-playing around the door.

My hand was firm on the throttle
As we swept around the curve,
When something afar in the shadow,
Struck fire through every nerve.
I sounded the brakes, and crashing
The reverse lever down in dismay,
Groaning to Heaven--eighty paces
Ahead was the child at its play!

One instant--one, awful and only,
The world flew round in my brain,
And I smote my hand hard on my forehead
To keep back the terrible pain;
The train I thought flying forever,
With mad, irresistible roll,
While the cries of the dying night wind
Swept into my shuddering soul.

Then I stood on the front of the engine--
How I got there I never could tell--
My feet planted down on the crossbar,
Where the cow-catcher slopes to the rail,--
One hand firmly locked on the coupler,
And one held out in the night,
While my eye gauged the distance, and measured
The speed of our slackening flight.

My mind, thank the Lord! it was steady;
I saw the curls of her hair,
And the face that, turning in wonder,
Was lit by the deadly glare.
I know little more, but I heard it--
The groan of the anguished wheels--
And remember thinking, the engine
In agony trembles and reels.

One rod! To the day of my dying
I shall think the old engine reared back,
And as it recoiled, with a shudder,
I swept my hand over the track;
Then darkness fell over my eyelids,
But I heard the surge of the train,
And the poor old engine creaking,
As racked by a deadly pain.

They found us, they said, on the gravel,
My fingers enmeshed in her hair,
And she on my bosom a climbing,
To nestle securely there.
We are not much given to crying--
We men that run on the road--
But that night, they said, there were faces,
With tears on them, lifted to God.

For years in the eve and the morning,
As I neared the cabin again,
My hand on the lever pressed downward
And slackened the speed of the train.
When my engine had blown her a greeting,
She always would come to the door,
And her look with the fullness of heaven
Blesses me evermore.

* * * * *

FASHIONABLE SINGING.


Miss Julia was induced to give a taste of her musical powers, and this is
how she did it. She flirted up her panniers, coquettishly wiggle-waggled to
the piano and sang--

"When ther moo-hoon is mi-hild-ly be-ahming
O'er ther ca-halm and si-hi-lent se-e-e-e,
Its ra-dyance so-hoftly stre-heam-ing
Oh! ther-hen, Oh! ther-hen,
I thee-hink
Hof thee-hee,
I thee-hink,
I thee-hink,
I thee-he-he-he-he-he-he-hink hof thee-e-e-e-e!"

"Beautiful, Miss Julia! Beautiful!" and we all clapped our hands. "Do sing
another verse--it's perfectly divine, Miss Julia," said Eugene Augustus.
Then Julia raised her golden (dyed) head, touched the white ivory with her
jewelled fingers, and warbled--

"When ther sur-hun is bri-hight-ly glow-ing-how-ing
O'er the se-hene so de-hear to me-e-e,
And swe-heat the wie-hind is blow-how-ing,
Oh! ther-hen, oh! ther-hen,
I thee-hink
Hof thee-hee,
I thee-hink
I thee-hink
I thee-he-he-he-he-he-he-hink-ho-ho-ho-ho-ho-ho-hof
the-e-e-e-e-e!"--

_Baltimore Elocutionist._

* * * * *

THE OLD SOLDIER OF THE REGIMENT.

From the bold heights of the island, far up in the Huron Sea,
Proudly waved that Summer morning the old flag of liberty;
While close under that fair banner, which to him was love and law,
Sat that hour a veteran soldier of the guard at Mackinaw.

Bowed and wrinkled, thin and hoary, sat he there that Summer day,
His form leaning 'gainst the flagstaff, while he watched the sunlight play
On the waters of that inland ocean which, in beauty purled,
Were to him--the scarred old soldier--fairest waters of the world.

In the days when Peace no longer walked the land, a beauteous queen,
Fragrance dropping from her garments, gladness beaming in her mien;
When grim war strode forth thro' valley, and o'er hill from sea to sea,
All along her pathway shedding, woe in its infinity.

Although time and gallant service, for the land he loved the best,
Had upon his manhood told already, and he needed rest,
Brave, and trusting still, and loving, as a knight of ancient days,
Forth he went with other comrades, caring not for fame or praise.

Only eager, aye, for duty, as God made it plain to all,
When upon the breath of Zephyrus, patriot heroes heard him call;
Anxious to beat back the dread one, and thro' war bring sweet release,
From the demon of the tempest, usher in the reign of peace!

O, the hot and bloody conflicts, hour by hour, and day by day,
'Mid those years of which the memory can never pass away!
O, at last the hard-won triumph, aye, but glorious we may say,
Since thro' tears and loss God's blessing comes to-day to "Blue and Gray!"

And the soldier, the old soldier, sitting there that hour alone,
Gazing out upon the waters, thought of those years long since flown,
And, on many a field of strife, his humble part--his part sublime--
When his comrades fell around him like leaves in the Autumn time!

Sitting there that summer morning he thought, too, how since his youth,
His whole life had ever been, as 'twere, a lone one, how in sooth
He had never since that hour--and his years how great the sum!--
He had never known the blessing of a wife, or child, or home.

And, ah, now he fast was nearing--sad old man!--the end of life,
Soon he should lay by his armour and go forth beyond the strife.
And he tho't--"O, ere I go hence, if the one who gave me birth
Could but come from yonder Heaven, only come once more to earth;

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