Various - "Scientific American Supplement, No. 430, March 29, 1884"

United States War Department - "Infantry Drill Regulations, United States Army, 1911"

Stella M. Francis - "Campfire Girls at Twin Lakes"

Gotthold Ephraim Lessing - "Abhandlungen ueber die Fabel"

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.

Kate Carnegie and Those Ministers

I >> Ian Maclaren >> Kate Carnegie and Those Ministers




No one can walk a mile in Tochty woods, where there are little glades
of mossy turf, and banks of violets and geraniums, and gentle creatures
on ground and branch, and cool shade from the summer sun, and the sound
of running water by your side, without being sweetened and comforted.
Bitter thoughts and cynical criticisms, as well as vain regrets and
peevish complaints, fell away from Carmichael's soul, and gave place to
a gentle melancholy. He came to the heart of the wood, where was the
lovers' grave, and the place seemed to invite his company. A sense of
the tears of things came over him, and he sat down by the river-side to
meditate. It was two hundred years and more since the lassies died,
who were never wedded, and for him there was not even to be love. The
ages were linked together by a long tragedy of disappointment and
vanity, but the Tochty ran now as in the former days. What was any
human life but a drop in the river that flowed without ceasing to the
unknown sea? What could any one do but yield himself to necessity, and
summon his courage to endure? Then at the singing of a bird his mood
lightened and was changed, as if he had heard the Evangel. God was
over all, and life was immortal, and he could not be wrong who did the
will of God. After a day of conflict, peace came to his soul, and in
the soft light of the setting sun he rose to go home.

[Illustration: "He sat down by the river-side to meditate."]

"Miss Carnegie . . . I did not know you were here . . . I thought you
were in London," and Carmichael stood before Kate in great confusion.

"Nor did I see you behind that tree"--Kate herself was startled. "Yes,
the General and I have been visiting some old friends, and only came
home an hour ago.

"Do you know"--Kate was herself again--"the first thing I do on arrival
is to make a pilgrimage to this place. Half an hour here banishes the
dust of a day's journey and of . . .

"Besides, I don't know whether you have heard"--Kate spoke
hurriedly--"that it is now settled that I . . . we will be leaving the
Lodge soon, and one wants to have as much as possible of the old place
in the time remaining."

She gave him this opportunity in kindness, as it seemed, and he
reproached himself because he did not offer his congratulations.

"You will, I . . . the people hope, come often here, Miss Carnegie, and
not cast off Drumtochty, although the Lodge be not your home. You will
always have a place in the hearts of the Glen. Marjorie will never be
grateful enough for your readings," which was bravely said.

"Do you think that I can ever forget the Glen and my . . . friends
here? Not while I live; the Carnegies have their own faults, but
ingratitude is not one. Nor the dear Rabbi's grave." Then there was
silence, which Carmichael found very trying--they had been so near that
day in Kilbogie Manse, with only the Rabbi, who loved them both,
between; but now, although they stood face to face, there was a gulf
dividing them.

"It may not be easy for me to visit Drumtochty often, for you know
there has been a change . . . in our circumstances, and one must suit
oneself to it."

Carmichael flushed uneasily, and Kate supposed that he was sympathising
with their losses.

"I hope to be a busy woman soon, with lots of work, and I shall use
every one of my little scraps of knowledge. How do you think I shall
acquit myself in my new role?"

It was a little hard on Carmichael, who was thinking of a countess,
while Kate meant a governess.

"You need not ask me how I think you will do as . . . in any position,
and I . . . wish you every success, and . . . (with a visible effort)
happiness."

He spoke so stiffly that Kate sought about for reasons, and could only
remember their quarrel and imagine he retained a grudge--which she
thought was rather ungenerous.

"It occurs to me that one man ought to be thankful when we depart, for
then he will be able to call Queen Mary names every Sunday without a
misguided Jacobite girl dropping in to create a disturbance."

"Drumtochty will have to form its own opinion of poor Mary without my
aid," and Carmichael smiled sadly in pardon of the past, "for it is
likely, although no one knows this in the Glen, that I shall soon be
far away."

"Leaving Drumtochty? What will Marjorie do without you, and Dr.
Davidson, and . . . all the people?" Then, remembering Janet's gossip,
and her voice freezing, "I suppose you have got a better or more
convenient living. The Glen is certainly rather inaccessible."

"Have I done anything, Miss Carnegie, to justify you in thinking that I
would leave the Glen, which has been so good to me, for . . . worldly
reasons? There is enough to support an unmarried man, and I am not
likely to . . . to marry," said Carmichael, bitterly; "but there are
times when it is better for a man to change his whole surroundings and
make a new life."

It was clear that the Bailie's daughter was a romance of Janet's Celtic
imagination, and Kate's manner softened.

"The Rabbi's death and . . . your difference of opinion--something
about doctrine, was n't it? we were from home--must have been a great
trial, and, as there was no opportunity before, let me say how much we
sympathised with you and . . . thought of you.

"Do you think, however, Mr. Carmichael"--she spoke with hesitation, but
much kindness--"that you ought to fling up your work here on that
account? Would not the Rabbi himself have wished you to stick to your
post? . . . and all your friends would like to think you had been . . .
brave."

"You are cruel, Miss Carnegie; you try me beyond what I can endure,
although I shall be ashamed to-night for what I am to say. Do you not
know or guess that it is your . . . on account of you, I mean, that I
must leave Drumtochty?"

"On account of me?" Kate looked at him in unaffected amazement.

"Are you blind, or is it that you could not suspect me of such
presumption? Had you no idea that night in Dr. Davidson's
drawing-room? Have you never seen that I . . . Kate--I will say it
once to your face as I say it every hour to myself--you won my heart in
an instant on Muirtown Station, and will hold it till I die.

"Do not speak till I be done, and then order me from your presence as I
deserve, I know that it is unworthy of a gentleman, and . . . a
minister of Christ to say such things to the betrothed of another man;
only one minute more"--for Kate had started as if in anger--"I know
also that if I were stronger I could go on living as before, and meet
you from time to time when you came from the Castle with your husband,
and never allow myself to think of Lady Hay as I felt to Miss Carnegie.
But I am afraid of myself, and . . . this is the last time we shall
meet, Miss Carnegie. Forgive me for my love, and believe that one man
will ever remember and . . . pray for you."

Carmichael bowed low, the last sunshine of the evening playing on his
fair hair, and turned to go.

"One word, if you please," said Kate, and they looked into one
another's eyes, the blue and brown, seeing many things that cannot be
written. "You may be forgiven for . . . loving me, because you could
not help that"--this with a very roguish look, our Kate all over--"and
I suppose you must be forgiven for listening to foolish gossip, since
people will tell lies"--this with a stamp of the foot, our Kate
again--"but I shall never forgive you if you leave me, never"--this was
a new Kate, like to the opening of a flower.

"Why? Tell me plainly," and in the silence Carmichael heard a trout
leap in the river.

"Because I love you."

The Tochty water sang a pleasant song, and the sun set gloriously
behind Ben Urtach.

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