John Kendrick Bangs - "R. Holmes & Co."

Anonymous - "The London and Country Brewer"

L.C. - "Biografia del libertador Simon Bolivar, o La independencia"

W. D. Howells - "The Lady of the Aroostook"

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.

Authors of Greece

T >> T. W. Lumb >> Authors of Greece




An ominous ode about destiny and its workings is followed by the entry
of the Queen who describes the mad terrors of Oedipus. She is come to
pray to Apollo to solve their troubles. At that moment a messenger
enters from Corinth with the tidings that Polybus is dead. In eager
joy Jocasta summons Oedipus, sneering at the truth of oracles. The
King on his appearance echoes her words after hearing the tidings-only
to sink back again into gloomy despondency. What of Merope, is she
also dead? The messenger assures him that his anxiety about her is
groundless, for there is no relationship between them. Little by
little he tells Oedipus his true history. The messenger himself found
him on Cithaeron in his infancy, his feet pierced through. He had him
from a shepherd, a servant of Laius, the very man whom Oedipus had
summoned. Suddenly turning to Jocasta, the King asks her if she knows
the man. Appalled at the horror of the truth which she knows cannot be
concealed much longer she affects indifference and beseeches him
search no further. When he obstinately refuses, bidding the man be
brought at once, she leaves the stage with the cry:

"Alack, thou unhappy one; that is all I may call thee and never
address thee again."

Oedipus by a masterstroke of art is made to imagine that she has
departed in shame, fearing he may be proved the son of a slave.

"But I account myself the son of Fortune, who will never bring me
to dishonour; my brethren are the months, who marked me out for
lowliness and for power. Such being my birth, I shall never prove
false to it and faint in finding out who I am."

The awful power of this astonishing scene is manifest.

The bright joyousness of the King's impulsive speech prepares the way
for the coming horror. When the shepherd appears, the messenger faces
him claiming his acquaintance. The shepherd doggedly attempts to deny
all knowledge of him, cursing him for his mad talkativeness. Oedipus
threatens torture to open his lips. Line by line the truth is dragged
from him; the abandoned child came from another--from a creature of
Laius--was said to be his son--was given him by Jocasta--to be
destroyed because of an oracle--why then passed over to the Corinthian
messenger?--"through pity, and he saved the child alive, for a mighty
misery. If thou art that child, know that thou art born a hapless
man".

When the King rushes madly into the palace, the Chorus sings of his
departed glory. The horrors increase with the appearance of a
messenger from within, who tells how Oedipus dashed into Jocasta's
apartment to find her hanging in suicide; then he blinded himself on
that day of mourning, ruin, death and shame. He comes out a little
later, an object of utter compassion. How can he have rest on earth?
How face his murdered father in death? The memories of Polybus and
Merope come upon him, then the years of unnatural wedlock. Creon, whom
he has wantonly insulted, comes not to mock at him, but to take him
into the palace where neither land nor rain nor light may know him.
Oedipus begs him to let him live on Cithaeron, beseeching him to look
after his two daughters whose birth is so stained that no man can ever
wed them. Creon gently takes him within, to be kept there till the
will of the gods is known. The end is a sob of pity for the tragic
downfall of the famous man who solved the Sphinx' enigma.

No man can ever do justice to this masterpiece. It is so constructed
that every detail leads up inevitably to the climax. Slowly, and
playing upon all the deepest human emotions, anxiety, hope, gloom,
terror and horror, Sophocles works on us as no man had ever done
before. It is a sin against him to be content with a mere outline of
the play; the words he has chosen are significant beyond description.
Again and again they fascinate the reader and always leave him with
the feeling that there are still depths of thought left unsounded. The
casual mention of the shepherd at the beginning of the play is the
first stroke of perfect art; Jocasta's disbelief in oracles is the
next; then follows the contrast between the Queen's real motive for
leaving and the reason assigned to it by her son; finally, the
shepherd in torture is forced to tell the secret which plunges the
torturer to his ruin. Where is the like of this in literature? To us
it is heart-searching enough. What was it to the Greeks who were
familiar with the plot before they entered the theatre? When they who
knew the inevitable end watched the King trace out his own ruin in
utter ignorance, their feelings cannot have remained silent; they must
have found relief in sobbing or crying aloud.

