Joel Barlow - "The Columbiad"

James Blyth - "Edward FitzGerald and Posh"

Eliza Leslie - "Directions for Cookery, in its Various Branches"

E. Cohen Brewer - "Character Sketches of Romance, Fiction and the Drama"

Annual Bibliography of Commonwealth Literature 2007
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 Magic City

E >> Edith Nesbit >> The Magic City




Very gently the ropes, with slip knots, were fitted over their heads,
and the other end of the rope passed round a palm tree. Other ropes
round the trees were passed round what would have been the waists of the
lions if lions had such things as waists.

'Now!' whispered Lucy, and at once all four ropes were pulled tight. The
lions struggled, but only in their sleep. And soon they were still. Then
with more and more ropes their legs and tails were made fast.

'And that's all right,' said Lucy, rather out of breath. 'Where's
Polly?'

'Here,' replied that bird from a neighbouring bush. 'I thought I should
only be in the way if I kept close to you. But I longed to lend a claw
in such good work. Can I help _now_?'

'Will you please explain to the dogs?' said Lucy. 'It's their turn now.
The only way I know to kill Noah's Ark lions is to _lick the paint off_
and break their legs. And if the dogs lick all the paint off their legs
they won't feel it when we break them.'

Polly hastened to explain to the dogs, and then turned again to Lucy.

'They asked if you're sure the ropes will hold, and I've told them of
course. So now they're going to begin. I only hope the paint won't make
them ill.'

'It never did me,' said Lucy. 'I sucked the dove quite clean one Sunday,
and it wasn't half bad. Tasted of sugar a little and eucalyptus oil like
they give you when you've got a cold. Tell them that, Polly.'

Polly did, and added, 'I will recite poetry to them to hearten them to
their task.'

'Do,' said Philip heartily, 'it may make them hurry up. But perhaps
you'd better tell them that we shall pinch their tails if they happen to
go to sleep.'

Then the children had a cocoa-and-date breakfast. (All expeditions seem
to live mostly on cocoa, and when they come back they often write to the
cocoa makers to say how good it was and they don't know what they would
have done without it.) And the noble and devoted dogs licked and licked
and licked, and the paint began to come off the lions' legs like
anything. It was heavy work turning the lions over so as to get at the
other or unlicked side, but the expedition worked with a will, and the
lions resisted but feebly, being still asleep, and, besides, weak from
loss of paint. And the dogs had a drink given them and were patted and
praised, and set to work again. And they licked and licked for hours and
hours. And in the end all the paint was off the lions' legs, and Philip
chopped them off with the explorer's axe which that experienced
Provider, Mr. Noah's son, had thoughtfully included in the outfit of the
expedition. And as he chopped the chips flew, and Lucy picked one up,
and it was _wood_, just wood and nothing else, though when they had
tied it up it had been real writhing resisting lion-leg and no mistake.
And when all the legs were chopped off, Philip put his hand on a lion
body, and that was wood too. So the lions were dead indeed.

[Illustration: It was heavy work turning the lions over.]

'It seems a pity,' he said. 'Lions are such jolly beasts when they are
alive.'

'I never cared for lions myself,' said Polly; and Lucy said, 'Never
mind, Phil. It didn't hurt them anyway.'

And that was the first time she ever called him Phil.

'All right, Lu,' said Philip. 'It was jolly clever of you to think of it
anyhow.'

And that was the first time he ever called her Lu.

. . . . . . .

They saw the straight pale line of the sea for a long time before they
came to the place of the Dwellers by the Sea. For these people had built
their castle down on the very edge of the sea, and the Pebbly Waste rose
and rose to a mountain that hid their castle from the eyes of the
camel-riders who were now drawing near to the scene of their next deed.
The Pebbly Waste was all made of small slippery stones, and the children
understood how horrid a horse would have found it. Even the camel
went very slowly, and the dogs no longer frisked and bounded, but
went at a foot's pace with drooping ears and tails.

'I should call a halt, if I were you,' said Polly. 'We shall all be the
better for a cup of cocoa. And besides----'

Polly refused to explain this dark hint and only added, 'Look out for
surprises.'

'I thought,' said Philip, draining the last of his second mug of cocoa,
'I thought there were no birds in the desert except you, and you're more
a person than a bird. But look there.'

Far away across the desert a moving speck showed, high up in the blue
air. It grew bigger and bigger, plainly coming towards the camp. It was
as big as a moth now, now as big as a teacup, now as big as an eagle,
and----

'But it's got four legs,' said Lucy.

'Yes,' said the parrot; 'it would have, you know. It is the Hippogriff.'

