Frances (Fanny) Burney (Madame d'Arblay) - "Cecilia vol. 3"

AEschylus - "Suppliant Maidens and Other Plays"

Sallust - "Conspiracy of Catiline and The Jurgurthine War"

Lewis Madison Terman - "The Measurement of Intelligence"

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.

Complete Prose Works

W >> Walt Whitman >> Complete Prose Works





PATENT-OFFICE HOSPITAL

_February 23._--I must not let the great hospital at the Patent-office
pass away without some mention. A few weeks ago the vast area of the
second story of that noblest of Washington buildings was crowded close
with rows of sick, badly wounded and dying soldiers. They were placed
in three very large apartments. I went there many times. It was a
strange, solemn, and, with all its features of suffering and death,
a sort of fascinating sight. I go sometimes at night to soothe and
relieve particular cases. Two of the immense apartments are fill'd
with high and ponderous glass cases, crowded with models in miniature
of every kind of utensil, machine or invention, it ever enter'd
into the mind of man to conceive; and with curiosities and foreign
presents. Between these cases are lateral openings, perhaps eight feet
wide and quite deep, and in these were placed the sick, besides a
great long double row of them up and down through the middle of the
hall. Many of them were very bad cases, wounds and amputations. Then
there was a gallery running above the hall in which there were beds
also. It was, indeed, a curious scene, especially at night when lit
up. The glass cases, the beds, the forms lying there, the gallery
above, and the marble pavement under foot--the suffering, and the
fortitude to bear it in various degrees--occasionally, from some, the
groan that could not be repress'd--sometimes a poor fellow dying, with
emaciated face and glassy eye, the nurse by his side, the doctor also
there, but no friend, no relative--such were the sights but lately in
the Patent-office. (The wounded have since been removed from there,
and it is now vacant again.)


THE WHITE HOUSE BY MOONLIGHT

_February 24th._--A spell of fine soft weather. I wander about a good
deal, sometimes at night under the moon. Tonight took a long look at
the President's house. The white portico--the palace-like, tall,
round columns, spotless as snow--the walls also--the tender and
soft moonlight, flooding the pale marble, and making peculiar faint
languishing shades, not shadows--everywhere a soft transparent
hazy, thin, blue moon-lace, hanging in the air--the brilliant and
extra-plentiful clusters of gas, on and around the facade, columns,
portico, &c.--everything so white, so marbly pure and dazzling, yet
soft--the White House of future poems, and of dreams and dramas, there
in the soft and copious moon--the gorgeous front, in the trees, under
the lustrous flooding moon, full of realty, full of illusion--the
forms of the trees, leafless, silent, in trunk and myriad--angles of
branches, under the stars and sky--the White House of the land, and of
beauty and night--sentries at the gates, and by the portico, silent,
pacing there in blue overcoats--stopping you not at all, but eyeing
you with sharp eyes, whichever way you move.


AN ARMY HOSPITAL WARD

Let me specialize a visit I made to the collection of barrack-like
one-story edifices, Campbell hospital, out on the flats, at the end
of the then horse railway route, on Seventh street. There is a
long building appropriated to each ward. Let us go into ward 6. It
contains, to-day, I should judge, eighty or a hundred patients,
half sick, half wounded. The edifice is nothing but boards, well
whitewash'd inside, and the usual slender-framed iron bedsteads,
narrow and plain. You walk down the central passage, with a row on
either side, their feet towards you, and their heads to the wall.
There are fires in large stoves, and the prevailing white of the
walls is reliev'd by some ornaments, stars, circles, &c., made of
evergreens. The view of the whole edifice and occupants can be taken
at once, for there is no partition. You may hear groans or other
sounds of unendurable suffering from two or three of the cots, but in
the main there is quiet--almost a painful absence of demonstration;
but the pallid face, the dull'd eye, and the moisture of the lip, are
demonstration enough. Most of these sick or hurt are evidently young
fellows from the country, farmers' sons, and such like. Look at the
fine large frames, the bright and broad countenances, and the many
yet lingering proofs of strong constitution and physique. Look at the
patient and mute manner of our American wounded as they lie in such
a sad collection; representatives from all New England, and from New
York, and New Jersey, and Pennsylvania--indeed from all the States
and all the cities--largely from the west. Most of them are entirely
without friends or acquaintances here--no familiar face, and hardly a
word of judicious sympathy or cheer, through their sometimes long and
tedious sickness, or the pangs of aggravated wounds.