The fault in Oedipus is his ungovernable temper. It is firmly drawn in
the play; he is equally unrestrained in anger, despair and hope. He is
the typical instance of the lack of good counsel which we have seen
was to Sophocles the prime source of a tragedy. Indeed, only a
headlong man would hastily marry a widowed queen after he had
committed a murder which fulfilled one half of a terrible oracle. He
should have first inquired into the history of the Theban royal house.
Imagining that the further he was fleeing from Corinth the more
certain he was to make his doom impossible of fulfilment, he
inevitably drew nearer to it. This is our human lot; we cannot see and
we misinterpret warnings; how shall not weaker men tremble for
themselves when Oedipus' wisdom could not save him from evil counsel?

In 405 Sophocles showed in his last play how Oedipus passed from earth
in the poet's own birthplace, Colonus. Oedipus enters with Antigone,
and on inquiry from a stranger finds that he is on the demesne of the
Eumenides. At once he sends to Theseus, King of Athens, and refuses to
move from the spot, for there he is fated to find his rest. A Chorus
from Colonus comes to find out who the suppliant is. When they hear
the name of Oedipus they are horror-struck and wish to thrust him out.
After much persuasion they consent to wait till Theseus arrives.
Presently Ismene comes with the news that Eteocles has dispossessed
his elder brother Polyneices; further, an oracle from Delphi declares
that Oedipus is all-important to Thebes in life and after death. His
sons know this oracle and Creon is coming to force him back. Declaring
he will do nothing for the sons who abandoned him, Oedipus obstinately
refuses his city any blessing. He sends Ismene to offer a sacrifice to
the Eumenides; in her absence Theseus enters, offers him protection
and asks why he has come. Oedipus replies that he has a secret to
reveal which is of great importance to Athens; at present there is
peace between her and Thebes:

"but in the gods alone is no age or death; all else Time confounds,
mastering everything. Strength of the Earth and of the body wastes,
trust dies, disloyalty grows, the same spirit never stands firm
among friends or allies. To some men early, to others late,
pleasures become bitter and then again sweet."

The secret Oedipus will impart at the proper time. The need for
protection soon comes. Creon attempts to persuade Oedipus to return to
Thebes but is met by a curse, whereupon the Theban guards lay hold of
Antigone--they had already seized Ismene--and menace Oedipus himself.
Theseus hearing the alarm rushes back, reproaches Creon for his
insolence and quickly returns with the two girls. He has strange news
to tell; another Theban is a suppliant at the altar of Poseidon close
by, craving speech with Oedipus. It is Polyneices, whom Antigone
persuades her father to interview. The youth enters, ashamed of his
neglect of his father, and begs a blessing on the army he has mustered
against Thebes. He is met by a terrible curse which Oedipus invokes on
both his sons. In despair Polyneices goes away to his doom.

"For me, my path shall be one of care, disaster and sorrows sent me
by my sire and his guardian angels; but, my sisters, be yours a
happy road, and when I am dead fulfil my heart's desire, for while
I live you may never perform it."

A thunderstorm is heard approaching; the Chorus are terrified at its
intensity, but Oedipus eagerly dispatches a messenger for Theseus.
When the King arrives he hears the secret; Oedipus' grave would be the
eternal protection of Attica, but no man must know its site save
Theseus who has to tell it to his heir alone, and he to his son, and
so onwards for ever. The proof of Oedipus' word would be a miracle
which soon would transform him back to his full strength. Presently he
arises, endued with a mysterious sight, beckoning the others to follow
him. The play concludes with a magnificent description of his
translation. A voice from Heaven called him, chiding him for tarrying;
commending his daughters to the care of Theseus, he greeted the earth
and heaven in prayer and then without pain or sorrow passed away. On
reappearing Theseus promised to convey the sisters back to Thebes and
to stop the threatened fratricidal strife.

The _Oedipus Coloneus_, like the _Philoctetes_, the other play of
Sophocles' old age, closes in peace. The old fiery passions still burn
fiercely in Oedipus, as they did in Lear; yet both were "every inch a
king" and "more sinned against than sinning". Oedipus' miraculous
return to strength before he departs is curiously like the famous end
of Colonel Newcome. There are subtle but unmistakable marks of the
Euripidean influence on this drama; such are the belief that Theban
worthies would protect Athens, the Theseus tradition, and the recovery
of worn-out strength. These features will meet us in the next chapter.
But it is again noteworthy that Sophocles has added those touches
which distinguish his own firm and delicate handiwork. There is
nothing of melodrama, nothing inconsequent, nothing exaggerated. It is
the dramatist's preparation for his own end. Shakespeare put his
valediction into the mouth of Prospero; Sophocles entrusted his to his
greatest creation Oedipus. Like him, he was fain to depart, for the
gods called. Our last sight of him is of one beckoning us to follow
him to the place where calm is to be found; to find it we must use not
the eyes of the body, but the inward illumination vouchsafed by
Heaven.

