Herbert Baird Stimpson - "The Tory Maid"

Various - "Scientific American Supplement, No. 362, December 9, 1882"

G. A. Henty - "A Final Reckoning"

Benvenuto Cellini - "The Autobiography of Benvenuto Cellini"

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.

From Pole to Pole

S >> Sven Anders Hedin >> From Pole to Pole




[Illustration: PLATE I. BERLIN.

On the right is the Royal Palace, on the left the Cathedral, with the
Lustgarten in front. In the foreground is the River Spree.]

What a varied scene awaits us here! Great ladies in costly dresses
adorned with precious stones of great value, diamonds flashing and
sparkling wherever we look, generals and admirals in full dress, high
officials, ambassadors from foreign lands, including those of China and
Japan. Here comes a great man to whom all bow; it is the Imperial
Chancellor.

Chamberlains now request the guests to range themselves along the walls
of the throne-room. A herald enters and strikes his silver staff against
the floor, calling out aloud "His Majesty the Emperor!" All is silent as
the grave. Followed by the Empress, the princes and princesses, William
II. passes through the room and greets his guests with a manly
handshake. He begins with the ladies and then passes on to the gentlemen
and speaks to every one. The Swedish Minister presents me, and the
Emperor begins immediately to ask about Asia. He speaks of Alexander's
great campaign through the whole of western Asia, and expresses his
astonishment that a man's name can live with undiminished renown through
two thousand years. He points to the eagles on the ceiling, and asks if
I do not see a resemblance to the Chinese dragon. He talks of Tibet and
the Dalai Lama, and of the great stillness in the heart of the desert.

Soon the orchestra strikes up and the guests begin to dance. The only
one who seems unconcerned is the Emperor himself. An expression of deep
seriousness lies like a mask on his powerful face. Is it not enough to
be the Emperor of the German federation, with its four kingdoms,
Prussia, Bavaria, Saxony, and Wuertemberg, its six grand duchies, its
many duchies and electorates, its imperial territory, Alsace-Lorraine,
and its three free towns, Hamburg, Luebeck, and Bremen? Does he not rule
over sixty-five million people, over 207 towns of more than 25,000
inhabitants, and seven of more than half a million, namely Berlin,
Hamburg, Munich, Dresden, Leipzig, Breslau, and Cologne? Has he not by
the force of his own will created a fleet so powerful as to arouse
uneasiness in England, the country which has the sole command of the
sea? And is he not the commander-in-chief of an army which, on a war
footing, is as large as the whole population of Scotland? All this
might well make him serious.


BERLIN TO CONSTANTINOPLE

The next stage of our journey is from Berlin to Vienna, the capital of
Austria. The express train carries us rapidly southward through
Brandenburg. To the west we have the Elbe, which flows into the North
Sea at Hamburg; while to the east streams the Oder, which enters the
Baltic Sea at Stettin. But we make closer acquaintance only with the
Elbe, first when we pass Dresden, the capital of Saxony, and again when
we have crossed the Austrian frontier into Bohemia, where in a beautiful
and densely-peopled valley clothed with trees the railway follows the
windings of the stream. When the guard calls out at a large and busy
station "Prague," we are sorry that we have no time to stay a few days
and stroll through the streets and squares of one of the finest and
oldest towns of Europe. The engine's whistle sounds again and the train
carries us swiftly onwards to Vienna, the capital of the Emperor Francis
Joseph, who alone is more remarkable than all the sights of the city.

Vienna is a fine and wealthy city, the fourth in Europe, and, like
Berlin, is full of centres of human civilisation, science and art. Here
are found relics of ancient times beside the grand palaces of the
present day, the "Ring" is one of the finest streets in the world, and
the tower of St. Stephen's Church rises up to the sky above the two
million inhabitants of the town. Vienna to a greater extent than Berlin
is a town of pleasure and merry genial life, a grand old aristocratic
town, a town of theatres, concerts, balls, and cafes. The Danube canal,
with its twelve bridges, passes right through Vienna, and outside the
eastern outskirts the Danube itself, in an artificial bed, rolls its
dark blue waters with a melodious murmur, providing an accompaniment to
the famous Viennese waltzes.

