Maria Edgeworth - "The Life and Letters of Maria Edgeworth, Vol. 2"

Julian Hawthorne - "David Poindexter's Disappearance and Other Tales"

Various - "Chronicle Of The Cid"

Frank Harris - "Elder Conklin and Other Stories"

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




Much more picturesque and more dangerous was the whaling witnessed in
northern seas by the forefathers of the albatross, for man has been for
a thousand years the worst enemy of the whale, and some species are
almost exterminated. Then the whalers did not use a gun, but threw the
harpoon by hand. Every vessel had several keelless whale-boats, pointed
at both bow and stern, so that they could be rowed forwards or
backwards. When a whale was seen in the distance the boats set out,
each boat manned by six experienced whalers. One of them was the
coxswain, another the harpooner, while the others sat at the oars. The
harpoon line, an inch thick, lay carefully coiled up, and ran out
through a brass eye in the bow. Every man knew from long experience what
he had to do at any particular minute, and therefore there was silence
on board, all working without orders.

When all is ready one of the boats rows towards the whale, and the
harpooner throws his sharp weapon with all his strength into the whale's
flank. Almost before the harpoon has struck the boat is backed swiftly.
Wild with pain, the whale may strike the boat from above with his
powerful horizontal caudal fin and crush it at a blow, or he may dive
below the boat and upset it, but usually he thinks only of making his
escape. He makes for the depths in fright, and the harpoon line runs
out, the strands producing a singing sound. Great care is necessary, for
if the line curls round a man's leg he is carried overboard and is lost.
The whale dives at once to a depth of a couple of hundred fathoms. There
it is dark and quiet, and he remains there half an hour or an hour, till
at length he is obliged to come up to breathe. The lie of the line in
the water shows approximately where he will come up again, and another
boat rows to the spot. As soon as he appears above the surface a second
harpoon whistles through the air.

The whale is now too breathless to dive. He swims along the surface and
lashes the waves with his tail to free himself from his tormentors. He
speeds along at a desperate pace, dashing the waves into spray around
him and drawing the boats after him. The crews have hauled in the lines,
and the boats are quite close to the whale, but they must be ready to
pay out the lines if the whale dives. The boats' prows are tilted high
up into the air and the water streams off them. They shoot forward like
mad things through the foaming sea, whether it be day or night, and
pitch up and down over the crests of the waves. With stretched muscles,
clenched teeth, and glaring eyes the whale-hunters follow the movements
of the whale and the boat.

They notice that the pace slackens. The whale begins to tire, and at
last is quite exhausted. Its movements become irregular, it stops and
throws itself about so that the water spurts up round it. Then a boat
rows up, and a long spear is thrust in three feet deep towards the
animal's heart, and perhaps an explosive bullet is fired. If the
lungs are pierced the whale sends up jets of blood from its
nostrils--"hoisting the red flag," in the language of whalers. Its time
is come; it gives up the struggle, and its death tremors show that
another of the giants of the ocean has bid a last farewell to its
boundless realm.


ROBINSON CRUSOE'S ISLAND

On motionless wings an albatross hovers high above Cape Horn. His sharp
eye takes in everything. Now he sees in the distance smoke from the
funnel of a steamer, and in a couple of minutes he has tacked round the
vessel and decided to follow it on its voyage to the north. To the east
he has the coast of Chile, with its countless reefs and islands and deep
fiords, and above it rises the snow-capped crest of the Andes. As soon
as refuse is thrown overboard, the albatross swoops down like an arrow.
A second before he touches the water he raises his wings, draws back his
head, stretches out his large feet in front with expanded claws, and
then plumps down screaming, into the water. He floats as lightly as a
cork. In a moment he has swallowed all the scraps floating on the
surface, and then, turning to the wind, rises to a giddy height.

The vessel happens to be carrying goods to Santiago, the capital of
Chile, and casts anchor at its port town, Valparaiso. In the background
rises Aconcagua, the highest mountain of America.