A CONNECTICUT CASE

This young man in bed 25 is H. D. B. of the 27th Connecticut, company
B. His folks live at Northford, near New Haven. Though not more than
twenty-one, or thereabouts, he has knock'd much around the world, on
sea and land, and has seen some fighting on both. When I first saw him
he was very sick, with no appetite. He declined offers of money--said
he did not need anything. As I was quite anxious to do something,
he confess'd that he had a hankering for a good home-made rice
pudding--thought he could relish it better than anything. At this
time his stomach was very weak. (The doctor, whom I consulted, said
nourishment would do him more good than anything; but things in the
hospital, though better than usual, revolted him.) I soon procured B.
his rice pudding. A Washington lady, (Mrs. O'C.), hearing his wish,
made the pudding herself, and I took it up to him the next day. He
subsequently told me he lived upon it for three or four days. This
B. is a good sample of the American eastern young man--the typical
Yankee. I took a fancy to him, and gave him a nice pipe for a
keepsake. He receiv'd afterwards a box of things from home, and
nothing would do but I must take dinner with him, which I did, and a
very good one it was.


TWO BROOKLYN BOYS

Here in this same ward are two young men from Brooklyn, members of the
51st New York. I had known both the two as young lads at home, so they
seem near to me. One of them, J. L., lies there with an amputated
arm, the stump healing pretty well. (I saw him lying on the ground
at Fredericksburgh last December, all bloody, just after the arm was
taken off. He was very phlegmatic about it, munching away at a cracker
in the remaining hand--made no fuss.) He will recover, and thinks and
talks yet of meeting Johnny Rebs.


A SECESH BRAVE

The grand soldiers are not comprised in those of one side, any more
than the other. Here is a sample of an unknown southerner, a lad
of seventeen. At the War department, a few days ago, I witness'd
a presentation of captured flags to the Secretary. Among others a
soldier named Gant, of the 104th Ohio volunteers, presented a rebel
battle-flag, which one of the officers stated to me was borne to the
mouth of our cannon and planted there by a boy but seventeen years
of age, who actually endeavor'd to stop the muzzle of the gun with
fence-rails. He was kill'd in the effort, and the flag-staff was
sever'd by a shot from one of our men.


THE WOUNDED FROM CHANCELLORSVILLE

_May '63_.--As I write this, the wounded have begun to arrive from
Hooker's command from bloody Chancellorsville. I was down among the
first arrivals. The men in charge told me the bad cases were yet to
come. If that is so I pity them, for these are bad enough. You ought
to see the scene of the wounded arriving at the landing here at the
foot of Sixth street, at night. Two boat loads came about half-past
seven last night. A little after eight it rain'd a long and violent
shower. The pale, helpless soldiers had been debark'd, and lay around
on the wharf and neighborhood anywhere. The rain was, probably,
grateful to them; at any rate they were exposed to it. The few torches
light up the spectacle. All around--on the wharf, on the ground, out
on side places--the men are lying on blankets, old quilts, &c., with
bloody rags bound round heads, arms, and legs. The attendants are few,
and at night few outsiders also--only a few hard-work'd transportation
men and drivers. (The wounded are getting to be common, and people
grow callous.) The men, whatever their condition, lie there, and
patiently wait till their turn comes to be taken up. Near by, the
ambulances are now arriving in clusters, and one after another is
call'd to back up and take its load. Extreme cases are sent off on
stretchers. The men generally make little or no ado, whatever their
sufferings. A few groans that cannot be suppress'd, and occasionally
a scream of pain as they lift a man into the ambulance. To-day, as
I write, hundreds more are expected, and to-morrow and the next day
more, and so on for many days. Quite often they arrive at the rate of
1000 a day.


A NIGHT BATTLE OVER A WEEK SINCE

_May 12_.--There was part of the late battle at Chancellorsville,
(second Fredericksburgh,) a little over a week ago, Saturday, Saturday
night and Sunday, under Gen. Joe Hooker, I would like to give just a
glimpse of--(a moment's look in a terrible storm at sea--of which a
few suggestions are enough, and full details impossible.) The fighting
had been very hot during the day, and after an intermission the latter
part, was resumed at night, and kept up with furious energy till 3
o'clock in the morning. That afternoon (Saturday) an attack sudden
and strong by Stonewall Jackson had gain'd a great advantage to the
southern army, and broken our lines, entering us like a wedge, and
leaving things in that position at dark. But Hooker at 11 at night
made a desperate push, drove the secesh forces back, restored his
original lines, and resumed his plans. This night scrimmage was very
exciting, and afforded countless strange and fearful pictures. The
fighting had been general both at Chancellorsville and northeast at
Fredericksburgh. (We hear of some poor fighting, episodes, skedaddling
on our part. I think not of it. I think of the fierce bravery, the
general rule.) One corps, the 6th, Sedgewick's, fights four dashing
and bloody battles in thirty-six hours, retreating in great jeopardy,
losing largely but maintaining itself, fighting with the sternest
desperation under all circumstances, getting over the Rappahannock
only by the skin of its teeth, yet getting over. It lost many, many
brave men, yet it took vengeance, ample vengeance.

