Matthew L. Davis - "Memoirs of Aaron Burr, Complete"

Benjamin Disraeli - "Ixion In Heaven"

E. Hermitte and G. Bodenbender - "Catalogo Instructivo de las Colecciones Mineralogicas"

Robert de Boron - "Li Romanz de l'estoire dou Graal"

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.

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In the latter part of this conversation the mother spoke in a quiet
jesting tone, which, perhaps, did more even than her simple explanation
to reassure the heart of her daughter. She pressed her hands on her
heart, and looked thankfully up to heaven.

"And if," continued her mother, "you yet entertain any doubt, talk with
your father, talk with Jacobi, and their words will strengthen mine. But
I see you need it not--your heart, my child, is again at peace!"

"Ah, thank God! thank God!" exclaimed Louise, sinking on her knees
before her mother, and covering her hands and even her dress with
kisses. "Oh, that I dared look up again to you, my mother! Oh, can you
forgive my being so weak: my being so easy of belief? Never, never shall
I forgive myself!"

Louise was out of herself, her whole frame trembled violently; she had
never before been in a state of such agitation. Her mother was obliged
to apply remedies both for mind and body, tender words and soothing
drops--to tranquillise her excited state. She besought her therefore to
go to rest, seated herself beside her bed, took her hands in hers, and
then attempted to divert her mind from the past scene, endeavouring with
the utmost delicacy to turn her mind on the Candidate and on the
Landed-proprietor as lovers. But Louise had only one thought, one
sentiment--the happy release from her doubt, and thankfulness for it.
When her mother saw that she was calmer, she embraced her, "And now go
to sleep, my dear girl," said she; "I must now leave you, in order to
hasten to one who waits impatiently for me, and that is your father. He
has been extremely uneasy on your account, and I can now make him easy
by candidly communicating all that has passed between us. For the rest I
can assure you that you have said nothing that can make us uneasy. That
I was calumniated by one person, and am so still, he knows as well as I
do. He has assisted me to bear it calmly, he is truly so superior, so
excellent! Ah, Louise, it is a great blessing when husband and wife,
parents and children, cherish an entire confidence in each other! It is
so beautiful, so glorious, to be able to say everything to each other in
love!"


FIFTH SCENE.

The garden. It is morning! the larks sing, the jonquils fill the air
with odour; the bird's cherry-tree waves in the morning breeze; the
cherry blossoms open themselves to the bees which hum about in their
bosom. The sun shines on all its children.

Louise is walking in the middle alley, Father Noah's sermon in her hand,
but with her eyes fixed on the little poem appended to it, which by no
means had anything to do with Father Noah. The Candidate comes towards
her from a cross walk, with a gloomy air, and with a black pansy in his
hand.

The two meet, and salute each other silently.

Jacobi. Might I speak one moment with you? I will not detain you long.

Louise bows her head, is silent, and blushes.

Jacobi. In an hour's time I shall take my departure, but I must beseech
of you to answer me one question before I say farewell to you!

Louise. You going! Where? Why?

Jacobi. Where, is indifferent to me, so that I leave this place; why,
because I cannot bear the unkindness of one person who is dear to me,
and who, I once thought, cherished a friendship for me! For fourteen
days you have behaved in such a way to me as has embittered my life; and
why? Have I been so unfortunate as to offend you, or to excite your
displeasure? Why then delay explaining the cause to me? Is it right to
sentence any one unheard, and that one a friend--a friend from
childhood? Is it right--pardon me, Louise--is it Christian, to be so
severe, so immovable? In the sermons which you are so fond of rending,
do you find nothing said of kindness and reconciliation!

Jacobi spoke with a fervour, and with such an almost severe seriousness,
as was quite foreign to his gentle and cheerful spirit.

"I have done wrong," replied Louise, with a deep emotion, "very wrong,
but I have been misled; at some future time, perhaps, I may tell you
how. Since last evening, I know how deceived I have been, how I have
deceived myself; and now God be thanked and praised, I know that nobody
is to blame in this affair but myself. I have much, very much, to
reproach myself with, on account of my reserve towards my own family,
and towards you also. Forgive me, best Jacobi," continued she, offering
her hand with almost humility; "forgive me, I have been very unkind to
you; but believe me," added she, "neither have I been happy either!"

"Thanks! thanks, Louise!" exclaimed Jacobi, grasping her hand, and
pressing it to his breast and to his lips; "oh, how happy this kindness
makes me! Now I can breathe again! Now I can leave you with a cheerful
heart!"