If Vienna is, then, one of the centres of human knowledge and
refinement, and if there are a thousand wonderful things to behold
within its walls, yet it contains nothing more remarkable than the old
Emperor. Not because he is so old, or because he still survives as one
of the last of an almost extinct generation, but because by his august
personality he keeps together an empire composed of many different
countries, races, and religious sects. Fifty millions of people are
ranged under his sceptre. There are Germans in Austria, Chechs in
Bohemia, Magyars in Hungary, Polacks in Galicia, and a crowd of other
peoples; nay, even Mohammedans live under the protection of the Catholic
throne.

His life has abounded in cares and vicissitudes. He has lived through
wars, insurrections, and revolutions, and with skill and tact has held
in check all the contending factions which have striven and are still
striving to rend asunder his empire. It is difficult to imagine the
Austro-Hungarian monarchy without him. With him it perhaps stands or
falls; therefore there is no one in the present day whose life is of
greater importance to humanity. He has been the object of murderous
attempts: his wife was assassinated, his only son perished by a violent
death. He is now eighty-two years old, and he has worn the imperial
crown for sixty-four years. Since 1867 he has been king of Hungary.
During his reign the industry, trade, agriculture, and general
prosperity of his dominions have been enormously developed. And the most
remarkable of all is that he still carries his head high, is smart and
upright, and works as hard as a labourer in the Danube valley.

The fortunes of Austria and Hungary are still more closely united with
and dependent on the great river Danube. Certainly in the north we have
the Elbe and the Dniester, and in the south several small rivers which
enter the Adriatic Sea. But otherwise all the rivers of the monarchy
belong to the Danube, and collect from all directions to the main
stream. The Volga is the largest river of Europe and has its own sea,
the Caspian. The Danube is the next largest and has also its sea, the
Black Sea. Its source is also "black," for it takes its rise in the
mountains of the Black Forest in Baden, and from source to mouth it is
little short of 1800 miles.

The Danube flows through Bavaria, Austria, and Hungary, forms the
boundary between Rumania and Bulgaria, and touches a small corner of
Russian territory. It has sixty great tributaries, of which more than
half are navigable. Step by step the volume of the main stream is
augmented. We can see that for ourselves on our way through Europe. At
Budapest, which is cut in two by the river, and where five handsome
bridges connect the banks, we seem almost to be on a lake. The Elizabeth
Bridge has a span of 950 feet. Farther down, on the frontier of
Wallachia, the river is nearly two-thirds of a mile wide; but here the
current is slow; creeks of stagnant water are formed, and marshes
extend far along the banks. And at the point where the Rumanian railway
crosses the Danube, we find at Chernovodsk a bridge over the river which
is nearly 2-1/2 miles long and is the longest in all the world. Not far
from here the waters of the Danube part into three arms and form a broad
delta at the mouth. There grow dense reeds, twice as high as a man, on
which large herds of buffaloes graze, where wolves still seek their
prey, and where water-fowl breed in millions. If we look carefully at
the map, we shall see that Central Europe is occupied mostly by the
Danube valley, and that this valley, with its extensive lowlands, is
bounded by the best-known mountains of Europe; in the north by the
mountains of South Germany and Bohemia and the Carpathians, in the south
by the Alps and the mountains of the Balkan Peninsula.

[Illustration: MAP SHOWING JOURNEY FROM BERLIN TO CONSTANTINOPLE.]

From Budapest the train takes us over the Hungarian plain, a very
singular country, like a trough, for it is surrounded by mountains on
all sides. There is abundance of rain, especially up on the mountain
slopes. The winter is cold and the summer warm, as is always the case in
countries far removed from the sea. Dust and sand storms are common, and
in some parts blown sand collects into dunes. Formerly the Hungarian
lowland was a fertile steppe, where Magyar nomads roamed about on
horseback and tended their cattle and their enormous flocks of sheep.
But now agriculture is extended more and more. Wheat, rye, barley,
maize, rice, potatoes, and wine are produced in such quantities that
they are not only sufficient for the country's needs, but also maintain
a considerable export trade. Round the villages and homesteads grow
oaks, elms, lime-trees, and beeches; poplars and willows are widely
distributed, for their light seeds are carried long distances by the
wind. But in the large steppe districts where marshes are so common the
people have no other fuel but reeds and dried dung.

Cattle-raising has always been an important occupation in Hungary. The
breed of cows, oxen, and buffaloes is continually being improved by
judicious selection, and all kinds of sheep, goats, and pigs are kept in
great numbers, while the rearing of fowls, bee-keeping, the production
of silk from silkworms, and the fishing industry are also highly
developed. To the nomads, who wander from one locality to another with
their herds, horses are necessary, and it is therefore quite natural
that Hungary should be rich in horses--splendid animals of mixed Tatar
and Arabian blood.

