Thomas de Quincey - "The Caesars"

G. A. Henty - "At the Point of the Bayonet"

Ernest Arthur Gardner - "Religion and Art in Ancient Greece"

Jane M. Bancroft - "Deaconesses in Europe"

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




"Your enthusiasm reminds me of a young painter and poet we have had here
several weeks," said Miss Williams; "he left us only this morning. I was
down to the Suspension Bridge to-day, and read some verses he left in
pencil on the painted railings. His sketches of the Falls from different
points of view were very fine. He was very handsome, and had a sweet
name. I believe half the ladies were dead in love with him, but he never
bestowed a single encouraging glance on all their attempts to win his
favor."

"Quite an insensible young man, I should think," said Florence, smiling.
"What did you say was his name?"

"Lindenwood," returned Miss Williams. "I do not know whence he came, but
from some remote part of the country, I think."

Florence heard none of the young lady's words after the name was
mentioned, and it is difficult to say into what awkwardness her emotion
might have betrayed her, had not her father appeared at this juncture
and called her to her room. She recollected herself sufficiently to bid
good-evening to Miss Williams as she hastened away leaning heavily on
her father's arm.

Fastening her door, she dropped on a sofa, and exclaimed, "Alas, alas!
one day too late at Niagara."




CHAPTER XXIX.

"Flow on forever in thy glorious robe
Of terror and of beauty. Yea, flow on,
Unfathomed and resistless! God hath set
His rainbow on thy forehead, and the cloud
Mantled around thy feet.
Methinks, to tint
Thy glorious features with our pencil's point,
Or woo thee to the tablet of a song,
Were profanation."


Early the following morning Florence was astir, begging her father to
take her to the Suspension Bridge. She hardly glanced at the magnificent
appearance of the Canada fall, as the sunbeams changed its floods of
spray into bright showers of diamonds.

There she stood on the piazza, her cheeks flushed with vermilion, and
her dark eyes glowing with the animation and excitement within.

"I cannot take you to the bridge till after breakfast," said her father,
in reply to her urgent appeals to set out immediately.

"Must I wait so long?" said Florence dismally.

While the father and daughter stood debating the point, Florence's
acquaintance of the preceding day appeared, attended by a handsome young
man, whom she introduced as her brother Edward.

Major Howard recollected the Williams family, and seemed gratified to
renew his acquaintance.

"Col. Malcome occupies your old residence," said he to the young man, as
they left the ladies to themselves and walked to the opposite side of
the piazza.

After a pause, Florence asked her companion if she "had ever visited
Wimbledon since she left it."

"No;" answered the young lady, "though I have often desired to do so.
There was a poor washerwoman there, who had a little boy about my own
age, in whom I took a childish interest, and I would like much to learn
something of his fate."

"What was his name?" asked Florence.

"Willie Danforth," said Miss Williams.

"I know a washerwoman by the name of Dilly Danforth," returned Florence.

"That is his mother."

"I do not think she has a child," said Florence doubtfully.

"Then he is dead!" said Miss Williams in a trembling voice.

Florence pitied her emotion, and after a few moments said, "There is a
tall, graceful lad, I think they call Willie Greyson, who lives with the
strange forest-recluse, of whom you have heard, perhaps."

"Greyson!" repeated Ellen; "that I have heard was Mrs. Danforth's maiden
name; but Willie was never called so; besides, why should he leave his
mother to dwell with a hermit? O, no; my Willie must be dead! I said,
when I left him, I should never see him again." And the gentle girl
wiped a tear from her sweet blue eye.

The gentlemen now approached, and Major Howard invited the Williamses to
join them in their visit to the Suspension Bridge; but they had an
engagement with a party to visit Goat Island. Florence felt relieved to
hear this, for she preferred, for reasons of her own, to be attended by
no one but her father on the present excursion. They now descended to
the dining-hall, where an elegant breakfast was served. Florence ate but
a few tiny bits of a delicate crisp muffin, and sipped lightly at her
cup of fragrant Mocha. Her eager desire to gain the bridge destroyed all
relish for the dainty dishes spread in such variety and profusion before
her. At length her father announced a carriage in readiness. Hastily
folding a sheet of note-paper, and placing it in her pocket, she swung
her gold chain over her neck, to which was attached a richly-embossed
pencil, and followed him to the door. They were soon rolling away.