"But why will you leave us?" asked she, in a half-discontented tone.

"Because," answered Jacobi, "it would not give me pleasure to witness a
betrothal which will soon be celebrated; because, from your late
behaviour, I must be convinced you cannot entertain any warmer
sentiments towards me."

"If that were the case," replied she, in the same tone as before, "I
should not have been depressed so long."

"How!" exclaimed Jacobi, joyfully. "Ah, Louise, what words! what bold
hopes may they not excite! Might I mention them to you? might I venture
to say to you what I some time have thought, and still now think?"

Louise was silent, and Jacobi continued:

"I have thought," said he, "that the humble, unprovided-for Jacobi could
offer you a better fortune than your rich neighbour of Oestanvik. I have
hoped that my love, the true dedication of my whole life, might make you
happy; that a smaller portion of worldly wealth might satisfy you, if it
were offered you by a man who know deeply your worth, and who desired
nothing better than to be ennobled by your hand. Oh, if this beloved
hand would guide me through life, how bright, how peaceful would not
life be! I should fear neither adversity nor temptation! and how should
I not endeavour to be grateful to Providence for his goodness to me! Ah,
Louise! it is thus that I have thought, and fancied, and dreamed! Oh,
tell me, was it only a dream, or may not the dream become a reality?"

Louise did not withdraw the hand which he had taken, but looked upon the
speaker with infinite kindness.

"One word," besought Jacobi, "only one word! Might I say _my_ Louise?
Louise--mine?"

"Speak with my parents," said Louise, deeply blushing, and turning aside
her head.

"My Louise!" exclaimed Jacobi, and, intoxicated with tenderness and joy,
pressed her to his heart.

"Think of my parents," said Louise, gently pushing him back; "without
their consent I will make no promise. Their answer shall decide me."

"We will hasten together, my Louise," said he, "and desire their
blessing."

"Go alone, dear Jacobi," said Louise. "I do not feel myself calm enough,
nor strong enough. I will wait your return here."

* * * * *

With this fifth scene we conjecture that the little drama has arrived at
the desired conclusion, and therefore we add no further scene to that
which naturally follows.

As the Candidate hastened with lover's speed to Louise's parents he
struck hard against somebody in the doorway, who was coming out. The two
opponents stepped back each a few paces, and the Candidate and the
Landed-proprietor stared in astonishment on each other.

"Pardon me," said the Candidate, and was advancing; but the
Landed-proprietor held him back, whilst he inquired with great
earnestness, and with a self-satisfied smile, "Hear you, my friend: can
you tell me whether Cousin Louise is in the garden? I came this moment
from her parents, and would now speak with her. Can you tell me where
she is?"

"I--I don't know!" said Jacobi, releasing himself, and hastening with a
secret anxiety of mind up to her parents.

In the mean time the Landed-proprietor had caught a glimpse of "Cousin
Louise's" person in the garden, and hastened up to her.

It was, in fact, no surprise to Louise, when, after all the preliminary
questions, "Cousin, do you like fish? do you like birds?" there came at
last the principal question, "Cousin, do you like me?"

To this question, it is true, she gave a somewhat less blunt, but
nevertheless a decided negative reply, although it was gilded over with
"esteem and friendship."

The Candidate, on his side, in the fulness and warmth of his heart, laid
open to Louise's parents his love, his wishes, and his hopes. It is true
that Jacobi was now without any office, as well as without any property;
but he had many expectations, and amid these, like a sun and a support,
his Excellency O----. The Judge was himself no friend to such supports,
and Elise did not approve of long engagements: but then both of them
loved Jacobi; both of them wished, above all things, the true happiness
and well-being of their daughter; and so it happened that, after much
counsel, and after Louise had been questioned by her parents, and they
found that she had sincerely the same wishes as Jacobi, and that she
believed she should be happy with him, and after Jacobi had combated
with great fervency and effect every postponement of the
betrothal--that, after all this had been brought to a fortunate issue,
he received a formal yes, and he and Louise, on the afternoon of the
same day, whose morning sun had seen their explanation, were betrothed.

Jacobi was beyond description happy; Louise tranquil but gentle. Henrik
declared that her Majesty appeared too merciful. Perhaps all this
proceeded from her thoughts being already occupied with the increasing
and arranging of Jacobi's wardrobe. She began already to think about
putting in hand a fine piece of linen-weaving. She actually had
consented to the quick betrothal, principally, as she herself confessed
to Eva, "in order to have him better under her hands."