This country, where all wealth grows and thrives, and where the land,
well and uniformly watered, contributes in such a high degree to the
well-being of man, is flat and monotonous when viewed from the train. We
see herds with their mounted herdsmen, we see villages, roads and
cottages, but these do not give us any very clear conception of the
country. Therefore it is advisable to spend a few hours in the
agricultural exhibition at Budapest, where we can see the most
attractive models illustrating Hungarian rural life, from pastures and
farmyards to churned butter and manufactured cheeses, from the silk-worm
in the chrysalis to the valuable silken web. We can see the life of
farmers in the country homesteads, in simple reed huts or tents, the
various crops they grow on their fields, the yellow honeycombs taken
from the hives in autumn, tanned leather and the straps, saddles, and
trunks that are made of it. We can see the weapons, implements, and
spoil of the Hungarian hunter and fisherman, and when we come out of the
last room we realise that this country is wisely and affectionately
nursed by its people, and therefore gives profit and prosperity in
exchange.

With unabated speed the train rushes on over the plain, and at length
rattles across a bridge over the Danube into Belgrade, the capital of
Servia. Here we bid good-bye to the Danube and follow the Morava valley
upwards. The Servian villages of low white houses, with pyramidal roofs
of tiles or thatch, are very pretty and picturesquely built; and above
them, green heights, wooded slopes, flocks and herds, and peasants in
bright-coloured motley clothes following the plough. Small murmuring
brooks dance in merry leaps down to the Morava, and the Morava itself
flows to the Danube. We are still in the drainage basin of this river,
and, when we have crossed the whole of Servia, passed over a flat
mountain ridge and left Sofia, the capital of Bulgaria, behind us and
have come to another stream, even this is one of the affluents of the
Danube.

During a large part of our journey we are therefore strongly impressed
by this mighty stream, and perceive that it is a condition of existence
to whole peoples and States. Innumerable boats navigate its
channel--from rowing-boats, ferries, and barges to steamers of heavy
freight. They maintain communication between the series of towns with
walls and houses reflected in the gliding water. Their wharves are
frequently in connection with trains; and many railways have been built
with an eye to the traffic on the Danube. In early times, when the
migrations of people from the east streamed over Europe, the Danube
valley was generally utilized; and still at the present day the river
affords an advantageous channel of communication between the western and
eastern parts of the Continent.

Night jealously conceals from our eyes the kingdom of Bulgaria, as we
travel through its southern part along the river Maritza, which flows
southwards. We do not leave its valley until we are beyond the Turkish
frontier and Adrianople. Here we are in the broadest part of the Balkan
Peninsula; and amidst the regular swaying of the train we lie thinking
of the famous Balkan lands which extend to the south--Albania, with its
warlike people among its mountains and dales; Macedonia, the country of
Alexander the Great; Greece, in ancient times the centre of learning and
art. When day dawns we are in Turkey, and the sun is high when the train
comes to a standstill in Constantinople.


CONSTANTINOPLE

[Illustration: PLATE II. CONSTANTINOPLE.]

From the highest platform of the lofty tower which rises from the square
in the centre of the promontory of Stambul a wonderful view can be
obtained of the city and its surroundings--a singular blending of great
masses of houses and glittering sheets of blue water. Stambul is the
Turkish quarter. It consists of a sea of closely-built wooden houses of
many colours. Out of the confusion rise the graceful spires of minarets
and the round domes of mosques (Plate II.). Just below your feet is the
great bazaar--the merchants' town; and farther off is St. Sophia, the
principal mosque. Like Rome, the city is built on seven hills. In the
valleys between, shady trees and gardens have found a site. Far to the
west are seen the towers on the old wall of Stambul.

[Illustration: PLAN OF CONSTANTINOPLE.]

Before you to the north, on the point of a blunt promontory, stand the
two quarters called Galata and Pera. There Europeans dwell, and there
are found Greeks and Italians, Jews and Armenians, and other men of
races living in the adjacent countries--in the Balkan Peninsula, in Asia
Minor and Caucasia.

Between this blunt peninsula and Stambul an inlet runs north-westwards
deep into the land. Its name is the Golden Horn, and over its water
priceless treasures have from time immemorial been transported in ships.