Then the albatross steers out to sea to try his luck elsewhere. Seventy
miles from the coast he comes across the notable little island, Juan
Fernandez, and circles round its volcanic cliffs. For him there are no
frightful precipitous ascents and descents; from his height he can see
all he wishes to see. It is otherwise with explorers. Some cliffs are
inaccessible to their feet, as Carl Skottsberg found when he went out to
the island three years ago in a Chilian vessel. He saw the cliffs 3000
feet high, and heard the surf rolling in round the island. It was a
perfect picture of wild desolation. He found it difficult to land in a
small boat. He looked in vain for parrots, monkeys, and tortoises, but
found, instead, that more than half the number of the plants on the
island are such as grow on no other spot on the earth. Among them are
palms, with bright, pale-green trunks, which have been recklessly
destroyed by men to make walking-sticks. Here also are tree-ferns, and
the small, delicate, climbing ferns which gracefully festoon trunks and
boughs. And here also is the last specimen of a species of sandalwood
which, wonderful to relate, has found its way hither from its home in
Asia. A couple of hundred years ago it grew profusely on the island, but
now it has been nearly exterminated by man's cupidity. The red, strongly
scented wood was too much in demand for fine cabinet work and other
purposes. Only one small branch now produces foliage on the last
sandal-tree. In this case it is not the last tree among many, but the
last specimen of a species which is vanishing from the earth.

In a cave at the foot of a mountain, according to tradition, lived
Robinson Crusoe, and from a saddle in the crest he threw longing, eager
glances over the great ocean. A memorial tablet in the cave relates that
the real Crusoe, a Scotch sailor named Selkirk, lived alone on the
island for four years and four months in the years 1704-1709. He went on
shore of his own accord, being dissatisfied with the officers of the
ship to which he belonged. The climate was mild, the rainfall moderate,
and wild goats and edible fruits served him for food.

Such is the actual fact. How much more do we delight in the Robinson
Crusoe whose story is so charmingly depicted in a romantic dress! His
vessel foundered, and he was the only man who was thrown up by the
stormy waves upon the island. There he made himself at home, wandered
round the shore and through the woods, and filled a shooting-bag of
banana leaves with oysters, turtle's eggs, and wild fruits. With his
simple bow he shot the animals of the forest to make himself clothes of
their skins, and wild goats, which he caught and tamed, yielded him
milk, from which he churned butter and manufactured cheese. He became a
fisherman, furrier, and potter, and on the height above his cave he had
his chapel where he kept Sundays. He found wild maize, and sowed,
reaped, and made bread. As years passed on, his prosperity increased,
and he was a type of the whole human race, which from the rude
simplicity of the savage has in the course of ages progressed to a
condition of refinement and enlightenment. When he was most at a loss
for fire to prepare his food, the lightning struck a tree and set it on
fire, and we remember that he then kept up his fire for a long time,
never letting it go out. He was very grieved when it at length expired,
but a volcanic outbreak came to his assistance, and he lighted his fire
again from the glowing lava. He made himself a bread oven of bricks,
and built himself a hut and a boat.

Once when he was away on an excursion, and lay asleep far from his
dwelling, he started up in alarm at hearing some one call out his name.
It was only his own parrot, which had learned to talk, and which had
searched for him, and was sitting on a bough calling out "Poor Robinson
Crusoe!"

How well we remember his lonely walk to the other side of the island,
when he stood petrified with fear before the print of a human foot in
the sand! For eight years he had been alone, and now he found that there
were other human beings, cannibals no doubt, in the neighbourhood. He
stood, gazed, listened, hurried home, and prepared for defence. Here,
also, he is a type of peoples and states, which sooner or later awake to
a perception of the necessity of defence against hostile attacks. His
suspicions give way to certainty when one day he sees a fire burning on
the beach. He runs home, draws up the ladder over the fortification
round his dwelling, makes ready his weapons, climbs up to his look-out,
and sees ten naked savages roasting flesh round a fire. After a wild
dance they push out their canoes and disappear. At the fire are left
gnawed human bones and skulls, and Robinson is beside himself at the
sight.

At the end of the fourteenth year he is awakened one stormy night by a
shot. His heart beats fast, for now the hour of deliverance is surely at
hand. Another shot thunders through the night. Perhaps it is a signal of
distress from a ship! He lights a huge fire to guide the crew. When
morning dawns, he finds that a ship has run on to a submerged rock and
been wrecked. No sign of the crew is visible. But yes, a sailor lies
prostrate on the sand and a dog howls beside him. Crusoe runs up; he
would like a companion in his loneliness; but however long he works with
artificial respiration and other remedies, the dead will not come to
life, and Robinson Crusoe sadly digs a grave for the unknown guest.

