Sara Ware Bassett - "The Story of Glass"

Edgar Rice Burroughs - "Ce la koro de la tero"

Nathaniel Hawthorne - "The Ancestral Footstep (fragment)"

Alexandre Dumas - "Bric à brac"

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




Scarce ten minutes had elapsed, after his departure, when Florence rose
and said, "Now I am going."

"Why, you just promised to remain all night," said Rufus, in a tone of
undisguised disappointment.

"No," said she; "I made no promise, and I am going."

"Then I'll go with you," returned Rufus, seizing his hat.

"No," said Col. Malcome, suddenly entering the apartment. "With Miss
Howard's consent, I'll be her escort home to-night."

Florence said she should be honored by his company. So bidding
good-night to Edith and Rufus, she took his proffered arm and descended
to the street.

"How have you enjoyed the ball to-night?" inquired he, as they walked on
together.

"Very well," answered she, briefly.

"This young Lindenwood, that burrows with the strange chap they call the
'Hermit of the Cedars;' you are acquainted with him, I believe."

"He has attended school at the seminary, since I commenced to go,"
answered Florence, as calmly as she was able.

"He has been paying Edith some attentions of late," continued the
colonel, in a careless tone; "do you suppose he really cares for her?"

"I don't know," answered Florence; and her voice trembled in spite of
her efforts to steady it.

"Of course you don't know," the colonel went on, still in that cold,
indifferent tone; "I merely asked what you thought?"

"I never thought anything about it in my life," said Florence, in a
choking voice.

"That's rather strange," returned he. "I have thought of it several
times lately;--but here we are at your father's gate. Present my
regards, and say I would be happy to receive a call from him whenever he
is so disposed."

Florence bowed good-evening to her gallant, and hurried to her own
apartment.

The night was warm. A waning moon lighted the eastern terrace, and, not
feeling disposed to sleep, she stepped through a window that opened to
the floor, and, leaning against a pillar, stood silently gazing over the
gardens and grounds below.

She had not been standing long thus when she beheld the figure of a man
moving slowly along the gravelled walks, pausing frequently and fixing
an earnest gaze on the windows of the apartment occupied by her mother.
She grew alarmed, and was about descending the stairs to arouse her
father, when she heard the hall door open softly, and saw the figure of
a woman stealing down the garden path. She recognized the dark form
instantly as that of Hannah Doliver. The man met her and the two went
into a green-house. After an hour the woman reappeared, and retraced her
steps to the mansion, but the man she saw no more. Securing her windows,
Florence retired, resolving to impart to her father a history of what
she had seen.

When, she did so, he only laughed at her and said he supposed it was
some enamored knight come to pay his devoirs to the fair lady of his
love, and counselled her to say no more of the matter, as it would
needlessly irritate Hannah to know her secret was discovered.




CHAPTER XVIII.

"The world hath used me well, and now at length
In peace and quietness I sit me down
To feed upon the fruits of my hard toils.
Ambition doth no more distract my breast,--
I've reached the height my spirit strove to gain;
Here will I rest, and watch life glide away."


It is quite time for us to call on Mrs. Salsify Mumbles again. We fear
the good lady, who is rather sensitive on such points, has felt
neglected ere this; but we hope not, and, as her mansion heaves in view,
we are convinced that matters of more importance than visits from our
humble selves, have engaged our old friend's attention.

The second story has actually gone up, and the piazza spreads its white
palings along the sides of Mr. Salsify's dwelling. The pasteboard sign
of "Mr. Theophilus Shaw, Boot & Shoe Maker," is no longer seen swinging
from the bed-room window, but a new sign stretches its sublime length
over the doors of Mr. Salsify's old grocery, announcing, in staring
black and yellow, to the inhabitants of Wimbledon, that "Mumbles, Shaw &
Co., wholesale dealers in pork, cheese, onions, dried apples, sausages,
and verdigris, continue at the old stand, No. 9 Temple street, where
they will entertain the trading public in a genteel and finished
manner."

Thus it appears Mr. Salsify's high hopes are at length realized. Most
fortunate man! He has "risen in his profession" to the topmost summit of
his earthly ambition.

Happy will it be for him if he remains content with his present
elevation, and goes not, like too many restless mortals, clambering to a
higher point, only to fall back, on some adverse day, into the slough of
ill-luck and despondency.