Good reader--and if thou art a Candidate, good Candidate--pardon "our
eldest" if she gave her consent somewhat in mercy. We can assure thee,
that our Jacobi was no worse off on that account; so he himself seemed
to think, and his joy and cordiality seemed to have great influence in
banishing "the cathedral" out of Louise's demeanour.

This view of the connexion, and the hearty joy which Louise's brother
and sisters expressed over this betrothal, and which proved how beloved
Jacobi was by them all, smoothed the wrinkles from the brow of the
Judge, and let Elise's heart feel the sweetest satisfaction. Henrik,
especially, declared loudly his delight in having his beloved friend and
instructor for a brother-in-law--an actual brother.

"And now listen, brother-in-law," said he, fixing his large eyes on
Louise; "assume your rights as master of the house properly, brother
dear; and don't let the slippers be master of the house. If you marry a
queen, you must be king, you understand that very well, and must take
care of your majesty; and if she look like a cathedral, why then do you
look like the last judgment, and thunder accordingly! You laugh; but
you must not receive my advice so lightly, but lay it seriously to
heart, and----but, dear friend, shall we not have a little bowl this
evening? shall we not, mamma dear? Yes, certainly we will! I shall have
the honour of mixing it myself. Shall we not drink the health of your
majesties? I shall mix a bowl--sugar and oranges!--a bowl! a bowl!"

With this exclamation Henrik rushed with outstretched arms to the door,
which at that moment opened, and he embraced the worthy Mrs. Gunilla.

"He! thou--good heaven! Best-beloved!" exclaimed she, "he, he, he, he!
what is up here? He never thought, did he, that he should take the old
woman in his arms! he, he, he, he!"

Henrik excused himself in the most reverential and cordial manner,
explained the cause of his ecstasy, and introduced to her the
newly-betrothed. Mrs. Gunilla at first was astonished, and then affected
to tears. She embraced Elise, and then Louise, and Jacobi also. "God
bless you!" said she, with all her beautiful quiet cordiality, and then,
somewhat pale, seated herself silently on the sofa, and seemed to be
thinking sorrowfully how often anxious, dispiriting days succeed the
cheerful morning of a betrothal. Whether it was from these thoughts, or
that Mrs. Gunilla really felt herself unwell, we know not, but she
became paler and paler. Gabriele went out to fetch her a glass of water,
and as she opened the door ran against the Assessor, who was just then
entering.

With a little cry of surprise she recovered from this unexpected shock.
He looked at her with an astonished countenance, and the next moment was
surrounded by the other young people.

"Now, see, see! what is all this?" exclaimed he; "why do you overwhelm
me thus? Cannot one move any longer in peace? I am not going to dance,
Monsieur Henricus! Do not split my ears, Miss Petrea! What? betrothed!
What? Who? Our eldest? Body and bones! let me sit down and take a pinch
of snuff. Our eldest betrothed! that is dreadful! Usch!--usch! that is
quite frightful! uh, uh, uh, uh! that is actually horrible! Hu, u, u,
hu!"

The Assessor took snuff, and blew his nose for a good while, during
which the family, who knew his way so well, laughed heartily, with the
exception of Louise, who reddened, and was almost angry at his
exclamations, especially at that of horrible.

"Nay," said he, rising up and restoring the snuff-box again to his
pocket, "one must be contented with what cannot be helped. What is
written is written. And, as the Scripture says, blessed are they who
increase and multiply the incorrigible human race, so, in heaven's name,
good luck to you! Good luck and blessing, dear human beings!" And thus
saying, he heartily shook the hands of Jacobi and Louise, who returned
his hand-pressure with kindness, although not quite satisfied with the
form of his good wishes.

"Never in all my life," said Henrik, "did I hear a less cheerful
congratulation. Mrs. Gunilla and good Uncle Munter to-day might be in
melancholy humour: but now they are sitting down by each other, and we
may hope that after they have had a comfortable quarrel together, they
will cheer up a little."

But no; no quarrel ensued this evening between the two. The Assessor had
tidings to announce to her which appeared difficult for him to
communicate, and which filled her eyes with tears--Pyrrhus was dead!

"He was yesterday quite well," said the Assessor, "and licked my hand as
I bade him good night. To-day he took his morning coffee with a good
appetite, and then lay down on his cushion to sleep. As I returned home,
well pleased to think of playing with my little comrade, he lay dead on
his cushion!"

Mrs. Gunilla and he talked for a long time about the little favourite,
and appeared in consequence to become very good friends.