It was indeed that magnificent wonder. Flying through the air with long
sweeps of his great white wings, the Hippogriff drew nearer and nearer,
bearing on his back--what?

'It's the Pretenderette,' cried Lucy, and at the same moment Philip
said, 'It's that nasty motor thing.'

It was. The Hippogriff dropped from the sky to the desert below as
softly as a butterfly alighting on a flower, and stood there in all his
gracious whiteness. And on his back was the veiled motor lady.

'So glad I've caught you up,' she said in that hateful voice of hers;
'now we can go on together.'

'I don't see what you wanted to come at all for,' said Philip
downrightly.

'Oh, _don't_ you?' she said, sitting up there on the Hippogriff with her
horrid motor veil fluttering in the breeze from the now hidden sea.
'Why, of course, I have a right to be present at all experiments. There
ought to be some responsible grown-up person to see that you really do
what you're sure to say you've done.'

'Do you mean that we're liars?' Philip asked hotly.

'I don't mean to _say_ anything about it,' the Pretenderette answered
with an unpleasant giggle, 'but a grown-up person ought to be present.'
She added something about a parcel of birds and children. And the parrot
ruffled his feathers till he looked twice his proper size.

Philip said he didn't see it.

'Oh, but _I_ do,' said the Pretenderette; 'if you fail, then it's my
turn, and I might very likely succeed the minute after you'd failed. So
we'll all go on comfortably together. _Won't_ that be nice?'

A speechless despair seemed to have fallen on the party. Nobody spoke.
The children looked blank, the dogs whined, the camel put on his
haughtiest sneer, and the parrot fidgeted in his fluffed-out feather
dress.

'Let's be starting,' said the motor lady. 'Gee-up, pony!' A shiver ran
through every one present. That a Pretenderette should dare to speak so
to a Hippogriff!

Suddenly the parrot spread its wings and flew to perch on Philip's
shoulder. It whispered in his ear.

'Whispering is not manners, I know,' it said, 'but your own generous
heart will excuse me. "Parcel of birds and children." Doesn't your blood
boil?'

Philip thought it did.

'Well, then,' said the bird impatiently, 'what are we waiting for?
You've only got to say the word and I'll take her back by the ear.'

'I wish you would,' said Philip from the heart.

'Nothing easier,' said the parrot, 'the miserable outsider! Intruding
into _our_ expedition! I advise you to await my return here. Or if I am
not back by the morning there will be no objection to your calling,
about noon, on the Dwellers. I can rejoin you there. Good-bye.'

It stroked his ear with a gentle and kindly beak and flew into the air
and circled three times round the detested motor lady's head.

'Get away,' she cried, flapping her hands furiously; 'call your silly
Poll-parrot off, can't you?' And then she screamed, 'Oh! it's got hold
of my ear!'

'Oh, don't hurt her,' said Lucy.

'I will not hurt her;' the parrot let the ear go on purpose to say this,
and the Pretenderette covered both ears with her hands. 'You person in
the veil, I shall take hold again in a moment. And it will hurt you much
less if the Hippogriff and I happen to be flying in the same direction.
See? If I were you I should just say "Go back the way you came, please,"
to the Hippogriff, and then I shall hardly hurt you at all. Don't think
of getting off. If you do, the dogs will have you. Keep your hands over
your ears if you like. I know you can hear me well enough. Now I am
going to take hold of you again. Keep your hands where they are. I'm not
particular to an ear or so. A nose will do just as well.'

The person on the Hippogriff put both hands to her nose. Instantly the
parrot had her again by the ear.

'Go back the way you came,' she cried; 'but I'll be even with you
children yet.'

The Hippogriff did not move.

'Let go my ear,' screamed the lady.

'You'll have to say please, you know,' said Philip; 'not to the bird, I
don't mean that: that's no good. But to the Hippogriff.'

'_Please_ then,' said the lady in a burst of temper, and instantly the
white wings parted and spread and the Hippogriff rose in the air. Polly
let the ear go for the moment to say:

'I shan't hurt her so long as she behaves,' and then took hold again and
his little grey wings and the big white wings of the Hippogriff went
sailing away across the desert.

'What a treasure of a parrot?' said Philip. But Lucy said:

'Who _is_ that Pretenderette? Why is she so horrid to us when every one
else is so nice?'

'I don't know,' said Philip, 'hateful old thing.'

'I can't help feeling as if I knew her quite well, if I could only
remember who she is.'

'Do you?' said Philip. 'I say, let's play noughts and crosses. I've got
a notebook and a bit of pencil in my pocket. We might play till it's
time to go to sleep.'