Florence saw nothing till they gained the bridge,--frail, trembling
thing, thrown at such dizzy height above the wild, rushing river. Her
father asked if she would ride or walk over. She would walk, and he
ordered the driver to halt. Assisting her from the carriage, they
stepped upon the swaying fabric. Florence kept close to the railings,
though he cautioned her to walk in the centre, and called her attention
to the fine view of the falls in the distance. But she did not notice
them, and, pausing suddenly, drew the sheet of note-paper from her
pocket and commenced writing.

"What are you doing?" said her father at length, noticing her head bowed
close to the railing.

"Wait a moment and I'll tell you," said she. "There! I believe I have
them all correct now. Shall I read them to you?"

"What are they?" asked he.

"Verses. I found them written in pencil on this painted strip."

"Are they worth reading?" inquired he, carelessly.

"O, yes!" she returned, earnestly. "Very pretty, I think!"

"Well, go on, then!" said he.

She commenced in a low tone, which grew in depth and sweetness as she
proceeded. Surely, if the author had never had the vanity to deem his
brief production possessed of merit, he would have grown into conceit of
it had he heard it falling so sweetly from those half-tremulous lips.

"Sea-green river, white and foamy,
Madly rushing on below;
While that fairy-looking fabric
Bends, and sways, and trembles so;
Fragile, frail and fairy fabric,
Boldly thrown so wildly high;
Wondrous work of art suspended
Midway 'twixt the earth and sky!

"Strong and firm the metal wires
Stretch to Canada's green shores;
As to link with bands of iron
Queen Victoria's realms to ours.
Passage-way for England's lion,
Unborn ages may it be;
While above him, in the ether,
Sails the Eagle of the Free!

"In the distance, dread Niagara,
Thing of wonder and of fear,
Pours its mighty flood of waters,
While the echoes soothe the ear.
Nature's wildest forms of beauty.
All around profusely thrown;
Bowing in her proudest temple,
Beggared Art, we humbly own!"

As Florence ceased she refolded the paper and placed it in her pocket.

"You did not read the author's name," said her father.

"There was no name attached to them," answered she. "Nothing, only some
initials which were rather indistinct."

"Some modest bard," remarked the major, as they retraced their steps to
the carriage, "who, as Byron says,

'Like many a bard unknown,
Rhymes on our names, but wisely hides his own.'

This poet sings of bridges, but does not sign his name to his songs."

Florence was silent during their drive to the hotel. Niagara seemed
suddenly to have lost its interest for her, and after a few more days
they departed, with young Williams and his lovable little sister in
their company.




CHAPTER XXX.

"O, why should Heaven smile
On deeds of darkness--plots of sin and crime?
I cannot tell thee why,
But this I know, she often doeth so."


While the bright summer passed over Wimbledon, matters apparently moved
on as usual in the quiet little village.

The Woman's Rights Reform lagged somewhat with the thermometer at
eighty, as is frequently the case with benevolent organizations; perhaps
because their zealous warmth, when increased by a high-temperatured
atmosphere, mounts to spirits' boil and evaporates.

Mrs. Pimble and Mrs. Lawson sat on their respective piazzas, in nankin
pants and open waistcoats, and flapped great peacocks' tails to and fro,
to cool their feverish, perspiring brows.

Mr. Pimble, in his wife's sun-bonnet, clappered his heelless slippers at
mid-day along the garden paths, in the vain hope of warming his laggard
blood to a brisker flow. Mrs. Dr. Simcoe was still harassed by those
snarling, ill-tempered brats, "Simcoe's children," who seemed
contagiously disposed to all the "ills which flesh is heir to," as if to
test the skill and try the patience of the lady M. D.

One of the most brilliant moons that ever showered its silvery light
over a flower-covered earth, rode in the liquid zenith of a summer
heaven. The splendid grounds of Major Howard's princely mansion never
slept, in their luxuriant beauty, beneath a lovelier sky. Thick trailed
the heavy vines in their leafy exuberance of foliage over arbors and
green-houses. Whole parterres of brilliant flowers loaded the air with
fragrance, and nightingales sang among the boughs of the lindens that
waved against the wrought-iron palings of the terraces.

Was there aught save the breath of love and peace abroad on the air
to-night? Dared a vile vulture of sin to brush with polluting wing over
the vines and flowers of these odor-breathing, beam-lighted gardens?

There were low voices in one of the most obscure alcoves, and a man and
woman stood in close proximity in its dimmest recess.

A low sigh or sob now and then escaped the woman, as though she
struggled to suppress some choking emotion.

"Come," said the man at length, impatiently, "this blubbering will not
aid your purpose."