Mrs. Salsify sits in her parlor making caps for her thumb, at least we
should judge so, from their surprisingly small dimensions; and Mary
Madeline is nowhere to be seen. But Dilly Danforth is in the kitchen
bending over a great wash-tub, pale and sunken-eyed as ever. Now that we
look at this woman attentively, it strikes us she is wonderfully like
that lank-visaged man, who dwells in the lonely forest hut, the "Hermit
of the Cedars," as he is called. But then it may be only the resemblance
which all the sons and daughters of affliction have in common. 'Tis not
likely 'tis more than that. And gazing on Willie, who stands over the
great arches, replenishing the fires, and at intervals poking the white
heaps of linen beneath the fierce bubbling suds with a long wooden
shovel, we fancy for a moment there's something about him like Edgar
Lindenwood. Of course, he is not so large or so well-dressed;
nevertheless, he is greatly improved since we last saw him; and there is
something in the turn of the head, which is certainly finely shaped,
though placed on the shoulders of a beggar boy; and something in the set
of the rusty cloth cap over the bright, sunny curls, that reminds us of
the tall, graceful lad we used to see winding his way over the hills to
the large, white seminary. But then, a great many boys have
pretty-formed heads, and bright, curly hair; and, should we attempt, no
doubt we could find a large number with more points of resemblance than
we have been able to make out between Edgar Lindenwood and Willie
Danforth. We are full of conceits. Sometimes Edith Malcome is like
Florence Howard, and Rufus' glistening, coal-black hair reminds us of
Hannah Doliver, while the handsome colonel has a look we cannot fathom,
and from which we turn with a creeping shudder.

'Tis quite astonishing what strange fancies possess people at times.

While we have been indulging in ours, Mrs. Mumbles has put away those
impossible caps, and come into the kitchen to see how matters and things
are progressing, and just as she begins to tell Aunt Dilly, that she
"wants her to get through washing in time to scour down the pantry
shelves and scrub the oil-cloth on the dining-room floor," in runs Miss
Susan Pimble, and says, "Mamma wants Mrs. Danforth to come and do a
little light work for her, to-morrow; for she has got to go to Goslin
Flats to attend a great mass convention, and can't stop to do it
herself. She will pay Aunt Dilly well, if she will oblige her. Garrison
has been sick--Peggy Nonce is away on a visit to her son, who has
recently been married, and mamma's public duties and household affairs
have proved too heavy for her shoulders," etc., etc.

Susy ran through a long rigmarole, with a volubility worthy the daughter
of a fluent public speaker.

We hasten away lest our mania for discovering resemblances should detect
one between Mrs. Salsify Mumbles and pert Susy Pimble.




CHAPTER XIX.

"Ay, little do those features wear
The shade of sin,--the soil of care;
The hair is parted o'er a brow
Open and white as mountain-snow,
And clusters there in many a ring,
With sun and summer glistening.
Yet something on that brow has wrought
A moment's cast of angry thought."


In an arbor of Major Howard's elegant garden, the moonlight shimmering
its rich, clustering vines with silver, and the night-breezes murmuring
in low, musical voices among the dark green leaves, sat a man of
commanding aspect and handsome features. Light auburn hair, closely
trimmed, lay in short, thick masses of wavy curls around his high, pale
brow. His mien and manner indicated the well-bred gentleman. A small,
dark figure crouched beside him. It was Hannah Doliver.

"We meet again at last," said the man, after a considerable silence. His
voice was low and deep, and the woman trembled as she answered,

"I marvel how you have discovered me."

"Few things escape my knowledge which it subserves my interest to know,"
returned he. "What in the name of all the fiends possessed you to enter
the service of Tom Howard?"

"A lone, forsaken female finds shelter where she can," whined the woman.

"O, don't babble in that hypocritical tone!" said the man. "I did not
leave you so destitute; and I took the child off your hands that no
incumbrance might fetter your footsteps."

"Fiend!" exclaimed Hannah. "You shall not talk to me thus. What have you
done with my boy?"

"I have done well by him," answered the man. "He has been reared as a
gentleman. No stain has ever been suspected on his birth."

"Where is he?" asked she, in a voice trembling with emotion.

"He is near you. I left him but an hour ago, well and happy."

"Near me!" said the woman almost wildly. "It cannot be--you lie to me,
Herbert!"

"By the heavens above, I utter the solemn truth!" returned the man.

"What name does he bear?"

The man bowed his tall form and whispered in her ear. She sprang to her
feet, paced hurriedly to and fro down the little alcove, and at length
threw herself on her knees and exclaimed,

"O, let me see him! Can you be so cruel as to withhold the child from
his mother's right?"

"It rests with you to decide whether you see him or no," said the man,
wholly unmoved by her distress and emotion. Swear to keep my presence
here a secret, and do my bidding in all things, and you may see your boy
when you choose."