Jeremias Munter was this evening in a more censorious humour than
common. His eyes rested with a sad expression on the newly betrothed.

"Yes," said he, as if speaking to himself, "if one had only confidence
in oneself; if one was only clear as to one's own motives--then one
might have some ground to hope that one could make another happy, and
could be happy with them."

"One must know oneself thus well, so far," said Louise, not without a
degree of confidence, "that one can be certain of doing so, before one
would voluntarily unite one's fate with that of another."

"_Thus well!_" returned he, warmly. "Yes, prosit! Who knows thus well?
You do not, dear sister, that I can assure you. Ah!" continued he, with
bitter melancholy, "one may be horribly deceived in oneself, and by
oneself, in this life. There is no one in this world who, if he rightly
understand himself, has not to deplore some infidelity to his
friend--his love--his better self! The self-love, the miserable egotism
of human nature, where is there a corner that it does not slide into?
The wretched little _I_, how it thrusts itself forward! how thoughts of
self, designs for self, blot actions which otherwise might be called
good!"

"Do you then acknowledge no virtue? Is there, then, no magnanimity, no
excellence, which you can admire?" asked some one. "Does not history
show us----"

"History!" interrupted he, "don't speak of history--don't bring it
forward! No, if I am to believe in virtue, it is such as history cannot
meddle with or understand; it is only in that which plays no great part
in the world, which never, never could have been applauded by it, and
which is not acted publicly. Of this kind it is possible that something
entirely beautiful, something perfectly pure and holy, might be found. I
will believe in it, although I do not discover it in myself. I have
examined my own soul, and can find nothing pure in it; but that it _may_
be found in others, I believe. My heart swells with the thought that
there may exist perfectly pure and unselfish virtue. Good heaven, how
beautiful it is! And wherever such a soul may be found in the world, be
it in palace or in hut, in gold or in rags, in man or in woman, which,
shunning the praise of the world, fearing the flattery of its own heart,
fulfils unobserved and with honest zeal its duties, however difficult
they may be, and which labours and prays in secrecy and stillness--such
a being I admire and love, and set high above all the Caesars and Ciceros
of the world!"

During this speech the Judge, who had silently risen from his seat,
approached his wife, laid his hand gently on her shoulder, and looked
round upon his children with glistening eyes.

"Our time," continued the Assessor, with what was an extraordinary
enthusiasm for him, "understands but very little this greatness. It
praises itself loudly, and on that account it is the less worthy of
praise. Everybody will be remarkable, or at least will appear so.
Everybody steps forward and shouts I! I! Women even do not any longer
understand the nobility of their incognito; they also come forth into
notoriety, and shout out their _I!_ Scarcely anybody will say, from the
feeling of their own hearts, _Thou!_--and yet it is this same _Thou_
which occasions man to forget that selfish _I_, and in which lies his
purest part; his best happiness! To be sure it may seem grand, it may be
quite ecstatic, even if it be only for a moment, to fill the world with
one's name; but as, in long-past times, millions and millions of men
united themselves to build a temple to the Supreme, and then themselves
sank silently, namelessly, to the dust, having only inscribed His name
and His glory; certainly that was greater, that was far worthier!"

"You talk like King Solomon himself, Uncle Munter!" exclaimed Petrea,
quite enraptured. "Ah, you must be an author: you must write a book
of----"

"Write!" interrupted he, "on what account should I write? Only to
increase the miserable vanity of men? Write!--Bah!"

"Every age has its wise men to build up temples," said Henrik, with a
beautiful expression of countenance.

"No!" continued the Assessor, with evident abhorrence, "I will not
write! but I will live! I have dreamed sometimes that I could live----"

He ceased; a singular emotion was expressed in his countenance; he
arose, and took up a book, into which he looked without reading, and
soon after stepped quietly out of the house.

The entertainment in the family this evening was, spite of all that had
gone before, very lively; and the result, which was expressed in jesting
earnestness, was, that every one, in the spirit which the Assessor had
praised, should secretly labour at the temple-building, every one with
his own work-tool, and according to his own strength.

The Judge walked up and down in the room, and took only occasional part
in the entertainment, although he listened to all, and smiled
applaudingly. It seemed as if the Assessor's words had excited a
melancholy feeling in him, and he spoke warmly in praise of his friend.

"There does not exist a purer human soul than his," said he, "and he
has thereby operated very beneficially on me. Many men desire as much
good, and do it also; but few have to the same extent as he the pure
mind, the perfectly noble motive."

