Various - "Georgian Poetry 1916 17"

Theodor Mommsen - "Römische Geschichte Book 1"

Frank Norris - "A Deal in Wheat"

Baron Trenck - "The Life and Adventures of Baron Trenck Volume 2"

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.

Eventide

E >> Effie Afton >> Eventide




"Often," said Willie.

"For what purpose?" demanded the recluse, in a quick, sudden tone,
looking eagerly on the boy's face.

"To thank you for all your kindness to her," replied the lad,
ingenuously.

"O, yes!" returned the solitary man, his features relapsing into their
usual placid serenity. "I wish not, nor deserve, her thanks for the
humble charities given. Let us seek our couch, my boy."

"Have you another name than William?" he asked, as they were lying down.

"Yes," answered the youth; "William Ralph is my name,--the first for my
father, the second for an uncle who went to distant countries, ere I can
remember, and has never been heard of since."

"Was the uncle your father's or mother's brother?" inquired the hermit,
in a careless tone.

"My mother's. Ralph Greyson was his name."

"And does your mother appear to mourn his loss, or wish for his return?"
said the hermit, still in the same careless, half-absorbed tone of
voice.

"She speaks pityingly of him sometimes, for he was a bright, promising
youth, she says, when one distressful circumstance crushed his hopes and
ruined his usefulness; but I do not think she desires his return, for he
left his native shores cursing her as the cause of his misfortunes."

"Ah! how had she caused his misfortunes?" asked the hermit, drowsily.

"By marrying below her sphere," said Willie, in a trembling, embarrassed
tone; "a man who proved a vulgar sot, and thus disgracing him in the
eyes of a proud family, with whom he sought an alliance."

As Willie ceased speaking, the hermit breathed heavily, as if in deep
sleep; so, turning his face to the cedar-plaited wall, the lad was soon
wrapped in his own sweet, youthful slumbers.




CHAPTER XXV.

"Wasting away--away--away,
Slowly, silently, day after day.
Fainter, and fainter and fainter the flow,
Of the current of life more sluggish and slow,
And a ghastly glare in the glassy eye,
And the wan cheek tinged with a hectic dye."


In the dim gloom of a soft spring evening, a slender, graceful form bent
silently over a low, curtained couch, gently fanning the annoying
insects from the pale brow of its slumbering occupant. The apartment was
furnished with almost princely magnificence. Curtains of the richest
blue-wrought damask, hung in massy folds from ceiling to floor, before
the deep bay-windows. Rosewood sofas and fauteuils, in costly coverings
of the same soft color, rested on the brilliantly interwoven flowers of
the Persian carpet, whose velvety softness echoed not the slightest
tread. A fairy chandelier hung suspended from the lofty, corniced
ceiling. Rare statuary decorated the mantel. Large mirrors and pictures
in broad gilt frames adorned the walls. Marble stands, covered with
deep-fringed cloths of gold, on which lay books in superb bindings,
graced the several corners, and the carved mahogany bedstead, behind
whose ample curtains of azure velvet the sleeper reposed, among
white-piled cushions of softest down, vied in elegant luxury with the
couch of an eastern princess. And there, with one white, wasted arm
thrown above the head, all shorn of its bright wealth of auburn curls,
and the other concealed 'neath the silken coverings, lay Edith Malcome,
the blue veins almost starting from her pale brow, and a bright crimson
spot on the sunken cheek. Alas, that earth's most lovely should fall the
earliest victims to the withering hand of disease! The door did softly
asunder, and her father entered. With an expression of deep care and
suffering depicted on his handsome features, he approached the bed-side.

"Is she still sleeping?" demanded he, in a whisper which would have been
inaudible to an ear less quick than that of the silent watcher.

"She is," was the ready answer, in the same hushed tone. He gazed
intently for several moments on the attenuated form before him, while
every variety of expression passed over his countenance.

"If she dies," said he, at length, in a voice broken with grief, "what
will be left on earth to me?"

The watcher was deeply affected by his grief-stricken appearance. "O,
speak not thus!" she said, bursting into tears. "She will not die; the
doctor has given us better hopes to-day. But even if she were to be
taken to her home in the skies, you must not say there's nothing left on
earth for you. You, so bright in soul and intellect, surrounded by
admiring friends and all the luxuries of princely wealth, with a son to
perpetuate your name"----

"Say no more," interrupted the afflicted man. "I cannot endure your
words."