So they played noughts and crosses on the Pebbly Waste, and behind them
the parrot and the Hippogriff took away the tiresome one, and in front
of them lay the high pebble ridge that was like a mountain, and beyond
that was the unknown and the adventure and the Dwellers and the deed to
be done.




CHAPTER VII

THE DWELLERS BY THE SEA


You soon get used to things. It seemed quite natural and homelike to
Philip to be wakened in bright early out-of-door's morning by the gentle
beak of the parrot at his ear.

'You got back all right then,' he said sleepily.

'It was rather a long journey,' said the parrot, 'but I thought it
better to come back by wing. The Hippogriff offered to bring me; he is
the soul of courteous gentleness. But he was tired too. The
Pretenderette is in gaol for the moment, but I'm afraid she'll get out
again; we're so unused to having prisoners, you see. And it's no use
putting _her_ on her honour, because----'

'Because she hasn't any,' Philip finished.

'I wouldn't say _that_,' said the parrot, 'of anybody. I'd only say we
haven't come across it. What about breakfast?'

'How meals do keep happening,' said Lucy, yawning; 'it seems only a few
minutes since supper. And yet here we are, hungry again!'

'Ah!' said the parrot, 'that's what people always feel when they have to
get their meals themselves!'

When the camel and the dogs had been served with breakfast, the children
and the parrot sat down to eat. And there were many questions to ask.
The parrot answered some, and some it didn't answer.

'But there's one thing,' said Lucy, 'I do most awfully want to know.
About the Hippogriff. How did it get out of the book?'

'It's a long story,' said the parrot, 'so I'll tell it shortly. That's a
very good rule. Tell short stories longly and long stories shortly. Many
years ago, in repairing one of the buildings, the masons removed the
supports of one of the books which are part of the architecture. The
book fell. It fell open, and out came the Hippogriff. Then they saw
something struggling under the next page and lifted it, and out came a
megatherium. So they shut the book and built it into the wall again.'

'But how did the megawhatsitsname and the Hippogriff come to be the
proper size?'

'Ah! that's one of the eleven mysteries. Some sages suppose that the
country gave itself a sort of shake and everything settled down into
the size it ought to be. I think myself that it's the air. The moment
you breathe this enchanted air you become the right size. _You_ did, you
know.'

'But why did they shut the book?'

'It was a book of beasts. Who knows what might have come out next? A
tiger perhaps. And ravening for its prey as likely as not.'

'I see,' said Philip; 'and of course beasts weren't really _needed_,
because of there being all the Noah's Ark ones.'

'Yes,' said the parrot, 'so they shut the book.'

'But the weather came out of books?'

'That was another book, a poetry book. It had only one cover, so
everything that was on the last page got out naturally. We got a lot out
of that page, rain and sun and sky and clouds, mountains, gardens,
roses, lilies, flowers in general, "Blossoms of delight" they were
called in the book and trees and the sea, and the desert and silver and
iron--as much of all of them as anybody could possibly want. There are
no limits to poets' imaginations, you know.'

'I see,' said Lucy, and took a large bite of cake. 'And where did you
come from, Polly, dear?'

'I,' said the parrot modestly, 'came out of the same book as the
Hippogriff. We were on the same page. My wings entitled me to associate
with him, of course, but I have sometimes thought they just put me in as
a contrast. My smallness, his greatness; my red and green, his white.'

'I see,' said Lucy again, 'and please will you tell us----'

'Enough of this,' said the parrot; 'business before pleasure. You have
begun the day with the pleasures of my conversation. You will have to
work very hard to pay for this privilege.'

So they washed up the breakfast things in warm water obligingly provided
by the camel.

'And now,' said the parrot, 'we must pack up and go on our way to
destroy the fear of the Dwellers by the Sea.'

'I wonder,' Brenda said to Max in an undertone, 'I wonder whether it
wouldn't be best for dear little dogs to lose themselves? We could turn
up later, and be so _very_ glad to be found.'

'But why?' Max asked.

'I've noticed,' said Brenda, sidling up to him with eager
affectionateness, 'that wherever there's fear there's something to be
afraid of, even if it's only your fancy. It would be dreadful for dear
little dogs to be afraid, Max, wouldn't it? So undignified.'

'My dear,' said Max heavily, 'I could give seven noble reasons for being
faithful to our master. But I will only give you one. There is nothing
to eat in the desert, and nothing to drink.'

'You always were so noble, dearest,' said Brenda; 'so different from
poor little me. I've only my affectionate nature. I know I'm only a
silly little thing.'

So when the camel lurched forward and the parrot took wing, the dogs
followed closely.

'Dear faithful things,' said Lucy. 'Brenda! Max! Nice dogs!'