"O, Herbert!" she exclaimed, in a tone which entreated compassion, "you
have ceased to love me."

"Ceased to love you?" repeated he, with a low, ironical laugh, "I never
yet began."

"You told me so," said she.

"What if I did?" returned he; "is my veracity so immaculate that my
slightest word is received as an oath of probity? But I came not here to
keep a lover's tryst. You know, or at least I thought you knew, the bond
that unites us; and I ask you again if you will do my bidding and serve
my interests?"

"I have done both," said the woman; "but you have not fulfilled your
promises to me."

"Do you not see the boy when you choose?"

"I see him, but he does not recognize me."

"The better for you that he does not," returned the man. "Do you
suppose, with his position and prospects, he would acknowledge a low
serving-woman for a mother? He would kick her from his presence and
cover her with curses."

"And do you never intend to tell him who is his mother?" asked the
woman, in a trembling tone.

"Certainly not," answered he; "'tis not necessary the boy should know
his own disgrace; but when the proper moment arrives, there are those
who shall learn his parentage to their everlasting shame and
mortification."

"I see no prospect of that moment's ever arriving," said the woman.
"Here's the girl and her father gone off, the Lord knows where, or
whether they will ever return, and all things left unfinished and
incomplete. I must say you manage as an idiot."

"I will judge of my own management," said the man, fiercely. "There has
been sickness in my family, and other things have indisposed me to hurry
a revenge which will be the sweeter the longer 'tis delayed."

"But it may be so long delayed as to fail altogether," suggested the
woman.

"I'll take care of that," answered he. "I fancy I am not so great a
bungler as to overshoot my purposes and baffle my own designs; and,
woman," said he, raising his arm threateningly above her head, "I
caution you to beware. I believe you have already let drop some
unguarded words; else why is your mistress so averse to this engagement,
as I have learned she is, by the boy?"

The woman was silent. He seized her arm fiercely. "Have you blabbed?" he
hissed in her ear.

"No," answered she faintly, and struggling to free herself from his
grasp.

"Has she no suspicions of my proximity?" he demanded.

"None," returned the woman; "as I live she has none."

"Then I would look on her a moment to-night."

"That you can easily do," said she. "I left her sitting in a cushioned
seat, drawn close before an open casement, with the full moon shining on
her face."

"A lucky position! I will show myself to her in a few minutes," he
remarked, as the twain parted. Hannah Doliver proceeded rapidly up the
garden avenue to the mansion, and hurried to the apartment of her
mistress.

The invalid lady was sitting in the same position in which she had left
her an hour before.

"You have been absent a long time, Hannah," she observed in a languid
tone.

"I went as far as Col. Malcome's to learn if they had any recent
intelligence of Florence and her father," returned the woman, divesting
herself of bonnet and shawl.

"Well, had he any tidings of them?" inquired the invalid.

"At last accounts they were at Saratoga, intending in a few days to
start on a tour up the Hudson and St. Lawrence, to Quebec, and thence to
the mountain region of New Hampshire," answered the woman.

"Florence wrote to me from Niagara," remarked the lady; "she seemed in
fine spirits. I wonder if she corresponds with Rufus Malcome?"

"Of course," said Hannah; "a young lady would write to her affianced
husband, if she neglected all others." The invalid turned uneasily in
her chair at these words, and her waiting-woman went into an adjoining
apartment under pretence of performing some duty.

The lady sat listlessly gazing on the lovely scene without, when a dark
object moving up the garden path attracted her notice, and directly the
figure of a man in black, with cap removed from a head of
closely-trimmed auburn hair that clustered in short, thick masses of
luxuriant curls around a high, pale brow, appeared before the casement,
and fixed a bold stare upon her face. No sooner did her eyes encounter
those that glared so fiercely upon her, than she uttered a piercing
shriek, and fell back in her chair with the appearance of one from whom
all life had departed.

Hannah rushed into the room and bore the insensible form of her mistress
to the bed, where she commenced chafing her temples and pouring reviving
cordials down her throat. At length the frightened lady opened her eyes
and stared wildly around.

"Secure that casement," said she, pointing to the still open window;
"and shut all the doors and lock them."

"You will stifle without a breath of fresh air this oppressive night,"
grumbled Hannah, as she proceeded to execute the orders of her mistress.

"Better I should stifle," answered the excited and still trembling lady,
"than ever behold again the monster I have seen to-night."

"Heavens! what do you mean?" exclaimed the attendant, appearing to
experience the greatest emotion.

"I have seen _him_, Hannah Doliver," said the invalid, shuddering as she
spoke.