To the Athenians of the Periclean age Sophocles was the incarnation of
their dramatic ideal. His language is a delight and a despair. It
tantalises; it suggests other meanings besides its plain and surface
significance. This riddling quality is the daemonic element which he
possessed in common with Plato; because of it these two are the
masters of a refined and subtle irony, a source of the keenest
pleasure. His plots reveal a vivid sense of the exact moment which
will yield the intensest tragic effects--only on one particular day
could Ajax die or Electra be saved. Accordingly, Sophocles very often
begins his play with early dawn, in order to fill the few
all-important hours with the greatest possible amount of action. He
has put the maximum of movement into his work, only the presence ofthe
Chorus and the conventional messengers (two features imposed on him by
the law of the Attic theatre) making the action halt.

But it is in the sum-total of his art that his greatness lies; the
sense of a whole is its controlling factor; details are important,
indeed, he took the utmost pains to see that they were necessary and
convincing--yet they were details, subordinate, closely related, not
irrelevant nor disproportionate. This instinct for a definite plan
first is the essence of the classical spirit; exuberance is rigorously
repressed, symmetry and balance are the first, last and only aim. To
some judges Sophocles is like a Greek temple, splendid but a little
chilly; they miss the soaring ambition of Aeschylus or the more direct
emotional appeal of Euripides. Yet it is a cardinal error to imagine
that Sophocles is passionless; his life was not, neither are his
characters. Like the lava of a recent eruption, they may seem ashen on
the surface, but there is fire underneath; it betrays itself through
the cracks which appear when their substance is violently disturbed.

They, much enforced, show a hasty spark
And straight are cold again.

Repression, avoidance of extremes, dignity under provocation are the
marks of the gentle Sophoclean type and it is a very high type indeed.

For we have in him the very fountain of the whole classical tradition
in drama. Sophocles is something far more important than a mere
influence; he is an ideal, and as such is indestructible. To ask the
names of writers who came most under his "influence" is as sensible as
to ask the names of the sculptors who most faithfully followed the
Greek tradition of statuary. He is Classical tragedy. The main body of
Spanish and English drama is romantic, the Sophoclean ideal is that of
the small but powerful body of University men in Elizabeth's time
headed by Ben Jonson, of the typically French school of dramatists, of
Moratin, Lessing, Goethe, of the exponents of the Greek creed in
nineteenth-century England, notably Matthew Arnold and Walter Pater,
and of Robert Bridges. To this school the cultivation of emotional
expression is suspicious, if not dangerous; it leads to eccentricity,
to the revelation of feelings which frequently are not worth
experiencing, to sentimental flabbiness, to riot and extravagance.
Perhaps in dread of the ridiculous the Classical school represses
itself too far, creating characters of marble instead of flesh. These
creations are at least worth looking at and bring no shame; they are
better than the spectral psychological studies which many dramatists,
now dead or dying, have bidden us believe are real men and women.


TRANSLATIONS:

Jebb (Cambridge). This is by far the best; it renders with success the
delicacy of the original.

Storr (Loeb Series).

Verse translations by Whitelaw and Campbell.

See Symonds' _Greek Poets_, and Norwood _Greek Tragedy_, as above.




EURIPIDES


No-Man's Land was the scene of many tragedies during the Great War.
There has come down to us a remarkable tragedy, called the _Rhesus_,
about a similar region. It treats first of the Dolon incident of the
Iliad. Hector sent out Dolon to reconnoitre, and soon afterwards some
Phrygian shepherds bring news that Rhesus has arrived that very night
with a Thracian army. Reviled by Hector for postponing his arrival
till the tenth year of the war, Rhesus answers that continual wars
with Scythia have occupied him, but now that he is come he will end
the strife in a day. He is assigned his quarters and departs to take
up his position.

Having learned the password from Dolon, Diomedes and Odysseus enter
and reach the tents of Hector who has just left with Rhesus. Diomedes
is eager to kill Aeneas or Paris or some other leader, but Odysseus
warns him to be content with the spoils they have won. Athena appears,
counselling them to slay Rhesus; if he survives that night, neither
Achilles nor Ajax can save the Greeks. Paris approaches, having heard
that spies are abroad in the night; he is beguiled by Athena who
pretends to be Aphrodite. When he is safely got away, the two slay
Rhesus.