And the dogs politely responding, bounded enthusiastically.

The journey was not long. Quite soon they found a sort of ravine or
gully in the cliff, and a path that led through it. And then they were
on the beach, very pebbly with small stones, and there was the home of
the Dwellers by the Sea; and beyond it, broad and blue and beautiful,
the sea by which they dwelt.

The Dwelling seemed to be a sort of town of rounded buildings more like
lime-kilns than anything else, with arched doors leading to dark
insides. They were all built of tiny stones, such as lay on the beach.
Beyond the huts or houses towered the castle, a vast rough structure
with towers and arches and buttresses and bastions and glacis and
bridges and a great moat all round it.

'But I never built a city like that, did you?' Lucy asked as they drew
near.

'No,' Philip answered; 'at least--do you know, I do believe it's the
sand castle Helen and I built last summer at Dymchurch. And those huts
are the moulds I made of my pail--with the edges worn off, you know.'

Towards the castle the travellers advanced, the camel lurching like a
boat on a rough sea, and the dogs going with cat-like delicacy over the
stones. They skirted large pools and tall rocks seaweed covered. Along a
road broad enough for twelve chariots to have driven on it abreast,
slowly they came to the great gate of the castle. And as they got
nearer, they saw at every window heads leaning out; every battlement,
every terrace, was crowded with figures. And when they were quite near,
by throwing their heads very far back, so that their necks felt quite
stiff for quite a long time afterwards, the children could see that all
those people seemed quite young, and seemed to have very odd and
delightful clothes--just a garment from shoulder to knee made, as it
seemed, of dark fur.

[Illustration: Slowly they came to the great gate of the castle.]

'What lots of them there are,' said Philip; 'where did they come from?'

'Out of a book,' said the parrot; 'but the authorities were very prompt
that time. Only a line and a half got out.

'Happy troops
Of gentle islanders.

Those are the islanders.'

'Then why,' asked Philip naturally, 'aren't they on an island?'

'There's only one island, and no one is allowed on that except two
people who never go there. But the islanders are happy even if they
don't live on an island--always happy, except for the great fear.'

Here the travellers began to cross one of the bridges across the moat,
the bridge, in fact, which led to the biggest arch of all. It was a very
rough arch, like the entrance to a cave.

And from out its dark mouth came a little crowd of people.

'They're savages,' said Lucy, shrinking till she seemed only an extra
hump on the camel's back.

They were indeed of a dark complexion, sunburnt in fact, but their faces
were handsome and kindly. They waved friendly hands and smiled in the
most agreeable and welcoming way.

The tallest islander stepped out from the crowd. He was about as big as
Philip.

'They're not savages,' said Philip; 'don't be a donkey. They're just
children.'

'Hush!' said the parrot; 'the Lord High Islander is now about to begin
the state address of welcome!'

He was. And this was the address.

'How jolly of you to come. Do get down off that camel and come indoors
and have some grub. Jim, you might take that camel round to the stable
and rub him down a bit. You'd like to keep the dogs with you, of course.
And what about the parrot?'

'Thanks awfully,' Philip responded, and slid off the camel, followed by
Lucy; 'the parrot will make his own mind up--he always does.'

They all trooped into the hall of the castle which was more like a cave
than a hall and very dark, for the windows were little and high up. As
Lucy's eyes got used to the light she perceived that the clothes of the
islanders were not of skins but of seaweed.

'I asked you in,' said the Lord High Islander, a jolly-looking boy of
about Philip's age, 'out of politeness. But really it isn't dinner time,
and the meet is in half an hour. So, unless you're really hungry----?'

The children said 'Not at all!'

'You hunt, of course?' the Lord High Islander said; 'it's really the
only sport we get here, except fishing. Of course we play games and all
that. I do hope you won't be dull.'

'We came here on business,' the parrot remarked--and the happy islanders
crowded round to see him, remarking--'these are Philip and Lucy,
claimants to the Deliverership. They are doing their deeds, you know,'
the parrot ended.

Lucy whispered, 'It's really _Philip_ who is the claimant, not me; only
the parrot's so polite.'

The Lord High Islander frowned. 'We can talk about that afterwards,' he
said; 'it's a pity to waste time now.'

'What do you hunt?' Philip asked.

'All the different kinds of graibeeste and the vertoblancs; and the
blugraiwee, when we can find him,' said the Lord High Islander. 'But
he's very scarce. Pinkuggers are more common, and much bigger, of
course. Well, you'll soon see. If your camel's not quite fresh I can
mount you both. What kind of animal do you prefer?'

'What do you ride?' Philip asked.

