Eliza Orne White - "Peggy in Her Blue Frock"

George Washington Cable - "The Cavalier"

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

Unknown - "My Dog Tray"

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




"Yes, just as the summer's work was coming on, too; but she'll have to
suffer for it," said Mrs. Sykes, with a fearfully resigned expression of
countenance.

"Of course she will," returned Miss Sharpwell; "but what could Mrs.
Orville want with a hired girl,--nobody but herself and Alice in the
family? It seems a selfish, malicious desire to inconvenience you, her
coaxing Hannah off."

"La!" put in Mrs. Fleetwood, "didn't you know Mrs. Orville had got a
whole houseful of company from the south? I knew it a month ago."

"She hasn't got anybody in the world but two cousins of Alice's, and a
husband of one of them, and they haven't been there a week, till
to-morrow evening," said Mrs. Sykes.

"O, is that all? Well, I heard something about it, I couldn't exactly
recollect what it was," again drawled Mrs. Fleetfoot, closing the toe of
her yarn sock, and holding it up to admire the proportions; no doubt
breathing a silent prayer that it might be useful in saving some "soul
from death."

"Well, Mrs. Fleetfoot," observed Mrs. Sykes, "did you know that Fred.
Milder had come home from Texas to marry Alice Orville?"

"La, yes!" responded that Christian lady; "that's an old story,
everybody knows."

"Why, I never heard of it before," said Miss Jerusha, pinning a little
blue bow on the top of the muslin cap, to make it look _tasty_, as she
observed.

"Neither did I," answered Mrs. Sykes, casting, as we thought, but it
could not be, however, a glance of malicious triumph on Mrs. Fleetfoot;
"but he travelled home in company with Mrs. Orville's visitors, and I
often see him walking on the lake-shore with the young, unmarried lady,
Miss Josephine, I believe, is her name; and I just thought in my own
mind that would be a match."

"Very likely," said Miss Jerusha.

"Well, I remember now, 'twas that strange lady I heard he was engaged
to, and not Miss Alice," remarked Fleetfoot, with perfect equanimity;
"and Alice, they say, has got a beau off south, and that's what makes
her so mopish at times."

"Perhaps it is as sister Fleetfoot says," observed Jerusha; "for Alice
is certainly changed from what she used to be. She never attends our
circle now, and seldom goes to church. I wonder how she does pass her
time?"

"'Tis more than I can tell," answered Mrs. Sykes; "there was always
something mysterious about those Orvilles, to me. But I shall be obliged
to go home, sister Jerusha, to attend to my work, as I've no servant,"
continued the wronged lady, rising, and depositing her work in the
treasurer's box.

"I'm sorry you must go, sister Sykes," said Jerusha; "but be of good
cheer, and I'll drop in and see you in the course of the week."

"Pray, do, sister Sharpwell; I need all the aid and sympathy of
Christian hearts to sustain my soul," said Mrs. Sykes, with a ruefully
pious countenance, as she took her departure.

The meeting progressed. Fast flew the nimble fingers of the devoted
laborers in the good cause; and could the poor heathen have known what
mighty exertions this band of benevolent, self-denying females, who
basked in the noontide glory of the sun of righteousness, were making
for their liberation from the thrall of pagan darkness and superstition,
we doubt not that they would have prostrated themselves by millions
before the shrine of their great idol, Juggernaut, and devoutly invoked
him to pardon and forgive the poor, deluded victims of a false religion,
and bring them all under his sublime sway and holy dominion.

At length, Miss Gaddie was called on to sing the parting hymn. The lady
president delivered herself of a most eloquent and oratorical harangue,
during which the benevolent rose to a tremendous pitch, which nothing
could calm off but the call to supper.

This well-furnished meal dispensed, the "Ladies' Literary Benevolent
Combination for Foreign Aid" adjourned to the next Wednesday, at the
house of Mrs. Dorothy Sykes, Highflyer Street; which Christian lady
was aghast with terror and dismay, when she learned this batch of
benevolence was assigned over to her for its next meeting.

"O, mercy!" she feelingly exclaimed; "and I've no girl to assist me, and
my house will be turned topsy-turvy, new parlor carpet ruined,--and,
besides, they'll eat us out of house and home, and Mr. Sykes is _so_
close-fisted!"

"But I hope 'twill be a rainy day," she added, by way of consolation.

Truly, benevolence does cost a great deal!




CHAPTER XVI.