"I swear!" answered the woman, frantically.

"Tell me first why you are here serving Tom Howard's wife?"

"I am not serving his wife."

"Who then?"

"His sister."

"His sister!" exclaimed the man, now evincing strong emotion. "And does
she live?"

"She lives; and lives to palm herself off on the world as the wife of
her own brother."

"What iniquity!" said the man. The woman burst into a low laugh.

"Why do you laugh?" demanded he, fiercely.

"Because iniquity comes so prettily from your lips," replied she in a
sarcastic tone.

"Take care, woman!" said he. "Remember you are in my power."

The little dark figure trembled and was silent.

"I wonder she would receive you again into her service," remarked the
man at length in an absorbed tone.

"Fear is a strong motive. I threatened to reveal her deception to the
public."

"Ay, you have some skill and tact, I find!" said he, rising. "Now
remember, when I wish to see your mistress, you are to gain me an
entrance to her."

"What do you want to see her for?" asked the woman. "I believe a sight
of you would throw her into fits."

"It is none of your business why I wish to see her," said he. "But mind,
you do not look on your boy unless you implicitly obey all my commands."
Here he stooped and whispered again in her ear.

"I hate the girl!" she said, after he had ceased speaking and stood
gazing down on her, twirling his velvet cap carelessly in his hand.

"But you would like to see your boy so well married," remarked he.

"'Twould be a sweet revenge," she said in a chuckling tone. He turned
to depart.

"Herbert!" she called, softly.

"What do you wish?" said he, pausing.

The woman hesitated, and at length said, "The girl--her child I mean; is
she----?"

Again the man whispered in her ear. "None can say," he added aloud,
"that I have not been a kind parent to my children."

"I'm glad there's some virtue in you," said the woman, turning toward
the quiet mansion that stood in almost palace-like magnificence in the
midst of the beautiful grounds that surrounded it on all sides. The man
lingered behind, and finally left the garden by a path lying in an
opposite direction from the one by which he had entered. He bent his
steps rapidly in the direction of the river. Either the warmth of the
night or his own emotions oppressed him; for, as he gained its banks, he
slackened his pace, drew off his cap, and loosened his collar. With
arms folded across his chest, he moved slowly along, like one intensely
absorbed in some dark and intricate train of thought. Sometimes he
muttered to himself, and made strange gestures, or tossed his head with
a confident air, as though he saw onward to the success of some plan he
concerted. So occupied was he in his own thoughts, that he never saw the
tall, gaunt figure of a man, crouching in the shadow of a small linden
tree, that stood on the bank of the river, nearly opposite Dilly
Danforth's wretched abode, although he passed in so close contact as to
brush against the little bundle of sticks the unknown held in his hand,
while his deep, sunken eyes glared on the passer till they seemed nearly
starting from their sockets.

"'Tis he!" murmured the gazer, when the abstracted one was beyond the
sound of his voice. "I must see where he goes;" and, stealing
noiselessly to the door of Dilly's abode, he placed the bundle of sticks
on her sill, and slowly followed the receding figure.




CHAPTER XX.

"And the clear depths of her dark eye
Were bright with troubled brilliancy,
Yet the lips drooped as with the tear,
Which might oppress, but not appear.
Her curls, with all their sunny glow,
Were braided o'er an aching brow;
But well she knew how many sought
To gaze upon her secret thought;--
And love is proud--she might not brook
That others on her heart should look."


One pleasant autumn evening a social group were assembled in Mr. Leroy
Edson's tasteful parlor. A tall, argand lamp on a marble table, shed its
mild, ethereal light over the rich furniture. A bright fire glowed in
the marble grate, and in the genial atmosphere of her own creating,
young Mrs. Edson moved, a thing of grace and beauty. She wore a robe of
emerald Genoa velvet, with an open bodice, laced over a chemisette of
fine-wrought Mechlin lace. Broad, drooping Pagoda sleeves revealed her
white arms encircled by quaintly-fashioned jet bracelets. Her guests
were not numerous, but select. Col. Malcome and his family were most
prominent among the number. Florence Howard was there, attended by
Rufus, and Edgar Lindenwood in company with Edith. Jenny Andrews, with
no less a personage than our quondam, roguish friend, Dick Giblet,
shop-boy of Mr. Salsify Mumbles' grocery; now Mr. Richard Giblet, of the
firm of Edson, Giblet & Co. A very respectable appearance Dick made,
too, for he was a quick, sprightly young fellow, albeit somewhat
over-fond of a mischievous joke; but this he would outgrow in time
probably. Amy Seaton, sedate and modest as ever, with laughing Charlie
for her beau, and several others, among whom we might mention Miss
Martha Pinkerton, made up the little party.