Louise was grieved to see she had only wounded where she meant to
soothe, and, with a gentle, impulsive movement, placed her hand on the
soft black curls of the head that was bowed among the cushions of the
bed, and said, "Forgive me, I meant not to afflict."

Silently he took the little hand in his, and placed it on his throbbing
temples. Louise trembled.

"Your brow is feverish," said she at length, seeking an excuse to
withdraw the imprisoned hand; "let me bathe it in some cooling lotion."

"No," said he, "this moist little palm is better than any lotion," still
detaining it, as she sought to reach the stand which contained a
quantity of vials on a silver tray. The slight movements aroused Edith.
Opening her large, spiritual eyes, she gazed up in the faces of the
watchers at her bed-side, with a vague, dreamy expression.

"Don't you know me, Edith?" asked her father, bending quickly over her.

"O, yes, father!" answered she faintly; "and that lady is my mother,"
she added, staring confusedly upon Louise, as if not yet in full
possession of her waking faculties.

Louise looked embarrassed, and the colonel hastened to say, "That is
Mrs. Edson, my dear, who watches with you to-night. You are wandering a
little, I fear."

"Well, where is my mother, then?" continued Edith, in the same strange
manner, which appeared to agitate her father deeply.

"My child," said he, in a soothing tone, "have I not often told you your
mother died when you was a very little girl?"

"I don't know," said Edith, "but last night I dreamed she came with a
pale face and bloody lips and stared so mournfully upon me. I wish you
would go and bring her to me, father."

"My daughter, do I not tell you she is in her grave?" said the father,
trembling with emotion. "How can I bring her to you?"

"Hannah Doliver told Rufus she would come if you would let her,"
continued the sick girl, in a reproachful tone, apparently not
understanding her father's words.

On hearing this, Col. Malcome started with a violent exclamation, which
alarmed Edith, and brought her at once into full possession of her
senses. Louise, who had marked, with her quick eye, the colonel's
strange excitement, approached and administered a reviving cordial to
the invalid. The father soon retired, leaving the watcher alone with her
charge.

As the hours dragged slowly on, many were the thoughts which passed
through Mrs. Edson's active brain, as to the cause of Edith's singular
words, and the anger and excitement evinced by her father. At length the
gray morning dawned, and Sylva, Edith's attendant, appeared to relieve
the watcher from her post.

As Louise was passing through the hall to gain the street, the door
suddenly opened, and Col. Malcome entered in cap and overcoat. He paused
and inquired if his daughter had passed a comfortable night, and, on
receiving an affirmative answer, proceeded to the drawing-room.




CHAPTER XXVI.

"The old days we remember;
How softly did they glide!
While, all untouched by worldly care,
We wandered side by side.
In those pleasant days, when the sun's last rays
Just lingered on the hill;
Or the moon's pale light, with the coming night,
Shone o'er our pathway still.

"The old days we remember,
O, there's nothing like them now!
The glow has faded from our hearts,
The blossom from the bough.
A bitter sigh for the hours gone by,
The dreams that might not last;
The friends deemed true when our hopes were new,
And the glorious visions past."


Rufus Malcome, as the accepted suitor of Florence, paid regular visits
to her father's mansion. Great was the glee of Hannah Doliver to behold
the young couple together; and great the nervous disquiet evinced by the
invalided Mrs. Howard when she was aware of the young man's presence in
the house. She had never met him, as her health, which had in the last
six months rapidly declined, confined her now entirely to her room, and
indisposed her more strongly than ever to behold strange faces.

The only person she had ever been known to express a wish to see, since
her residence in Wimbledon, was Edith Malcome,--a wish excited, perhaps,
by Florence's warm praises of the grace and beauty of her young friend,
who was as different from Rufus, she said, "as a sweet pink from an
odious poppy."

But Edith, strange as it may appear, had never visited at the Howards',
though often warmly invited by the whole family.

The colonel invariably excused her in his easy, graceful manner, saying
she was "a timid little thing, and dreaded to go for a moment from her
father's side." Latterly, her illness had been sufficient reason for her
seclusion.

Florence was restricted from frequent visits to her sick friend by the
state of her own health, which had grown so feeble and delicate as to
alarm her father exceedingly. Dr. Potipher was consulted, and strongly
advised travel and change of scene as the most effectual remedy for the
feverish disease that seemed preying upon her constitution.