"My task is done; my song hath ceased; my theme
Has died into an echo. It is fit
The spell should break of this protracted dream.
The torch shall be extinguished which hath lit
My midnight lamp,--and what is writ, is writ;
Would it were worthier, but I am not now
That which I have been, and my visions flit
Less palpably before me--and the glow
Which in my spirit dwelt, is fluttering, faint and low."


The cousins, Alice Orville and Josephine Camford, sat together in a
vine-clad arbor on the shore of Lake Erie.

"I cannot express the joy I feel at beholding you again, dear Pheny;
learning of your welfare, and finding you so happy in the contemplation
of the future," said Alice.

"None can tell what the future may bring," answered Josephine. "All is
vague and uncertain. I never believe anything is to be mine till I
really possess it."

"And so you won't believe Fred. Milder is yours till the nuptial knot is
tied?" said Alice, smiling.

"No, not fully,--not without a shadow of doubt," returned Josephine,
laughing in turn.

"But, Alice, when are you going to get married?"

"Never!" was the quick response.

"Nonsense! Where's that pale, intellectual young man, who used to call
so frequently on you when you first arrived in New Orleans?"

"I have never seen or heard from him since I returned home," answered
Alice, averting her face.

"That's nothing to the purpose, cous. I see you have not forgotten him."

"O, no!"

"And never will?"

"I can't say that."

"I can, though. Come, let's return to the house. I suspect Fred. is
waiting for me to take my promised stroll on the lake shore. How do you
like sister Susette's husband, Alice?"

"I think him a very accomplished gentleman," replied Alice, as they
walked toward the house.

"So I think," said Josephine. "His superior could hardly be found in any
of our large cities. Did you know poor Celestina had heard from her
faithless husband? He pleads for forgiveness and promises to return if
she will receive him. It appears he and brother Jack have amassed a
large fortune in Australia."

"Indeed! I am rejoiced to hear so good tidings of the adventurers. Is
Celestina still in the convent to which she retired?"

"She is; but proposes to leave it and accompany us to Texas on our
return to that country. Whether she will receive her husband I cannot
say, but will hazard an opinion that, should she one day behold him at
her feet imploring pardon, love would overpower all remembrance of
former wrongs. But there's Fred.," added the joyous-hearted girl. "I
must away to meet him."

"Where?" asked Alice, gazing on all sides.

"There, walking down that avenue of poplars!" returned Josephine. "I saw
him some moments since,"--love is so quick-sighted when its object is at
hand, and so abstracted when it is at a distance,--and Josephine hurried
away to meet her lover, leaving Alice to stroll onward by herself.
Presently, Hannah, the servant-girl that Mrs. Sykes, the benevolent
lady, averred had been "bejuggled" from her by Mrs. Orville, came
through the garden at full speed, exclaiming, "Miss Alice, there be a
gentleman in the parlor waitin' to see ye!"

On hearing this message, Alice accelerated her steps to reach the house,
and retired to her room a few moments to adjust her dress before
entering the presence of her visitor.

Reader! that truant-knight, for whom we went in search so long ago, is
found at last.

* * *

Far down "_la belle riviere_" floated the fairy white steamboat on its
winding-way to Louisville, while the joy-groups danced and sung by the
clear moonlight over the airy decks.

And now once more adown the proud-rolling Mississippi, we see that
"floating-palace," the Eclipse, cutting her way through the foamy
waters. How, all day long, the verdure-clad shores smile up to the
clear, cerulean heaven that arches above! And how the moonbeams pour
their silvery light down on the sleeping earth! and all the while, by
night and day, the boat sweeps proudly onward.

Among the hundreds of passengers that roam the decks and guards, we
recognize two familiar faces; and our eyes love to linger on them, for
they are redolent with happiness. One of them is that of the dreamy,
abstracted girl we noticed years ago, leaning over the balustrades of
this same queenly boat as she approached New Orleans. But she was alone
then. Now; a manly form is bending over her, and whispering words we
cannot hear; nor do we need to hear them to know they carry joy to the
listening ear, for her dark eye glows with happiness, as she looks
confidingly in the face of the speaker, and utters something which
brings the same joy-light over his fine, intellectual features.