Edith looked fragile and sweet as ever in a dress of azure thibet cloth,
her light hair hanging in clusters of wavy curls over her small
shoulders. She leaned gracefully on the arm of Lindenwood, and looked in
his face with a gentle, artless expression of countenance.

Florence, in her crimson cashmere, and dark, massy ringlets, looked a
shade paler than when we last saw her, but more queenly and brilliant,
if possible.

There were many points of resemblance between her and Louise Edson. Both
were endowed with superior mental and intellectual powers; both
accomplished and beautiful; but there was at times a gentleness in
Florence's manner, a dreamy light in the far depths of her large, hazel
eyes, that indicated less firmness and strength of character, with
tenderer susceptibilities. Perhaps life's trials would sooner unnerve
her spirit.

Mr. Edson was not present, nor was it necessary he should be, to enhance
the enjoyment of his gifted wife. He was, in fact, very much the same
sort of an appendage in his elegant mansion that Mrs. Pimble averred her
husband to be in his,--"a mere crank to keep the machine in motion." Not
that Mrs. Edson monopolized her husband's sphere, as did the masculine
Mrs. Pimble. By no means. She appeared to give her lord full sway and
sceptre in his own household, and the good-natured man thought never
husband had so obedient, condescending partner as blessed his bosom.
Consummate actress, to conquer where she seemed to yield, and use her
advantages so skilfully that the vanquished felt himself the victor.
Mrs. Pimble stormed and blustered, but she exercised not half the power
over her household that Louise Edson swayed by a soft word or placid
smile.

But we forget our party, which waxes merry as the evening progresses,
warmed by the genial influences of social intercourse. Col. Malcome and
Mrs. Edson discussed the merits of different authors; Lindenwood
modestly joined them, and Florence dropped an occasional word. Edith sat
silent. Rufus yawned, and at length commenced a game of forfeits with
Dick Giblet, over which he soon grew so boisterous, that his father
reproved him sternly for a violation of the rules of politeness. The
youth's brow flushed with sudden anger, and for the remainder of the
evening he sat apart from the company. When the party dispersed he did
not come forward to claim Florence, and she fell a second time to the
care of Col. Malcome. Edgar escorted Edith, and the couples went
different ways to reach their destinations. Edgar took the street by the
river, and Col. M. that leading past the seminary. The latter had much
the longer walk; but Edith, fragile and delicate, complained of fatigue,
ere they had proceeded far, and Edgar proposed she should rest awhile on
the trunk of a fallen tree by the river's brink. She sat down, and he,
after a few moments, assumed a seat at her side. Her veil was thrown
off, and her small silk hat had fallen back from her head, revealing in
full her girlish features and wavy, auburn curls. Edgar was gazing on
the beautiful face, when suddenly a footstep met his ear, and, turning,
he beheld his uncle, the hermit, standing before them, staring wildly
upon Edith; who, as soon as she discovered the strange-looking being,
uttered a faint scream and sunk on Edgar's bosom. "Don't be alarmed,"
said he, whispering in her ear; "this man will not harm you,"--and then
lifting his head to address his uncle, and inquire what brought him
there, so far from home at that late hour, he found the hermit had
disappeared.

Calming Edith's alarm as well as he was able, he escorted her home, and
then set off for the hut in the forest, pondering, as he went, upon the
event of the evening, and wondering what could be the cause of the
fierce and ireful expression which disfigured the usually placid face of
his uncle, as he gazed so fixedly on Edith. It reminded him of the
violent passion evinced in regard to his intercourse with Florence
Howard. He knew the recluse had experienced a severe disappointment in
early life, and concluded this had tended to sour his mind toward the
whole female race, and caused him to look with angry distrust upon the
most gentle and lovely of the sex. In no other way could he account for
the repugnance manifested by his uncle toward his friendship and
acquaintance with both Florence and Edith. Thus ruminating, he reached
the forest habitation to find all dark and gloomy. The hermit had not
returned to his hut.

Col. Malcome lingered a moment as he escorted Florence to the door of
her father's mansion, and, as he did so, Major Howard stepped forth,
rather suddenly. Florence presented him to the colonel, and the two
gentlemen shook hands cordially.

"I have frequently desired to call on you and form your acquaintance,
Col. Malcome," said the major; "but frequent absences from home, and the
delicate health of my wife, have prevented me hitherto."