Major Howard was very willing to take his daughter on a tour of travel,
but knew not how to leave his invalid lady, whose strength he thought to
be gradually failing. She was far too low for him to indulge the idea of
making her one of the party, and he was about relinquishing the project
in despair, when, on mentioning the subject to the sick woman, great was
his surprise to find her even more anxious and earnest for his departure
than he was to go. She said "she should do very well without him,--she
always mended as summer approached, and Florence was drooping from long
and close confinement. She needed exercise and change of scene, and it
was his duty to do all in his power to restore her to health and
cheerfulness." Major Howard felt the only obstacle removed by the
invalid's assent and hearty cooeperation; so Florence was informed of the
project, and preparations immediately commenced for her tour.

It was a pleasant April evening as she sat in her luxurious apartment
with her journal open before her. "The last of these bright spring
evenings that I am to pass at home is closing in around me," she wrote.
"My trunks are packed and closed down, and to-morrow I am to start on a
tour of travel. How my long torpid bosom bounds at the thought! I shall
sail up that picturesque Hudson! I shall look on glorious Niagara! But I
fear my anticipations are too brilliant. Something will occur to dreg my
expected draught of happiness with sorrow. Thus it has ever been! Too
well I know I shall return to become the bride of one I detest; but I
will not let that thought embitter my enjoyment of the wonders and
beauties I shall behold. Besides, in so long a time as I shall be
absent, what may occur? Ah, I have written words that make me shudder! I
fear I may return to find the snows covering my mother's grave. Why do I
leave her? Is it not selfishness to allow her to urge me away when it is
her own generous care and affection for me which prompt her to do so?
There is something strange in the way she speaks of my matrimonial
engagement. I am sure it does not meet her approval, though she gave her
consent, as she always does to everything upon which father sets his
mind. She evidently dreads its consummation, perhaps because she has
discovered my aversion for the man I am to marry. As to Hannah Doliver,
she is wonderfully mollified toward me of late; but her fawning fondness
is more intolerable than her asperity and impertinence. Nothing seems to
delight her so much as to behold Rufus Malcome in company with me. I
caught her watching at the parlor-door this evening when he called in
company with his father to leave his adieus. She accompanied them to the
door and remained several minutes in conversation in the hall. I found
her in the kitchen a short time after, and she was muttering to herself
and slamming things about in a great rage. When she discovered me she
ceased, and grew suddenly as sunny as summer. She is a strange, dark,
intriguing woman, I fear, and wish we were well quit of her. I asked
mother if she had not better discharge her, and get a new person to
attend her during our absence; but she said, with a sudden expression of
alarm, 'O, no; she would not part with Hannah on any account!' So I said
no more, but fancied her preference was dictated more by fear than love.
But I spin out a long record for this last evening at home. O, budding
vines and flowers! who will train your rich luxuriance into fairy,
fantastic clusterings, or watch your opening petals in the summer which
is to come? Who listen to the babbling fountains, or roam the cedar-walks
that border the dancing river? And O, the far, far-stretching forest,
from whose mysterious depths, in a bright year passed away, I saw _him_
emerge, and hurried down the gravelled path to meet him at the
garden-gate, with happy, bounding heart! Will new scenes, however glad
and gay, e'er dim the memory of those dear times? Never!"




CHAPTER XXVII.

"It is a pleasant thing to roam abroad,
And gaze on scenes and objects strange and grand;
To sail in mighty ships o'er distant seas,
And roam the mountains of a foreign land."


In Mrs. Stanhope's pretty cottage, close by the vine-shaded window, sat
Jenny Andrews, and she said Florence Howard had started on a tour of
travel.

"Who is her companion?" asked Mrs. Stanhope.

"Why, Rufus Malcome, of course," said Miss Pinkerton, quickly.

"No," said Jenny, "her father."

"Her father!" exclaimed Miss Martha, in a tone of surprise. "How in the
world could he leave his sick wife, I should like to know?"

"Mrs. Howard is getting better, I believe," remarked Jenny.

"Well, that's strange enough," continued Miss Pinkerton; "with that
impudent Hannah Doliver for a nurse, I wonder she has not died before
now."

Hannah Doliver was Miss Martha's utter detestation, though why, we
cannot tell, as the little dark woman had never injured her, nor had
Miss Pinkerton ever exchanged above a dozen syllables with her in her
life. But it was one of those unaccountable dislikes which often arise
in people of certain temperaments, on first sight of a particular
individual.