The King's charioteer bursts on to the stage with news of his death.
He accuses Hector of murder out of desire for the matchless steeds.
Hector recognises in the story all the marks of Odysseus' handiwork.
The Thracian Muse descends to mourn her son's death, declaring that
she had saved him for many years, but Hector prevailed upon him and
Athena caused his end.

This play is not only about No-man's land; it is a No-man's land, for
its author is unknown; it is sometimes ascribed to Euripides, though
it contains many words he did not use, on the ground that it reflects
his art. For it shows in brief the change which came over Tragedy
under Euripides' guidance. It is exciting, it seizes the tragic
moment, the one important night, it has some lovely lyrics, the
characters are realistic, the gods descend to untie the knot of the
play or to explain the mysterious, some detail is unrelated to the
main plot--Paris exercises no influence on the real action--it is
pathetic.

Sophocles said that he painted men as they ought to be, Euripides as
they are. This realistic tendency, added to the romanticism whence
realism always springs, is the last stage of tragedy before it
declines. A Euripides is inevitable in literary history.

Born at Salamis on the very day of the great victory of 480, Euripides
entered into the spirit of revolution in all human activities which
was stirring in contemporary Athens. He won the first prize on five
occasions, was pilloried by the Conservatives though he was a
favourite with the masses. Towards the end of his life he migrated to
Macedonia, where he wrote not the least splendid of his plays, the
_Bacchae_. On the news of his death in 406 Sophocles clothed his
Chorus in mourning as a mark of his esteem.

The famous _Alcestis_ won the second prize in 438. Apollo had been the
guest of Admetus and had persuaded Death to spare him if a substitute
could be found. Admetus' parents and friends failed him, but his wife
Alcestis for his sake was content to leave the light. After a series
of speeches of great beauty and pathos she dies, leaving her husband
desolate. Heracles arrives at the palace on the day of her death; he
notices that some sorrow is come upon his host, but being assured that
only a relation has died he remains. Meanwhile Admetus' parents arrive
to console him; he reviles them for their selfishness in refusing to
die for him, but is sharply reminded by them that parents rejoice to
see the sun as well as their children; in reality, he is his wife's
murderer.

Heracles' reckless hilarity shocked the servants who were unwilling to
look after an unfeeling guest. He enters the worse for liquor and
advises a young menial to enjoy life while he can. After a few
questions he learns the truth. Sobered, he hurries forth unknown to
Admetus to wrestle with Death for Alcestis. Admetus, distracted by
loss of his wife, becomes aware that evil tongues will soon begin to
talk of his cowardice. Heracles returns with a veiled woman, whom he
says he won in a contest, and begs Admetus keep her till he returns.
After much persuasion Admetus takes her by the hand, and on being
bidden to look more closely, sees that it is Alcestis. The great
deliverer then bids farewell with a gentle hint to him to treat guests
more frankly in future.

This play must be familiar to English readers of Browning's
_Balaustion's Adventure_. It has been set to music and produced at
Covent Garden this very year. The specific Euripidean marks are
everywhere upon it. The selfish male, the glorious self-denial of the
woman, the deep but helpless sympathy of the gods, the tendency to
laughter to relieve our tears, the wonderful lyrics indicate a new
arrival in poetry. The originality of Euripides is evident in the
choice of a subject not otherwise treated; he was constantly striving
to pass out of the narrow cycle prescribed for Attic tragedians. A new
and very formidable influence has arisen to challenge Sophocles who
may have felt as Thackeray did when he read one of Dickens' early
emotional triumphs.

In 431 he obtained the third prize with the _Medea_, the heroine of
the world-famous story of the Argonauts related for English readers in
Morris' _Life and Death of Jason_. A nurse tells the story of Jason's
cooling love for Medea and of his intended wedlock with the daughter
of Creon, King of Corinth, the scene of the play. Appalled at the
effect the news will produce on her mistress' fiery nature, she begs
the Tutor to save the two children. Medea's frantic cries are heard
within the house; appearing before a Chorus of Corinthian women she
plunges into a description of the curse that haunts their sex.

"Of all things that live and have sense women are the most hapless.
First we must buy a husband to lord it over our bodies; our next
anxiety is whether he will be good or bad, for divorce is not easy
or creditable. Entering upon a strange new life we must divine how
best to treat our spouse. If after this agony we find one to live
with us without chafing at the yoke, a happy life is ours--if not,
better to die. But when a man is surfeited with his mate he can
find comfort outside with friend or compeer; but we perforce look
to one alone. They say of us that we live a life free from danger,
but they fight in wars. It is false. I would rather face battle
thrice than childbirth once."