"Who?" asked the hypocritical woman, breathlessly.

"The destroyer of my happiness and your good fame," answered the lady.

"Impossible!" said Hannah, glaring on the excited features of the
prostrate form before her.

"I tell you I have seen him!" returned the invalid, shaking like an
aspen on her couch. "I cannot be mistaken. 'Twas his face; the high,
colorless brow, surrounded by thick, short auburn curls. He stood at
that casement, and gazed fiercely on me from his large, dark eyes."

"Pshaw!" said Hannah, "'twas but a hideous dream, or a sudden attack of
apoplexy. The man you fancy you have seen to-night, has not been heard
of these fifteen years, and is probably in his grave."

"Then it was his ghost that I saw," said the lady.

"May be it was," returned Hannah, smiling strangely; "though I don't
know why it should have honored you with a visit. I am glad I was not
deemed worthy his ghostship's regards."

The affrighted lady after a while grew calmer, and Hannah retired to her
own apartment, which joined that of her mistress.

In a few days, a letter was despatched to Major Howard by the invalid,
informing him of the strange appearance which had alarmed her, and
urging his immediate return.

The letter never reached its destination.




CHAPTER XXXI.

"Ask why the holy starlight, or the blush
Of summer blossoms, or the balm that floats
From yonder lily like an angel's breath,
Is lavished on such men! God gives them all
For some high end; and thus the seeming waste
Of her rich soul--its starlight purity,
Its every feeling delicate as a flower,
Its tender trust, its generous confidence,
Its wondering disdain of littleness,--
These, by the coarser sense of those around her
Uncomprehended, may not all be vain."


A jubilant party were assembled in Mrs. Leroy Edson's elegant parlors to
witness the marriage ceremony of Jenny Andrews and Richard Giblet.

Even Mrs. Salsify, as one of the groom's former acquaintances, received
an invite to the bridal feast, and appeared in red morocco shoes and a
cap whose ruffles were the astonishment of the entire assembly. Mary
Madeline's squealing baby detained her at home, and perhaps, also, she
did not care to see her former lover, recreant and unfaithful though he
had been to her, take the solemn vow of eternal constancy to another.

The party was more lively than wedding parties usually are. Mrs. Edson
was everywhere, gliding, like the spirit of grace and beauty, among her
guests, enlivening them by her humor, and spreading a rich glow of
geniality through the apartments. If she ever outshone herself, and
surpassed her own surpassing powers, it was to-night. Col. Malcome's
eyes followed her wherever she moved, with an undisguisable expression
of admiration. He seemed rather cast in the shade by her unwonted
brilliancy, and held himself aloof from her side for almost the entire
evening.

Miss Martha Pinkerton noticed him sitting alone and abstracted on a
sofa, and her kind soul was moved with pity for his companionless
situation, so she resolved to cheer his solitude as well as she was
able. Approaching, she assumed a seat on the opposite side of the sofa.
She looked at him, hemmed, and coughed, but he did not seem to heed her
proximity. At length she resolved to speak.

"Col. Malcome," she said, in her softest tone, "do you know you have
never called to take away the shirts you left for me to make more than
two years ago? I have often thought I would take them to you; but sister
Stanhope said I had better wait, as you would call when you wanted them.
I starched and ironed them all up nice for you; but I am sure the
stiffening is all out, and they are as yellow as saffron by this time."

"Ay, Miss Pinkerton, you were very kind," answered he, bowing politely.
"I had forgot my call on your services entirely. I recollect now that I
contemplated a journey at that time, which circumstances prevented me
from undertaking, and that occasioned my forgetfulness of the package
probably. I will call soon and relieve you of it."

"O, 'tis no burden," she answered; "I only thought I would speak to you
about it to let you know 'twas ready any time you might choose to call.
Don't you think the bride looks very beautiful?" she added, turning the
discourse to more elegant subjects now she had gained his ear.

"Ay, quite interesting and pretty," answered he, turning his attention
for a moment toward the young couple who formed the centre of a mirthful
group.

"Mrs. Edson seems to feel wonderful smart to-night," pursued Miss
Martha; "pleased with her success in match-making, I suppose."

"Ah!" said the colonel, "does Mrs. Edson make matches? I wish she would
form one for me."