But it was the tug of Saturday evening, and through the night and
Sunday morning, I wanted to make a special note of. It was largely
in the woods, and quite a general engagement. The night was very
pleasant, at times the moon shining out full and clear, all Nature so
calm in itself, the early summer grass so rich, and foliage of the
trees--yet there the battle raging, and many good fellows lying
helpless, with new accessions to them, and every minute amid the
rattle of muskets and crash of cannon, (for there was an artillery
contest too,) the red life-blood oozing out from heads or trunks or
limbs upon that green and dew-cool grass. Patches of the woods take
fire, and several of the wounded, unable to move, are consumed--quite
large spaces are swept over, burning the dead also--some of the men
have their hair and beards singed--some, burns on their faces and
hands--others holes burnt in their clothing. The flashes of fire
from the cannon, the quick flaring flames and smoke, and the immense
roar--the musketry so general, the light nearly bright enough for
each side to see the other--the crashing, tramping of men--the
yelling--close quarters--we hear the secesh yells--our men cheer
loudly back, especially if Hooker is in sight--hand to hand conflicts,
each side stands up to it, brave, determin'd as demons, they often
charge upon us--a thousand deeds are done worth to write newer greater
poems on--and still the woods on fire--still many are not only
scorch'd--too many, unable to move, are burned to death.

Then the camps of the wounded--O heavens, what scene is this?--is
this indeed _humanity_--these butchers' shambles? There are
several of them. There they lie, in the largest, in an open space in
the woods, from 200 to 300 poor fellows--the groans and screams--the
odor of blood, mixed with the fresh scent of the night, the grass, the
trees--that slaughter-house! O well is it their mothers, their sisters
cannot see them--cannot conceive, and never conceiv'd, these things.
One man is shot by a shell, both in the arm and leg--both are
amputated--there lie the rejected members. Some have their legs blown
off--some bullets through the breast--some indescribably horrid wounds
in the face or head, all mutilated, sickening, torn, gouged out--some
in the abdomen--some mere boys--many rebels, badly hurt--they take
their regular turns with the rest, just the same as any--the surgeons
use them just the same. Such is the camp of the wounded--such a
fragment, a reflection afar off of the bloody scene--while all over
the clear, large moon comes out at times softly, quietly shining. Amid
the woods, that scene of flitting souls--amid the crack and crash
and yelling sounds--the impalpable perfume of the woods--and yet the
pungent, stifling smoke--the radiance of the moon, looking from heaven
at intervals so placid--the sky so heavenly the clear-obscure up
there, those buoyant upper oceans--a few large placid stars beyond,
coming silently and languidly out, and then disappearing--the
melancholy, draperied night above, around. And there, upon the roads,
the fields, and in those woods, that contest, never one more desperate
in any age or land--both parties now in force--masses--no fancy
battle, no semi-play, but fierce and savage demons fighting
there--courage and scorn of death the rule, exceptions almost none.

What history, I say, can ever give--for who can know--the mad,
determin'd tussle of the armies, in all their separate large and
little squads--as this--each steep'd from crown to toe in desperate,
mortal purports? Who know the conflict, hand-to-hand--the many
conflicts in the dark, those shadowy-tangled, flashing moonbeam'd
woods--the writhing groups and squads--the cries, the din, the
cracking guns and pistols--the distant cannon--the cheers and calls
and threats and awful music of the oaths--the indescribable mix--the
officers' orders, persuasions, encouragements--the devils fully rous'd
in human hearts--the strong shout, _Charge, men, charge_--the flash
of the naked sword, and rolling flame and smoke? And still the broken,
clear and clouded heaven--and still again the moonlight pouring
silvery soft its radiant patches over all. Who paint the scene,
the sudden partial panic of the afternoon, at dusk? Who paint the
irrepressible advance of the second division of the Third corps, under
Hooker himself, suddenly order'd up--those rapid-filing phantoms
through the woods? Who show what moves there in the shadows, fluid and
firm--to save, (and it did save,) the army's name, perhaps the nation?
as there the veterans hold the field. (Brave Berry falls not yet--but
death has mark'd him--soon he falls.)