It appeared that the Lord High Islander rode a giraffe, and Philip
longed to ride another. But Lucy said she would rather ride what she
was used to, thank you.

When they got out into the courtyard of the castle, they found it full
of a crowd of animals, any of which you may find in the Zoo, or in your
old Noah's ark if it was a sufficiently expensive one to begin with, and
if you have not broken or lost too many of the inhabitants. Each animal
had its rider and the party rode out on to the beach.

'What _is_ it they hunt?' Philip asked the parrot, who had perched on
his shoulder.

'All the little animals in the Noah's ark that haven't any names,' the
parrot told him. 'All those are considered fair game. Hullo!
blugraiwee!' it shouted, as a little grey beast with blue spots started
from the shelter of a rock and made for the cover of a patch of giant
seaweed. Then all sorts of little animals got up and scurried off into
places of security.

'There goes a vertoblanc,' said the parrot, pointing to a bright green
animal of uncertain shape, whose breast and paws were white, 'and
there's a graibeeste.'

The graibeeste was about as big as a fox, and had rabbit's ears and the
unusual distinction of a tail coming out of his back just half-way
between one end of him and the other. But there are graibeestes of all
sorts and shapes.

[Illustration: 'If your camel's not quite fresh I can mount you
both.']

You know when people are making the animals for Noah's arks they make
the big ones first, elephants and lions and tigers and so on, and paint
them as nearly as they can the right colours. Then they get weary of
copying nature and begin to paint the animals pink and green and
chocolate colour, which in nature is not the case. These are the
chockmunks, and vertoblancs and the pinkuggers. And presently the makers
get sick of the whole business and make the animals any sort of shape
and paint them all one grey--these are the graibeestes. And at the very
end a guilty feeling of having been slackers comes over the makers of
the Noah's arks, and they paint blue spots on the last and littlest of
the graibeestes to ease their consciences. This is the blugraiwee.

'Tally Ho! Hark forrad! Yoicks!' were some of the observations now to be
heard on every side as the hunt swept on, the blugraiwee well ahead.
Dogs yapped, animals galloped, riders shouted, the sun shone, the sea
sparkled, and far ahead the blugraiwee ran, extended to his full length
like a grey straight line. He was killed five miles from the castle
after a splendid run. And when a pinkugger had been secured and half a
dozen graibeeste, the hunt rode slowly home.

'We only hunt to kill and we only kill for food,' the Lord High Islander
said.

'But,' said Philip, 'I thought Noah's ark animals turned into wood when
they were dead?'

'Not if you kill for food. The intention makes all the difference. I had
a plum-cake intention when we put up the blugraiwee, the pinkugger I
made a bread and butter intention about, and the graibeestes I intended
for rice pudding and prunes and toffee and ices and all sorts of odd
things. So, of course, when we come to cut them up they'll _be_ what I
intended.'

'I see,' said Philip, jogging along on his camel. 'I say,' he added,
'you don't mind my asking--how is it you're all children here?'

'Well,' said the Lord High Islander, 'it's ancient history, so I don't
suppose it's true. But they say that when the government had to make
sure that we should always be _happy_ troops of gentle islanders, they
decided that the only way was for us to be children. And we do have the
most ripping time. And we do our own hunting and cooking and wash up our
own plates and things, and for heavy work we have the M.A.'s. They're
men who've had to work at sums and history and things at College so hard
that they want a holiday. So they come here and work for us, and if any
of us do want to learn anything, the M.A.'s are handy to have about the
place. It pleases them to teach anything, poor things. They live in the
huts. There's always a long list waiting for their turn. Oh yes, they
wear the seaweed dress the same as we do. And they hunt on Tuesdays,
Thursdays and Saturdays. They hunt big game, the fierce ambergris who is
grey with a yellow stomach and the bigger graibeestes. Now we'll have
dinner the minute we get in, and then we must talk about It.'

The game was skinned and cut up in the courtyard, and the intentions of
the Lord High Islander had certainly been carried out. For the
blugraiwee was plum-cake, and the other animals just what was needed.

And after dinner the Lord High Islander took Lucy and Philip up on to
the top of the highest tower, and the three lay in the sun eating toffee
and gazing out over the sea at the faint distant blue of the island.

'The island where we aren't allowed to go,' as the Lord High Islander
sadly pointed out.

'Now,' said Lucy gently, 'you won't mind telling us what you're afraid
of? Don't mind telling us. _We're_ afraid too; we're afraid of all sorts
of things quite often.'

'Speak for yourself,' said Philip, but not unkindly. 'I'm not so jolly
often afraid as you seem to think. Go ahead, my Lord.'

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