Another year passes and all the days are alike. As he sits at his table,
breaking his bread and eating fish and oysters, he has his dog, parrot,
and goats as companions and gives them a share of his meal.

One day he sees from his look-out hill five boats come to the island and
put to shore, and thirty savages jump on land and light a fire. Then
they bring two prisoners from a boat. One they kill with a club. The
other runs away and makes straight towards Crusoe's dwelling. Only two
men pursue him, and Crusoe runs up to help him. At a sign from his
master, the dog rushes on one of the savages and holds him fast till he
gets his death-blow, and the other meets the same fate. Then Crusoe by
signs and kindly gestures makes the prisoner understand that he has
found a friend. The poor fellow utters some incomprehensible words, and
Crusoe, who has not heard a human voice for fifteen years, is delighted
to hear him speak. The other savages make off as fast as they can.

Robinson Crusoe's black friend receives the name of Friday, because he
came to the island on a Friday. In time Friday learns to speak, and
brightens and relieves the life of the solitary man. One day another
wreck is stranded on the rocks, and Robinson and Friday fetch from its
stores firearms and powder, tools and provisions, and many other useful
things. When eighteen long years have expired, the hero of our childhood
is rescued by an English ship.


ACROSS THE PACIFIC OCEAN

The albatross is a knowing bird, or he would not follow vessels for
weeks. He knows that there is food on board, and that edible fragments
are often thrown out. But his power of observation and his knowledge are
much greater than might be suspected. He knows also of old where small
storm birds take their prey, and when he finds them flying along with
their catch he shoots down like lightning among them, appropriates all
he can find, and does not trouble himself in the least about the smaller
birds' disappointment.

But these vultures of the sea are still cleverer in other ways. Their
forefathers have lived on the sea for thousands of years, and their
senses have been developed to the greatest acuteness and perfection.
They know the regular winds, and can perceive from the colour of the
water if a cold or warm sea current sweeps along below them. If now our
friend the albatross, travelling westwards over the islands of
Polynesia, wishes to be carried along by the wind, he knows that he has
only to keep between the Tropic of Capricorn and the equator in order to
be in the belt of the south-east trade-wind. And no doubt he has also
noticed that this wind gives rise to the equatorial current which, broad
and strong, sets westwards across the Pacific Ocean. If he wishes to fly
north of the equator, he receives the same help from the north-east
trade-wind; but if he wanders far to the south or north of the equator,
he will meet with head winds and find that the ocean current sets
eastwards. In the northern half of the Pacific Ocean this north-easterly
current is called the Kuroshiwo, or "Black Salt." It skirts the coast of
Japan and runs right across to Canada. This current is one of the
favourite haunts of the albatross.

He knows further that the arrangement of winds and currents is just the
same in the Atlantic. There, however, the current running north-east is
called the Gulf Stream, and it is the warm water of this stream, coming
from the equator, which makes the climate of north-western Europe so
mild, and prevents even the northernmost fiords of Norway from freezing
in winter.

[Illustration: THE SOUTH SEAS.]

Meanwhile the albatross is on its course westwards, careless of winds
and currents. He heeds not the hardest storm, and, indeed, where could
he hide himself from its violence? His dwelling is the air. The sea is
high, and he skims just above the surface, rising to meet each wave and
descending into every trough, and the tips of his wings seem to dip into
the foam. The great ocean seems dreadfully dreary and deserted. The sun
glistens on the spindrift, and the albatross is reflected in the
smooth, bright roof of waves above the fairy crystal grottoes in the
depths.

He rises to see whether the island he is thinking about is visible above
the horizon. Beneath him he sees the dark, white-tipped, roaring sea.
From the west, bluish-black rain-clouds sweep up and open their
sluice-gates. Is the albatross hindered in his flight by the rain which
pelts violently down on his back and wings? Well, yes, he must certainly
be delayed, but he can foretell the weather with certainty enough to
keep clear, and he is swift enough on the wing to make his escape when
overtaken by rain. And he can always descend, fold his pinions, and rest
dancing on the waves.

The rain over, he flies higher up again and now sees Easter Island,
which from an immense depth rises above the water, terribly lonely in
the great ocean. On a sloping beach he sees several monuments of stone,
thirty feet high, in the form of human heads. They mark graves, and are
memorials of a long-vanished settlement. Now there are only about 150
natives on Easter Island, and even these are doomed to extinction. Three
white men live on the island, but it is long since news was heard of
them, for no vessel has touched there for several years. Of other living
things only rats, goats, fowls, and sea birds exist on the island.