Now you do not wish us to tell you, reader, that Wayland Morris and
Alice Orville are man and wife; and that they, in company with Fred.
Milder and wife, and Susette and husband, are bound for New Orleans, to
surprise Winnie Lester in her regal home. Your intuition has revealed
all this to you e'er now, and you have pictured in your minds how blank
with amazement young Mrs. Lester's pretty face will be when she beholds
this "family-group" in her elegant drawing-room, all eager to welcome
and be welcomed, and overflowing with exuberant life and gladness, as
people ordinarily are when they get safely off one of those beautiful,
but treacherous western steam-palaces.

All this your vivid imaginations will easily portray in far more glowing
and picturesque colors than our poor pencil can paint. So we leave you
to conjure up all the bright visions you choose with which to deck the
futures of our young debutants in the great drama of wedded life. And
some of you young writers, who thirst for fame's thorny laurels, may
touch your inspired pens to paper, and give us a sequel to this hasty,
ill-finished tale, a true production of our "fast" age.

In conclusion, let us say, that years after these events transpired, as
the "Eclipse" passed up and down the Mississippi, on her trips to and
from New Orleans, the jocular clerk was wont to call the attention of
his passengers to a beautiful English cottage, surrounded by vines and
shrubbery, which stood on the Tennessee shore, and exclaim, "The
dwellers in that cottage learned their first lesson of love on the
guards of the Eclipse."




COME TO ME WHEN I'M DYING.

A SONG.


Come to me when I'm dying;
Gaze on my wasted form,
Tired with so long defying
Life's ever-rushing storm.
Come, come when I am dying,
And stand beside my bed,
Ere yet my soul is flying,
And I am cold and dead.

Bend low and lower o'er me,
For I've a word to say
Though death is just before me,
Ere I can go away.
Now that my soul is hovering
Upon the verge of day,
For thee I'll lift the covering
That veils its quivering ray.

O, ne'er had I thus spoken
In health's bright, rosy glow!
But death my pride hath broken,
And brought my spirit low.
Though now this last revealing
Quickens life's curdling springs,
And a half-timid feeling
Faint flushes o'er me flings.

Bend lower yet above me,
For I would have thee know
How passing well I love thee,
And joy to tell thee so.
This love, so purely welling
Up in this heart of mine,
O, hath it e'er found dwelling
Within thy spirit's shrine?

I've prayed my God, in meekness,
To give me some control
Over this earthly weakness
That so enthralled my soul;
And now my soul rejoices
While sweetly-thrilling strains,
From low, harmonious voices,
Soothe all my dying pains.

They sing of the Eternal,
Whose throne is far above,
Where zephyrs softly vernal
Float over bowers of love;
Of hopes and joys, earth-blighted,
Blooming 'neath cloudless skies,
Of hearts and souls united
In love that never dies.

'Tis there, 'tis there I'll meet thee
When life's brief day is o'er;
O, with what joy to greet thee
On that eternal shore!
Farewell! for death is chilling
My pulses swift and fast;
And yet in God I'm willing
This hour should be my last.

Sometimes, when day declineth,
And all the gorgeous west
In gold and purple shineth,
Go to my place of rest;
And if thy voice in weeping,
Is borne upon the air,
Think not of me as sleeping;
All cold and silent there:--

But turn, with glances tender,
Toward a shining star,
Whose rays with chastened splendor
Fall on thee from afar.
And know the blissful dwelling
Where I am waiting thee,
When Jordan fiercely swelling
Shall set thy spirit free.





ELLEN.


Sweet star, of seraph brightness,
That for a transient day
Shed o'er our souls such lightness,
And then withdrew the ray!
O, with immortal lustre
Thou 'rt sparkling brightly now
Amid the gems that cluster
Around Jehovah's brow!

Yet many hearts are keeping
Lone vigils o'er thy grave,
Where all the hopes are sleeping
Which thy young promise gave.
The sleep which knows no waking
Hath closed thy sweet blue eyes,
And while our hearts are breaking
We glance toward the skies.

Ah! there a hope is given
That bids us dry the tear;
That bright star in the heaven,
With beams so wondrous clear;--
'Tis Ellen's "distant Aidenn,"
Far in the realms above,
And those clear rays are laden
With her pure spirit's love.




I'M TIRED OF LIFE.


I'm tired, I'm tired of life, brother!
Of all that meets my eye;
And my weary spirit fain would pass
To worlds beyond the sky.
For there is naught on earth, brother,
For which I'd wish to live;
Not all the glittering gauds of wealth
One hour of peace can give.

I'm weary,--sick at heart, brother,
Of heartless pomp and show!
And ever comes some cloud to dim
The little joy I know.
This world is not the world, brother,
It seemed in days agone,
When I viewed it through the rainbow mists
Of childhood's rosy dawn.