Desolate, far away from her father's home, she begs the Chorus to be
silent if she can devise punishment for Jason.

Creon comes forth, uneasy at some vague threats which Medea has
uttered and afraid of her skill as a sorceress. He intends to cast her
out of Corinth before returning to his palace, but is prevailed upon
to grant one day's grace. Medea is aghast at this blow, but decides to
use the brief respite. After a splendid little ode which prophesies
that women shall not always be without a Muse, Jason emerges. Pointing
out that her violent temper has brought banishment he professes to
sympathise, offering money to help her in exile. She bursts into a
fury of indignation, recounting how she abandoned home to save and fly
with him to Greece. He argues that his gratitude is due not to her,
but to Love who compelled her to save him; he repeats his offer and is
ready to come if she sends for him. Salvation comes unexpectedly.
Aegeus, the childless King of Athens, accidentally visits Corinth.
Medea wins his sympathy and promises him children if he will offer her
protection. He willingly assents and she outlines her plan. Sending
for Jason, she first pretends repentance for hasty speech, then begs
him to get her pardon from the new bride and release from exile for
the two children. She offers as a wedding gift a wondrous robe and
crown which once belonged to her ancestor the Sun. In the scene which
follows is depicted one of the greatest mental conflicts in
literature. To punish Jason she must slay her sons; torn by love for
them and thirsting for revenge she wavers. The mother triumphs for a
moment, then the fiend, then the mother again--at last she decides on
murder. This scene captured the imagination of the ancient world,
inspiring many epigrams in the Anthology and forming one of the mural
paintings of Pompeii.

A messenger rushes in. The robe and crown have burnt to death Glauce
the bride and her father who vainly tried to save her: Jason is coming
with all speed to punish the murderess. She listens with unholy joy,
retires and slays the children. Jason runs in and madly batters at the
door to save them. He is checked by the apparition of Medea seated in
her car drawn by dragons. Reviled by him as a murderess, she replies
that the death of the children was agony to her as well and prophesies
a miserable death for him.

This marvellous character is Euripides' Clytemnestra. Yet unlike her,
she remains absolutely human throughout; her weak spot was her
maternal affection which made her hesitate, while Clytemnestra was
past feeling, "not a drop being left". Medea is the natural Southern
woman who takes the law into her own hands. In the _Trachiniae_ is
another, outraged as Medea was, yet forgiving. Truly Sophocles said he
painted men as they ought to be, Euripides as they were.

The _Hippolytus_ in 429 won the first prize. It is important as
introducing a revolutionary practice into drama. Aphrodite in a
prologue declares she will punish Hippolytus for slighting her and
preferring to worship Artemis, the goddess of hunting. The young
prince passes out to the chase; as he goes, his attention is drawn to
a statue of Aphrodite by his servants who warn him that men hate
unfriendly austerity, but he treats their words with contempt. His
stepmother Phaedra enters with the Nurse, the Chorus consisting of
women of Troezen, the scene of the play. A secret malady under which
Phaedra pines has so far baffled the Nurse who now learns that she
loves her stepson. She had striven in vain against this passion, only
to find like Olivia that

Such a potent fault it is
That it but mocks reproof.

She decided to die rather than disgrace herself and her city Athens.
The Nurse advises her not to sacrifice herself for such a common
passion; a remedy there must be: "Men would find it, if women had not
found it already". "She needs not words, but the man." Scandalised by
this cynicism the Queen bids her be silent; the woman tells her she
has potent charms within the house which will rid her of the malady
without danger to her good name or her life. Phaedra suspects her plan
and absolutely forbids her to speak with Hippolytus. The answer is
ambiguous:

"Be of good cheer; I will order the matter well. Only Queen
Aphrodite be my aid. For the rest, it will suffice to tell my
plan to my friends within."

A violent commotion arises in the palace; Hippolytus is heard
indistinctly uttering angry words. He and the Nurse come forth; in
spite of her appeal for silence, he denounces her for tempting him.
When she reminds him of his oath of secrecy, he answers "My tongue has
sworn, but not my will"--a line pounced upon as immoral by the poet's
many foes. Hippolytus' long denunciation of women has been similarly
considered to prove that the poet was an enemy of their sex. Left
alone with the Nurse Phaedra is terror-stricken lest her husband
Theseus should hear of her disgrace. She casts the Nurse off, adding
that she has a remedy of her own. Her last speech is ominous.

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