The modest maiden blushed scarlet at these words, and remained silent. A
group was just passing, and the colonel effected his escape from his
fair companion and joined them. Several voices called for him at the
piano, and, seating himself before the instrument, he commenced a
brilliant performance. In a few moments he became conscious of the form
of Louise standing in the embrasure of a window near by, her whole soul
apparently absorbed in the music. When he arose she had disappeared. He
sauntered slowly to the hall door, and stepped forth upon the piazza. As
he paced slowly down its marble length he came suddenly upon her,
leaning languidly against a vine-covered column.

"Why do you fly your guests?" asked he; "they will soon grow dim without
your presence."

"Because I am weary and dispirited," answered Louise, "and want quiet
and fresh air."

"Dispirited!" exclaimed he; "I have never seen you so startlingly
brilliant as to-night."

She shook her bright head mournfully. The hilarious voices from the
merry groups within came full upon their ears.

"Walk with me a few moments in the cool quiet of the garden," said he;
"here the air comes heavy and tainted from the crowded apartments
within."

She placed her arm passively in his, and they passed down the steps and
entered the shady paths.

"I marvel to find you so moody and glum," he remarked, after they had
proceeded some distance in perfect silence, "when you have been so
unusually gay through the evening."

She made no answer.

"Let us return to the house," said he at length.

"What for?" she asked, turning her clear eyes quickly on his face.

"Because you do not enjoy your company," he answered.

"No, that is not the reason," said she; "'tis because you are weary of
my presence."

"Weary of your presence!" repeated he. "Louise, you don't believe your
own words. May I stay here at your side till I wish to go away?"

"Certainly," answered she.

"Then let me put my arm around you," said he, encircling her waist, "and
lay your dear head here, and you are mine henceforth, for I shall never
leave you."

For a moment her tearful face was hidden on his bosom.

A low wailing wind swept through the shrubbery that surrounded them, and
one single word, thrilling and awful, as if it fell from the lips of an
accusing spirit, smote on their ears--'_Beware_!'

Louise started from the arm that encircled her and fled toward the
lighted mansion. The party were still occupied in the merry dance, and
no one seemed to have marked her brief absence.




CHAPTER XXXII.

------"Ye mountains,
So varied and so terrible in beauty;
Here in your rugged majesty of rocks
And toppling trees that twine their roots with stone
In perpendicular places, where the foot
Of man would tremble could he reach them--yes,
Ye look eternal!"


Cloud-capped, sky-crowned, mist-mantled, storm-defying Mount Washington!
O, there have been days, and weeks, and months and years, when life's
legion woes pressed heavily upon our souls and bowed our spirits in the
dust; when we dared not glance toward the past, or contemplate the
present, and turned with shuddering dread from the future of starless,
impenetrable gloom; and in those doleful years, through long, long
nights of sleepless pain and agony we have prayed, entreated, implored
grim death to come and ease us of the thorny pangs that tore our
bleeding hearts like venomed arrows. But now on reverent knee we thank
the God of nature, that he has let us live to stand upon thy
sky-piercing summit and look down on the world below! Wild Switzerland
of America! thrice proud are we to call thy granite mountains ours, for
beneath thy snow-capped summits our young existence dawned, and thy
shrill winds and stormy blasts rolled forth the sleeping anthems that
lulled our infant slumbers.

To this wild mountain region came Florence Howard, after luxuriating on
the picturesque Hudson, and dreaming herself in elysian realms among the
"thousand isles" of the queenly St. Lawrence. She was all life and
animation. The excitement of travel and vivid enjoyment of the beautiful
and sublime had banished every trace of the dejection and gloom which
had for many months obscured her brilliancy. Major Howard was delighted
with the improvement in his daughter's appearance, and seemed almost as
young and buoyant as she. Young Williams and his sister were their
constant companions in travel, and Florence found in Ellen a gentle
nature and affectionate heart.

A storm set in on the night of our party's arrival at the Crawford
House, and heavy clouds settled down over the brows of the great
mountains that hemmed in the narrow valley. The hotel was thronged with
visitors, and the new comers had to accept of such accommodations as two
small rooms in the upper story could afford.

"I declare," exclaimed Ellen, when the porters had brought in the
trunks, thrown back the fastenings, and retired, "after rackings, and
tossings, and tumblings enough to disjoint and unhinge a leviathan, to
what a comfortless haven are we arrived at last! O, for a tithe of the
luxury I rolled in at Niagara and Saratoga, or even one of the
state-rooms of the 'Hendrick Hudson' or 'Belle of the Waters!' They were
rooms of state indeed compared with these dismal little pens. How are we
going to turn round in them, Florence, much less unload our trunks of
their wardrobes and array ourselves for appearance in the parlors and
dining saloon?"

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