At some distance to the north-east lies Sala-y-Gomez, a small island of
perfectly bare rocks, only inhabited by sea-fowl, and there the
albatross pays a passing visit. Now he rises again and continues his
flight westwards. Soon he comes to a swarm of insignificant islands
called the Low Archipelago. So we name the islands, but the dark-skinned
natives who by some mysterious fortune have been banished to them call
them Paumotu, or "Island Cloud." A poet could not have conceived a
better name. There lie eighty-five groups of islands, each consisting of
innumerable holms. They are really a cloud of islets, like a nebula or
star mist in the sky, and this swarm is only one among many others
studding all the western part of the Pacific Ocean.

Now the albatross soars round the rocks of the "Island Cloud." He can
see them easily from up above, but it is a harder matter for a vessel to
make its way between the treacherous rocks and reefs. Though they are so
many, the aggregate area amounts to less than four square miles. Almost
all are formed of coral, and most of them are atolls. Reef--building
corals are small animals which extract lime from the water. They
multiply by budding, and every group forms a common clan where living
and dead members rest side by side. Coral animalculae demand for their
existence a firm, hard sea bottom, crystal-clear water, sufficient
nutriment brought to them by waves and currents, and lastly a water
temperature not falling below 68 deg. Therefore they occur only in
tropical seas and near the surface, for the water becomes colder with
the depth. At depths greater than 160 feet they are rare. They die and
increase again and again, and therefore the coral reefs grow in height
and breadth, and only the height of water at ebb tide puts a limit to
their upward growth. The continual surf of the sea and stormy waves
often break off whole blocks of coral limestone, which roll down and
break up into sand. With this all cavities are filled in, and thus the
action of the sea helps to consolidate and strengthen the reef. Other
lime-extracting animalculae and also seaweeds establish themselves on the
reef. In the course of time the waves throw up loose blocks on the top
of the reef, so that parts of it are always above the water-level. When
the water rises during flood-tide, white foaming surf indicates the
position of the reef at a long distance. During the ebb the reef itself
is exposed and the sea is quiet. Between ebb and flood the fairway is
dangerous, for there is nothing to warn a vessel, and it may run right
on to a coral reef and be lost.

Reefs have various forms and lengths. The great Barrier Reef, which lies
off the north-east coast of Australia, is 1200 miles long. When reefs
form circles they are called atolls. By means of winds, birds, and ocean
currents, seeds are carried about the ocean, and strike root on any
parts of the reef which lie above the level of the flood-tide. In the
fulness of time the atoll is completed, built up by animalculae and
plants. The "Island Cloud" is the largest continuous atoll region in all
the world. There the circular coral islands lie like a collection of
garlands thrown down upon the sea. Within them the water may be as much
as 230 feet deep, and in the lagoons of some atolls all the fleets of
the world could find room. The minute coral animalculae have provided by
their industrious labour shelter for the largest vessels.

On many of the atolls grow cocoa palms, and only then are the
ring-shaped islands inhabitable. How curious they look to one
approaching on a vessel! Only the crowns of the palms are seen above the
horizon; the island, being low, is out of sight. One might be coming to
an oasis in the boundless Sahara. At last the solid coral ground of
the island comes into sight (Plate XXXVII.). Breakers dash against the
outer side of the ring, but the lagoon within is smooth as a mirror in
the lea of the corals and palms.

[Illustration: PLATE XXXVII. A CORAL STRAND.]

Four thousand natives of Polynesian race live on the holms of the
"Island Cloud," a couple of hundred on each atoll. They gather pearls
and mother-of-pearl, and barter them for European goods at a
ridiculously low price. On some islands, bread-fruit trees, pineapples,
and bananas are grown. Animal life is very poor--rats, parrots, pigeons,
thrushes, and lizards--but all the richer is the life in the sea
outside. The natives are most excellent seamen, and it is hard to
believe that they are lifelong prisoners on their islands. They sail
with sails of matting made by the women, and have outriggers which give
stability to their boats, and they cross boldly from island to island.

What does the albatross care if the French have hoisted their
tricoloured flag over the atolls of the "Island Cloud" and their nearest
neighbours to the west? He is absolute ruler over them all, and seizes
his prey where he will.