A slight, cynical smile flitted over the colonel's face at these latter
words, but it was not observed in the obscure light of evening, and he
answered, politely, that he had often desired an acquaintance with the
major, and hoped that now their children had established a friendly
intercourse, the parents might soon follow the example.

Major Howard expressed a wish that it might be so, and Col. Malcome,
bowing gracefully, retired.

Florence, after inquiring for her mother, and learning she was
comfortable as usual, ascended to her room, made fast the door, and drew
forth her journal, which was the dearest companion of her lonely hours,
the receptacle of her most treasured thoughts, and safety-valve for all
unuttered griefs and hidden sorrows.

She had scarcely touched her gold-tipped pen to the virgin page, when a
soft knock on the door displaced her train of thought.

"Father?" said she putting her lips close to the lock, for he was the
only one from whom she could expect a call at that late hour. There was
no answer. She hesitated a moment, and then opened the door. Hannah
Doliver slid in.

Florence stood still, gazing with astonishment on the little wiry form,
as it wormed around the apartment, touching the books, and giving sudden
pulls at the curtains and bed drapery. She had never seen Hannah over
her threshold before, and wondered what a visit from her might import.

"I came to see if you wanted anything, Miss Florence," said the woman,
at length, fixing her twinkling eyes on the fair girl's face.

"No!" said Florence, in an impatient tone; "what should I want at this
hour, but to be alone?"

"O, I'm not going to intrude upon you but a moment," returned Hannah. "I
thought, as you had been out late and 'twas rather cold, you might want
a fire lighted in your room, or a cup of warm tea, or something; so I
ran up to see." Florence grew more and more astonished. "Have you
enjoyed yourself this evening?" asked Hannah.

"Yes," answered Florence briefly.

"I am glad to hear it," returned the woman. "This Col. Mer---- what is
his name?" she paused and asked abruptly.

"Malcome," said Florence.

"O, yes! I'm bad at remembering strange names. Well, this Col. Malcome
has got some fine children, has he not?"

"Yes," returned Florence; "his daughter is a beautiful girl."

"And his son?"

"Is a loggerhead."

At these words, a furious anger, flashed over Hannah's face, and,
glaring fiercely on Florence for a moment, she darted from the room and
slammed the door behind her. The young girl turned the key, saying, "I'm
glad to be rid of her hateful presence. What possessed her to come here
is more than I can tell." And in the surprise this unusual visit
occasioned, she retired and forgot her journal.




CHAPTER XXI.

"A mien that neither seeks nor shuns
The homage scattered in her way;
A love that hath few favored ones,
And yet for all can work and pray.
A smile wherein each mortal reads
The very sympathy he needs;
An eye like to a mystic book,
Of lays that bard or prophet sings,
Which keepeth for the holiest look
Of holiest love, its deepest things."


What an impetus was given to the cause of Woman's Rights, when the first
Bloomer stepped upon the stage! With what tremendous huzzas of triumph
and victory did the whole assaulting sisterhood mount the breaches thus
made in the great bulwarks of man's tyranny and despotism; infuriately
calling on every woman throughout the length and breadth of the nation
to rise in the might of her slumbering strength, make her petticoats
into pillars of defiance, and hurl them on the weak, unguarded outposts,
till the whole tottering fabric should go down with a crash to rise no
more.

Mrs. Pimble and her coadjutors commenced rolling the ball of reform
with increased velocity. Mass meetings, of the most boisterous and
denunciatory character, were held through the community. It appeared a
war was commenced which threatened to cease only with the extermination
of the masculine portion of Wimbledon. Mr. Salsify Mumbles, though as
brave as most men in common encounters, was afraid to step outside his
door lest his unmentionables should be seized by some of the new-fledged
manhood, and a petticoat tied to his coat-tail. Even the green damask
curtains and cushion-coverings that adorned the high, old-fashioned
pulpit of the village church, were voted as ostentatious and calculated
to foster luxurious idleness in the pastor; and a committee appointed
and authorized to tear them from their places and sew them into bloomers
for the comfort of the lady-lecturers, whose callings exposed them to
the most inclement weathers. And so green-legged Philanthropy stalked
through Wimbledon; but it never laid an armful of wood on the sill of
Dilly Danforth's humble abode, though rough blew the storms of the
inclement winter; nor did it put a cap over Master Willie's curly locks,
or sew a charitable patch on the elbow of his ragged jacket. Because it
was philanthropy in the wider sense, which sought to relieve in the sum
of thousands--not of units.

Copyright (c) 2007. topboookz.com. All rights reserved.