Turn to the north-east. There you see a sound varying little in breadth.
Its surface is as blue as sapphire, its shores are crowned by a whole
chaplet of villages and white villas among luxuriant groves. This sound
is the Bosporus, and through it is the way to the Black Sea. Due east,
on the other side of the Bosporus, Scutari rises from the shore to the
top of low hills. Scutari is the third of the three main divisions of
Constantinople. You stand in Europe and look over the great city
intersected by broad waterways and almost forget that Scutari is
situated in Asia.

Turn to the south. Before your eyes lies the Sea of Marmora, a curious
sheet of water which is neither a lake nor a sea, neither a bay nor a
sound. It is a link between the Black and Aegean Seas, connected by the
Bosporus with the former, and by the Dardanelles, the Hellespont, with
the latter. The Sea of Marmora is 130 miles long. Seven miles to the
south the Princes' Islands float on the water like airy gardens, and
beyond in the blue distance are seen the mountains of Asia Minor.

You will acknowledge that this view is very wonderful. Your eyes wander
over two continents and two seas. You are in Europe, but on the
threshold of Asia; and when you look down on the Turks swarming below,
and at the graceful white boats darting across the sound, you may almost
fancy that you are in Asia rather than in Europe. You will also notice
that this fairway is an important trade route. Innumerable vessels pass
daily through the Bosporus to the coasts of Bulgaria, Rumania, Russia,
and Asia Minor, and as many out through the Dardanelles to Greece and
the Archipelago and to the coasts of the Mediterranean.

Close beneath you all the colours and outlines are distinct. The water
of the Bosporus is vividly blue, and the villas dazzlingly white. On the
Asiatic side stand woods of dark-green cypresses, and outside the
western wall Turks slumber in the deepest shade; cypresses, indeed, are
the watchmen of the dead. And all round the horizon this charming
landscape passes into fainter and lighter tones, light-blue and grey.
You cannot perceive clearly where the land ends and sea and sky begin.
But here and there the white wings of a sailing vessel flutter or a
slight puff of smoke floats above a steamer.

A continuous murmur reaches your ears. It is not wind, nor the song of
waves. It is the combined voice of nature and human labour. It is like
the buzzing round a beehive. Now and then you distinguish the cry of a
porter, the bell of a tramcar, the whistle of a steamer, or the bark of
a dog. But, as a rule, all melt together into a single sound. It is the
ceaseless noise that always hovers over the chimneys of a great city.


THE CHURCH OF THE DIVINE WISDOM

Let us now go down to the great mosque on the point. On the top of the
principal dome we see a huge gilded crescent. This has glittered up
there for 450 years, but previously the cupola was adorned by the
Christian Cross. How came the change about?

Let us imagine that we are standing outside the church and let the year
be 548 A.D. One of the finest temples of Christendom has just been
completed by the first architect of his time from Asia Minor. The work
has occupied sixteen years, and ten thousand workmen have been
constantly engaged at it. But now it is finished at last, and the Church
of the Divine Wisdom, Hagia Sophia, is to be consecrated to-day.

The great Emperor of the Byzantine realm, Justinian, drives up in a
chariot drawn by four horses. He enters the temple attended by the
Patriarch of Constantinople. The building is as large as a market-place,
and the beautiful dome, round as the vault of heaven, is 180 feet above
the floor. Justinian looks around and is pleased with his work. The
great men of the church and empire, clad in costly robes, salute him. He
examines the variegated marble which covers the walls, he admires the
artistically arranged mosaic on the gold groundwork of the dome, he is
amazed at the hundred columns which support the cupolas and galleries,
some of dark-green marble, others of dark-red porphyry. The Emperor's
wealth is inexhaustible. Has he not presented to the church seven
crosses of gold, each weighing a hundred pounds? Does not the Church of
the Divine Wisdom possess forty thousand chalice veils all embroidered
with pearls and precious stones? Are there not in the sacristy
twenty-four Bibles, which in their gold-studded cases weigh two hundred
pounds each? Are not pictures of the Redeemer, of the Mother of God, of
angels, prophets and evangelists suspended between the twelve columns of
solid silver which are the Holy of Holies in the temple? Are not the
faithful moved to tears at the sight of the crucifix and at the
remembrance that the gilded cross of silver is an exact copy of that
which, more than five hundred years ago, was set up by Roman barbarians
at Jerusalem?