Now he makes for the Society Islands, and takes a circuit round the
largest of them, Tahiti, the finest and best known of all the islands in
the southern sea. There again he sees volcanoes long since extinct,
grand wild cliffs thickly covered with wood, impenetrable clumps of
ferns, and luxuriant grass, while down the slopes dance lively brooks to
the lagoon separated from the sea by the breakwaters of the coral
master-builders. On the strand grow the ever-present cocoa palms, as
distinctive of the islands of the southern sea as the date palms are of
the desert regions of the Old World. Here the weather is beautiful, a
warm, equable, tropical sea climate with only three or four degrees
difference between winter and summer. The south-east trade-wind blows
all the year round, and storms are rare visitors. The rain is moderate,
and fever is unknown.

The natives take a bright and happy view of life. They deck their hair
with wreaths of flowers, their gait is light and easy, and they knew no
sorrow until the white man came and spoiled their life and liberty.

Now the original inhabitants of Tahiti are dying out, and are being
replaced by Chinamen, Europeans, and natives from other islands to the
north-west. They still, however, till their fields, put out their
fishing-canoes in the lagoon, and pull down cocoa-nuts in their season.
They still wear wreaths of flowers in their hair, a last relic of a
happier existence. Pigeons coo in the trees, and green and blue and
white parrots utter their ear-piercing screams. Horses, cattle, sheep,
goats, and swine are newcomers; lizards, scorpions, flies, and
mosquitoes are indigenous. The luxuriant gardens with their natural
charms Europeans have not been able to destroy, and the frigate bird,
the eagle of the sea, with the tail feathers of which the chiefs of
Tahiti used to decorate their heads, still roosts in the trees on the
strand, and seeks its food far out in the sea. The albatross cannot but
notice the frigate bird. He sees in him a rival. The latter does not
make such long journeys, and does not venture so far out to sea; but he
is a master in the art of flying, and he is an unconscionable thief. He
follows dolphins and other fishes of prey to appropriate their catch,
and forces other birds to relinquish their food when they are in the act
of swallowing it. When fishermen are out drawing up their nets, he skims
so low over the boat that he may be stunned with an oar, and he is so
attracted by bright and gaudy colours that he will shoot down recklessly
on to the pennants of ships as they flutter in the wind, swinging to and
fro with the roll of the vessel. He soars to an immense height, like the
eagle, and no telescope can match the sharpness of his eyesight. Up
aloft he can see the smallest fish disporting itself on the surface of
the water. Especially he looks out for flying-fish, and catches them in
the air just as they are hovering on expanded fins above the waves, or
else dives after them and seizes them down below. When he has caught a
fish he soars aloft, and if the fish does not lie comfortably in his
bill he drops it, and catches it again before it reaches the water; and
he will do this repeatedly until the fish is in a convenient position
for swallowing.

Our far-travelled storm-bird continues his long journey westwards, and
his next resting-place is the Samoa Islands, which he recognises by
their lofty volcanic cliffs, their tuff and lava, their beautiful woods
and waterfalls, as much as 650 feet high, and surrounded by the most
luxuriant vegetation. Over the copses of ferns, and climbing plants, and
shrubs, reminding one of India, flutter beautiful butterflies.

Around their oval huts, with roof of sugar-cane leaves and the floor
inside covered with cocoa mats, are seen the yellowish-brown
Polynesians, of powerful build and proud bearing. The upper parts of
their bodies are bare, and they wear necklaces of shells and teeth, deck
themselves with flowers and feathers, smear their bodies with cocoa oil,
and tattoo themselves. Of a peaceful and happy disposition, they, too,
have been disturbed by white men, and have been forced to cede their
islands to Germany and the United States.

It rains abundantly on the Samoa Islands. Black clouds sink down towards
the sea, violent waterspouts suck up the water in spiral columns which
spread out above like the crowns of pine-trees, and deluges of rain come
down, lasting sometimes for weeks. Everything becomes wet and sodden,
and it is useless to try to light a fire with matches. Almost every year
these islands are visited by sudden whirlwinds, which do great damage
both on sea and land. Wreckage is thrown up on the shore, fields and
plantations are destroyed, leaves fly like feathers from the cocoa
palms, and if the storm is one of the worst kind, the trees themselves
fall in long rows as if they had been mown down by a gigantic scythe.

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