Mrs. Stanhope said she was glad Florence had gone a journey, for the
dear girl had looked pale and sickly of late, and she thought change of
scene might be beneficial to her health.

Miss Martha inquired if Jenny knew how Edith Malcome was getting along.

"I have just come from her," said Jenny; "she is very much changed. All
her beautiful hair has been cut away, and she is, O, so thin and wasted!
But they call her slowly improving."

"Who takes care of her?" asked Miss P.

"Her waiting-woman, Sylva, I believe," returned Jenny.

"Well, it must be very hard for her to do it all the time," said Martha;
"if they would just ask me, I would go any time and assist them."

"Mrs. Edson is there considerable," remarked Jenny.

"I know she is; most too much for her credit," returned Miss Pinkerton;
"if a man has a wife, he wants her at home sometimes."

"Why, Martha!" observed Mrs. Stanhope, mildly; "I never heard a
reproachful word of Mrs. Edson breathed by any person."

"Neither did I," said Jenny, rising; "and if I do, I shan't believe it,
for I think she is the dearest, sweetest creature in the world."

"With the exception of one Mr. Richard Giblet," remarked Miss Pinkerton,
in a tone she conceived to be vastly witty and piquant.

Jenny's blush, as she bade good-morning, crowned the malicious maiden's
triumph.

On this same morning, Mrs. Edson sat at her elegant rosewood piano,
carelessly striking the ivory keys, when she heard a light footstep, and
turning, beheld Col. Malcome advancing to her side. She was a little
angry that he had entered unannounced, and her cheeks flushed, as she
rather briefly bade him welcome.

"I beg your pardon for entering so informally," said he, at once
interpreting the expression of her face. "Your doors were all ajar, and
I saw no one to announce me."

"Had you rung, some one would have appeared," said Louise, with a slight
curl of her red lip.

"Well, I beg your pardon for not doing so," returned he. "Will you grant
it?"

There was something in the rueful appearance he assumed, which forced
her to laugh in spite of her efforts at dignity and restraint, and thus
he was reinstated in her good graces.

"Are you playing?" he asked, touching his own fingers upon the keys, but
at a respectful distance from hers.

"No," she returned. "I have practised so little of late I have lost all
my ear. Won't you favor me with that thrilling piece from Beethoven, you
performed on the first evening of our acquaintance?" She looked eagerly
in his face as she spoke.

"What will you do for me if I will?" he asked.

"O, anything in my power!" she replied, rising, and motioning him to
assume the music-stool, which he did very readily. Skilfully running
over the keys, by way of prelude, while she stood leaning gracefully
against the instrument, intently regarding his movements, he commenced
the symphony. The swelling notes rose on the air in brilliant variety,
and when, at the end of the second chorus, the rich, mellow tones of his
voice were added, Louise dropped on her knees beside the performer,
while tears gathered in her eyes and rolled over her beautiful face. He
did not seem to heed her position, so intently was his soul occupied
with the music his lips were breathing. At length the last magic strain
died mournfully away. Then he rested his deep blue eyes calmly on her
glowing features.

"What shall I do for you?" she asked, smiling.

"You promised," answered he, "to do anything I wished, if I would sing
the piece."

"So I will," returned she, earnestly.

"Then," said he, in a low, thrilling tone, "as Steerforth said to David,
think of me at my best."

She looked at him eagerly. "Is that all?" she asked.

"That is enough," he answered; "will you promise _always_ to do that?"

She paused a few moments, and then answered, in a tone which indicated
her whole soul spoke in the words, "Yes, I promise."

"Thank you," said he, extending his hand.

She gave him hers. He held it a moment in his own. Then, pressing it
respectfully to his lips, bade her good-morning, and retired.




CHAPTER XXVIII.

"And when in other climes we meet,
Some isle or vale enchanting,
And all looks flowery, wild and sweet,
And naught but love is wanting,
We think how blest had been our fate,
If Heaven had but assigned us
To live and die 'mid scenes like this,
With some we've left behind us."


Shout, reader, on the hill-tops of deliverance, for you and I are out of
Wimbledon. We have left behind us the Pimbles, the Mumbles, the Simcoes,
and their multitudinous voices grow indistinct in the distance, as,
borne by the rushing steam-steed, we fly on our way in search of our
fair traveller, who has got the start of us by several hours. We hardly
know whether to go up the Hudson, or hold straight on over the Erie road
for Niagara; but as we have no particular desire to see the former, our
remembrances of its picturesque scenery being marred by the unpleasant
circumstances under which we first beheld it, we incline to the latter
course.