"Ah! if one could only make him happier, only make him more satisfied
with life!" said Eva.

"Will you undertake the commission?" whispered Petrea, waggishly.

Rather too audible a kiss suddenly turned all eyes on the Candidate and
Louise; the latter of whom was punishing her lover for his daring by a
highly ungracious and indignant glance, which Henrik declared quite
pulverised him. As they, however, all separated for the night, the
Candidate besought and was permitted, in mercy, a little kiss, as a
token of reconciliation and forgiveness of his offence regarding the
great one.

"My dear girl," said the mother to Louise as the two met, impelled by a
mutual desire to converse together that same night in her boudoir, "how
came Jacobi's wooing about so suddenly? I could not have believed that
it would have been so quickly decided. I am perfectly astonished even
yet that you should be betrothed."

"So am I," replied Louise; "I can hardly conceive how it has happened.
We met one another this morning in the garden; Jacobi was gloomy, and
out of spirits, and had made up his mind to leave us because he fancied
I was about to be betrothed to Cousin Thure. I then besought him to
forgive my late unkindness, and gave him some little idea of my
friendliness towards him; whereupon he spoke to me of his own feelings
and wishes so beautifully, so warmly, and then--then I hardly know how
it was myself, he called me _his_ Louise, and I--told him to go and
speak with my parents."

"And in the mean time," said the mother, "your parents sent another
wooer to their daughter, in order for him to receive from her a yes or
no. Poor Cousin Thure! He seemed to have such certain hope. But I trust
he may soon console himself! But do you know, Louise, of late I have
fancied that Oestanvik and all its splendour might be a little
captivating to you! And now do you really feel that you have had no loss
in rejecting so rich a worldly settlement?"

"Loss!" repeated Louise, "no, not now, certainly; and yet I should say
wrong if I denied that it has had temptations for me; and for that
reason I never would go to Oestanvik, because I knew how improper it
would be if I allowed it to influence me, whilst I never could endure
such a person as Cousin Thure; and, besides that, I liked Jacobi so
much, and had done so for many years! Once, however, the temptation was
very powerful, and that was on our return from Axelholm. As I rode along
in Cousin Thure's easy landau, it seemed to me that it must be very
agreeable to travel through life so comfortably and pleasantly. But at
that time I was very unhappy in myself; life had lost its best worth for
me; my faith in all that I loved most was poisoned! Ah! there arose in
me then such a fearful doubt in all that was good in the world, and I
believed for one moment that it would be best to sleep out life, and
therefore the easy rocking of the landau seemed so excellent. But now,
now is this heavy dream vanished! now life is again bright, and I
clearly see my own way through, it. Now I trouble myself no more about a
landau than I do about a wheelbarrow; nay, I would much rather now that
my whole life should be a working day, for which I could thank God! It
is a delight to work for those whom one highly esteems and loves; and I
desire nothing higher than to be able to live and work for my own
family, and for him who is to-day become my promised husband before
God!"

"God will bless you, my good, pure-hearted girl!" said the mother,
embracing her, and sweet affectionate tears were shed in the still
evening.




CHAPTER XI.

YET MORE WOOING.


Early on the following morning Eva received a nosegay of beautiful
moss-roses, among which was a letter to herself; she tore it open, and
red the following words:

"I have dreamed that I could live; and truly a life more beautiful
and more perfect than any romance makes one dream of. Little Miss
Eva, whom I have so often carried in my arms--good young girl,
whom I would so willingly sustain on my breast through, life, thou
must hear what I have dreamed, what I sometimes still dream.

"I dreamed that I was a rough, unsightly rock, repulsive and
unfruitful. But a heart beat in the rock--a chained heart. It beat
against the walls of its prison till it bled, because it longed to
be abroad in the sunshine, but it could not break its bonds. I
could not free myself from myself. The rock wept because it was so
hard, because it was a prison for its own life. There came a
maiden, a light gentle angel, wandering through the wood, and laid
her warm lily-white hand on the rock, and pressed her pure lips
upon it, breathing a magical word of freedom. The rocky wall
opened itself, and the heart, the poor captive heart, saw the
light! The young girl went into the chamber of the heart, and
called it her home; and suddenly beautiful roses, which diffused
odours around, sprang forth from that happy heart towards its
liberator, whilst the chambers of the heart vaulted itself high
above her into a temple for her, clothing its walls with fresh
foliage and with precious stones, upon which the sunbeams played.

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