I would not pain your heart, brother--
I know you love me well;
And that love is laid upon my soul,
E'en as a holy spell.
But I'm weary of this world, brother,
This world of sin and care;
And my spirit fluttereth to be free,
To mount the upper air!

I know not of the world, brother,
To which I wish to go;
And perhaps my soul may there awake
To know a deeper woe!
They say the pure of earth, brother,
Find there undying bliss;
While all the wicked ones are cast
Into a dark abyss!

I look upon the stars, brother,
That gem the vault of blue;
And when they tell me "God is love,"
I feel it must be true;
For I see on all around, brother,
The impress of a hand
That blendeth and uniteth all
In one harmonious band.

I am that which I am, brother,
As the Creator made;
To _Him_, all-holy and all-pure,
No fault can e'er be laid.
He knows my weakness well, brother,
And I can trust his love
To bear me safe through Jordan's stream
To brighter worlds above.




LINES TO A FRIEND,

ON REMOVING FROM HER NATIVE VILLAGE.


The golden rays of sunset fall on a snow-clad hill,
As standing by my window I gaze there long and still.
I see a roof and a chimney, and some tall elms standing near,
While the winds that sway their branches bring voices to my ear.

They tell of a darkened hearth-stone, that once shone bright and gay,
And of old familiar faces that have sadly passed away;
How a stranger on the threshold with careless aspect stands,
And gazes on the acres that have passed into his hands.

I shudder, as these voices, so fraught with mournful woe,
Steal on my spirit's hearing, in cadence sad and low,
And think I will not hear them--but, ah! who can control
The gloomy thoughts that enter and brood upon the soul?

So, turning from my window, while darkness deepens round,
And the wailing winds sweep onward with yet more piteous sound,
I feel within my bosom far wilder whirlwinds start,
And sweep the cloudy heaven that bends above my heart.

I have no power to quell them; so let them rage and roar,
The sooner will their raging and fury all be o'er;
I've seen Atlantic's billows 'neath tempests fiercely swell,
But O, the calm succeeding, I have no words to tell!

I think of you, and wonder if you are happy now;
Floats there no shade of sorrow at times across your brow?
When daily tasks are ended, and thought is free to roam,
Doth it not bear you swiftly back to that dear old home?

And then, with wizard fingers, doth Memory open fast
A thrilling panorama of all the changeful past!
Where blending light and shadow skip airy o'er the scene,
Painting in vivid contrast what is and what has been.

And say, does not your mother remember yet with tears
The spot where calm and peaceful have lapsed so many years?
O, would some kindly spirit might give us all to know
How much a tender parent will for a child forego!

We prized your worth while with us; but now you're gone from sight,
We feel "how blessings brighten while they are taking flight."
O, don't forget the homestead upon the pleasant hill;
Nor yet the love-lit home you have in all our memories still!

Come, often come to visit the haunts your childhood knew!
We pledge you earnest welcome, unbought, unfeigned and true.
And when before your vision new hopes and pleasure rise,
Turn sometimes with a sunny thought toward your native skies!




HO FOR CALIFORNIA!


Rouse ye, Yankees, from your dreaming!
See that vessel, strong and bold,
On her banner proudly streaming,
California for gold!
See a crowd around her gather,
Eager all to push from land!
They will have all sorts o' weather
Ere they reach the golden strand.
Rouse to action,
Fag and faction;
Ho, for mines of wealth untold!
Rally! Rally!
All for Cali-
Fornia in search of gold!
Away, amid the rush and racket,
Ho for the California packet!

Wake ye! O'er the surging ocean,
Loud above each coral cave,
Comes a sound of wild commotion
From the lands beyond the wave.
Riches, riches, greater--rarer,
Than Golconda's far-famed mines;
Ho for California's shores!
Where the gold so brightly shines.
O'er the ocean
All's commotion;
Ho for mines of wealth untold!
Countless treasure
Waits on pleasure;
Ho for California's gold!
Let us go the rush and racket,
On the Californian packet.

Hear the echo wildly ringing
Through our country far and wide!
Thousands leaving home and springing
Into the resistless tide.
Now our nation's roused from sleeping,
All alert and wide awake.
O, there's no such thing as keeping
Folks asleep when gold's the stake!
Old Oregon
We'll look not on;
Ho, for mines of wealth untold!
We'll take our way,
Without delay,
In search of gold--of glittering gold!
Here we go, amid the racket,
On the Californian packet!