So world-wondered-at Niagara shall be our destination, where Florence
Howard and her father are already arrived and installed occupants of a
regally-furnished suite of apartments at the Clifton House on the Canada
side of the river.

The new arrival had created quite a sensation; as new arrivals at these
fashionable watering-places, where the masses resort to display
themselves and behold and comment upon the display of others, always do.
As Florence, dressed with simple grace, leaned on the arm of her
noble-looking father, and entered the spacious dining-saloon, where
hundreds of both sexes, all flaunted out in the gayest and richest
attire, were already seated at the splendidly laid tables, every eye
levelled a critical glance on her garb and figure. Many an elegant lady,
in startling silks and astonishing ear-jewels, turned her nose sublimely
skyward and exclaimed "No great fetch,--these folks!" Gentlemen, in
surprising pants and prodigious vest buttons, said, with a princely
contempt, "Aw, an unsawphistawcated country gawl!"

But there were some, the precious few, who graced the saloons of the
Clifton House, not to gorge themselves on its spicy viands, or grow
inebriate over its sparkling wines, or yet to display their spindling
limbs encased in miraculous tights, their alarming waistcoats and
elephantine fob-chains; but who had come to look on and admire the
wonderful cataract, with its surrounding scenery of wildness and
grandeur; who marked the elegant bearing of an accomplished lady in the
sweet open countenance, simple dress, and graceful movements of the "new
arrival."

Florence seemed wholly regardless of the volleys of glances directed
toward her during the sumptuously-served dinner. She retired before
dessert, so great was her impatience of a nearer view of the sublime
spectacle visible from the piazzas of the Clifton House.

On Table Rock she stood, with her father's arm cast protectingly around
her, and gazed, tremulous with intense emotion, on the tremendous sweep
of rushing waters over the mighty horse-shoe fall, down, down forever,
upon the floods that boiled and surged like fathomless seas of angry
foam in the depths below. Then she turned to the lofty American fall,
spanned by its brilliant rainbow, like the bright wing of the Spirit of
the Waters cast beauteously o'er her stupendous creation of power and
sublimity.

Florence gazed till the shades of evening obscured the magnificent
scene, and then, clinging to her father's arm, returned to the hotel. On
gaining her room, she tossed off her bonnet and shawl and seized her
journal.

"Are you not going to tea?" asked her father.

"No," answered she, almost sharply. "I cannot so suddenly descend to the
actual, or come in so quick contact with the grossness of earth after
the god-like sublimity I have been contemplating."

Her father called her a little enthusiast, and walked away. Left to
herself she drew forth her journal.

"Eventful day!" she wrote. "I have stood among the mists of Niagara.
Fain would I voice the tumult flood of emotions that rushed over my soul
as I gazed on its wondrous sublimity: but language is impotent, and I am
weak,--weaker than usual; I think from reaction of my overstrained
powers.

"I could lie down and weep like a tired child. The tremendous roar of
the mighty waters is in my ear as I write. O, Niagara, Niagara! what
henceforth will be to me the brightest scene our country can afford--for
I have looked on thee, and what is left me now?"

She closed her book, and, stepping out on the piazza, leaned her arms
over the balustrade, and stood with her gaze riveted on the boiling
cataracts, now flashing like sheets of burnished silver in the soft
moonlight. While she was thus occupied a young lady approached and
accosted her.

"You are just arrived at the Falls, I fancy," said she, with a pleasant
smile.

"I arrived to-day," answered Florence, politely.

"You do not know me," remarked the young lady; "but I think I have seen
you before."

Florence gazed on the eloquent features, but she did not detect a
resemblance to any person she had ever known.

"You have the advantage of me," she said; "I do not recollect you."

"Probably not," returned the young lady; "but did you never reside in a
village called Wimbledon, at a beautiful mansion styled 'Summer House?'"

"I have just come from there," said Florence, gazing with surprise in
the face of her fair interrogator.

"So I thought," remarked the young lady, "and your name, excuse my
boldness, is Florence Howard. Mine is Ellen Williams. I once resided in
Wimbledon, and saw you several times at the village church. You,
probably, did not notice me, or, if you did, my features would be easily
forgotten. Not so yours. I recognized you the moment you entered the
dining hall. How do you like Niagara?"

"O, I am charmed, spell-bound!" exclaimed Florence. "Its glorious
sublimity thrills to the centre of my soul."

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