Justinian turns round and examines the panels of the three doors which
are said to have been made of wood from Noah's ark. The doors of the
main entrance are of solid silver, the others are beautifully inlaid
with cedar-wood, ivory, and amber. Above his head silver chandeliers
swing in chains; some of them form together a cross, and are a symbol of
the light of heaven hovering over the darkness of earthly life. The
vault is flooded with light; and in the mosaic he sees the meek saints
kneeling before God in silent supplication. Below the vault he sees the
four cherubims with two pairs of wings. He thinks of the first chapter
of Ezekiel: "And the likeness of the firmament upon the heads of the
living creature was as the colour of the terrible crystal ... and I
heard the noise of their wings, like the noise of great waters." He also
calls to mind the book of Exodus, ch. xxxvii.: "Even to the
mercy-seatward were the faces of the cherubims." It was the same here in
his own church.

Inspired by humility before God and pride before his fellowmen, the
Emperor Justinian moves to his prie-dieu. He falls on his knees and
exclaims: "God be praised who has thought me worthy to bring such a work
to completion! I have surpassed thee, O Solomon."

Then the pipes and drums strike up, and the glad songs of the people
echo among the houses, which are decorated by webs of costly brocade
hanging from the windows. The festival is prolonged for fourteen days;
casksful of silver coins are distributed among the multitude, and the
Emperor feasts the whole city.

Then follow new centuries and new generations in the footsteps of the
old. The bones of Christians moulder under the grave mounds, but still
the temple remains as before. There priests and patriarchs and fathers
of the Church assemble to Church Councils, and the great festivals of
the year are celebrated under its vault. Nearly a thousand years of the
stream of time have passed away, and we come to May 29, 1453.

May is a fine month in Constantinople. The summer is in all its glory,
the gardens are gorgeous in their fresh verdure, the clear waters of the
Bosporus glitter like brightly polished metal. But what a day of
humiliation and terror was this day of May, 1453! In the early morning
tidings of misfortune were disseminated among the citizens. The Turkish
Sultan had stormed in through the walls with his innumerable troops.
Beside themselves with fright, men, women, and children fled to St.
Sophia, leaving their homes and goods to be plundered. A hundred
thousand persons rushed in and locked and barred all the church doors
behind them. They trusted that the conqueror would not dare to desecrate
so holy a place. Abashed before the holiness of God, he would bow down
in the dust and leave them in peace. And according to a prophecy the
angel of God would descend from heaven in the hour of need and rescue
the church and the city.

The Christians waited, praying and trembling. Then the wild fanfares of
the Mohammedan trumpets were heard from the nearest hills. Piercing
cries of anguish echoed from the vaulting, mothers pressed their
children to their hearts, husbands and wives embraced each other, galley
slaves with chains still on their wrists tried to hide themselves in the
darkness behind the pillars.

The axes of the Mohammedans ring against the doors. Splinters of costly
wood fly before the blows. Here a gate cracks, there another is broken
in. The janissaries rush in, thirsting for blood. The Prophet has
commanded that his doctrines shall be spread over the earth by fire and
sword. They are only too ready to obey this order. Already steeped in
blood from the combat outside the walls, they continue to gather in the
harvest with dripping scimitars. The defenceless are fastened together
with chains and driven out like cattle.

Then comes the turn of the holy edifice. The mosaics are hacked to
pieces with swords and lances, the costly altar-cloths are taken from
their store-room, the church is plundered of its gold and silver, and
rows of camels and mules are led in on to the temple floor to be laden
with the immense treasures. Full of fanatical religious hatred, swarms
of black-bearded Turks rush up to the figure of the crucified Redeemer.
A Mohammedan presses his janissary's cap over the crown of thorns. The
image is carried with wild shrieks round the church, and presumptuous
voices call out scornfully, "Here you see the God of the Christians."

At the high altar a Greek bishop stood in pontifical robes and read mass
over the Christians in a loud and clear voice. His voice never trembled
for a moment. He wished to give his flock heavenly consolation in
earthly troubles. At last he remained alone. Then he broke off the mass
in the middle of a sentence, took the chalice, and ascended the steps
leading to the upper galleries. The Turks caught sight of him and rushed
after him like hungry hyaenas.

He is already up in the gallery. He is surrounded on all sides by
soldiers with drawn swords and lowered spears. Next moment he must fall
dead over the communion chalice. No escape, no rescue is possible.
Before him stands the grey stone wall.

But, lo! a door opens in the wall, and when the bishop has gone in the
wall closes up again. The soldiers stand still in astonishment. Then
they begin to attack the wall with spears and axes. But it is no use.
They renew their efforts, but still in vain.

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