Yankees! all who have the fever,
Go the rush without delay!
Take a spade and don your beaver;
Tell your friends you must away!
You will get a sight o' money;
Reap perhaps a hundred-fold!
O, it would be precious funny
To sit in a hall of gold!
Let's be going,
Gales are blowing,
Ho, all hands for digging gold!
Romance throwing
Colors glowing
Round these mines of wealth untold!
Ho, we go amid the racket,
On the Californian packet!




N. P. ROGERS.


Rogers, will not future story
Tell thy glorious fame?
And in hues of living glory
Robe thy spotless name?

There was more than mortal seeming
In thy wondrous eye,--
Like a silv'ry star-ray gleaming
Through a liquid _sky_.

Of that angel spirit telling,
Noble, clear and bright,
In thy "inner temple" dwelling,
Veiled from mortal sight!

Of that spirit meek and lowly,
Yet so bold and free,
In its all-absorbing, holy,
Love of Liberty.

Thou didst leave us, gentle brother,
In thy manhood's pride;
And we vainly seek another
Heart so true and tried!

Thou art dwelling with the angels
In the spirit land!
Chanting low and sweet evangels,
'Mid a seraph band.

But when Freedom's champions rally
'Gainst the despot's sway,
Then they mourn the friend and ally
That has passed away.

And when Liberty's bright banner
Waves o'er land and sea,
And is heard the loud hosanna
Of the ransomed free,--

On its silken folds, in letters
Traced with diamond bright,
Shall thy name, the foe of fetters,
Blaze in hues of light!




LINES.


I hied me to the ocean-side;
Its waves rolled bright and high;
Upon its waters, spreading wide,
I gazed with beaming eye.
At last, at last, I said, is found
A charm to banish pain,--
Here, where the sprightly billows bound
Athwart the heaving main.

The pebbly beach I wandered o'er
At morn and evening's hour,
Or listening to the breakers' roar,
Or wondering at their power.
Beneath their din I madly sought,
With ev'ry nerve bestirred,
To drown for aye the demon, thought,--
But, ah! he _would be heard_.

He found a voice my ear to reach,
To pierce my aching breast,
In every wave that swept the beach
With proud, defiant crest.
And when the moon, with silver light,
Smiled o'er the waters blue,
It seemed to say "There's nothing bright
O'er all this earth for you."

Scarce half a moon have I been here,
Beside the sounding sea,
In hope its echoings in my ear
Might drown out memory;
Or might instil some vital life
Into this feeble frame,
Long spent and wasted by the strife
Wide-wrought against my name.

In vain, in vain!--nor sea, nor shore,
Nor any mortal thing,
Can to my cheek health's bloom restore,
Or clear my life's well-spring.
And yet there is a sea whose waves
Will roll above us all,--
Within its vasty depths are graves
Beyond all mortal call.

With what an awful note of dirge
This shoreless ocean rolls--
Bearing on its tremendous surge
The wealth of human souls!
----The Ocean of Eternity,--
O, let its billows sweep
O'er one that longeth to be free,
And sleep the dreamless sleep!




HENRY CLAY.


Wail, winds of summer, as ye sweep
The arching skies;
O, let your echoes swell with deep,
Woe-piercing cries!

Old ocean, with a heavy surge,
Cold, black and drear,
Roll thou the solemn note of dirge
On Europe's ear!

Sweet stars, that calmly, purely bright,
Look down below,
O, pity with your eyes of light
A Nation's woe!

Thou source of day, that rollest on
Though tempests frown,
Thou mind'st us of another sun
That has gone down!

Gone down,--no more may mortal eye
Its face behold!
Gone down,--yet leaving on the sky
A tinge of gold!

Ah, yes! Columbia, pause to hear
The note of dread;
'Twill smite like iron on the ear;--
Our Clay is dead!

Our Clay; the patriot, statesman, sage,
The Nation's pride,
With giant minds of every age
Identified!

That form of manliness and strength
In Senate hall,
Is lying at a fearful length
Beneath the pall!

That voice of eloquence no more
Suspends the breath;
Its matchless power to charm is o'er--
'Tis hushed in death!

Thrice noble spirit! can we bow,
And kiss the rod?
With resignation yield thee now
Back to thy God?

And where, where shall we turn to find
Now thou 'rt at rest,
A soul so lofty, just and kind,
As warmed thy breast?

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