UNNAMED REMAINS THE BRAVEST SOLDIER

Of scenes like these, I say, who writes--whoe'er can write the story?
Of many a score--aye, thousands, north and south, of unwrit heroes,
unknown heroisms, incredible, impromptu, first-class desperations--who
tells? No history ever--no poem sings, no music sounds, those bravest
men of all--those deeds. No formal general's report, nor book in the
library, norcolumn in the paper, embalms the bravest, north or south,
east or west. Unnamed, unknown, remain, and still remain, the bravest
soldiers. Our manliest--our boys--our hardy darlings; no picture gives
them. Likely, the typic one of them (standing, no doubt, for hundreds,
thousands,) crawls aside to some bush-clump, or ferny tuft, on
receiving his death-shot--there sheltering a little while, soaking
roots, grass and soil, with red blood--the battle advances, retreats,
flits from the scene, sweeps by--and there, haply with pain and
suffering (yet less, far less, than is supposed,) the last lethargy
winds like a serpent round him--the eyes glaze in death----none
recks--perhaps the burial-squads, in truce, a week afterwards, search
not the secluded spot--and there, at last, the Bravest Soldier
crumbles in mother earth, unburied and unknown.


SOME SPECIMEN CASES

_June 18th_.--In one of the hospitals I find Thomas Haley, company M,
4th New York cavalry--a regular Irish boy, a fine specimen of youthful
physical manliness--shot through the lungs--inevitably dying--came
over to this country from Ireland to enlist--has not a single friend
or acquaintance here--is sleeping soundly at this moment, (but it is
the sleep of death)--has a bullet-hole straight through the lung. I
saw Tom when first brought here, three days since, and didn't suppose
he could live twelve hours--(yet he looks well enough in the face to
a casual observer.) He lies there with his frame exposed above the
waist, all naked, for coolness, a fine built man, the tan not yet
bleach'd from his cheeks and neck. It is useless to talk to him, as
with his sad hurt, and the stimulants they give him, and the utter
strangeness of every object, face, furniture, &c., the poor fellow,
even when awake, is like some frighten'd, shy animal. Much of the time
he sleeps, or half sleeps. (Sometimes I thought he knew more than
he show'd.) I often come and sit by him in perfect silence; he will
breathe for ten minutes as softly and evenly as a young babe asleep.
Poor youth, so handsome, athletic, with profuse beautiful shining
hair. One time as I sat looking at him while he lay asleep, he
suddenly, without the least start, awaken'd, open'd his eyes, gave me
a long steady look, turning his face very slightly to gaze easier--one
long, clear, silent look--a slight sigh--then turn'd back and went
into his doze again. Little he knew, poor death-stricken boy, the
heart of the stranger that hover'd near.

_W.H.E., Co. F, 2nd N.Y._--His disease is pneumonia. He lay sick at
the wretched hospital below Aquia creek, for seven or eight days
before brought here. He was detail'd from his regiment to go there
and help as nurse, but was soon taken down himself. Is an elderly,
sallow-faced, rather gaunt, gray-hair'd man, a widower, with children.
He express'd a great desire for good, strong green tea. An excellent
lady, Mrs. W., of Washington, soon sent him a package; also a small
sum of money. The doctor said give him the tea at pleasure; it lay
on the table by his side, and he used it every day. He slept a great
deal; could not talk much, as he grew deaf. Occupied bed 15, ward I,
Armory. (The same lady above, Mrs. W., sent the men a large package of
tobacco.)

J. G. lies in bed 52, ward I; is of company B, 7th Pennsylvania. I
gave him a small sum of money, some tobacco, and envelopes. To a man
adjoining also gave twenty-five cents; he flush'd in the face when I
offer'd it--refused at first, but as I found he had not a cent, and
was very fond of having the daily papers to read, I prest it on him.
He was evidently very grateful, but said little.

J.T.L., of company F, 9th New Hampshire, lies in bed 37, ward I. Is
very fond of tobacco. I furnish him some; also with a little money.
Has gangrene of the feet; a pretty bad case; will surely have to lose
three toes. Is a regular specimen of an old-fashion'd, rude, hearty,
New England countryman, impressing me with his likeness to that
celebrated singed cat, who was better than she look'd.

Bed 3, ward E, Armory, has a great hankering for pickles, something
pungent. After consulting the doctor, I gave him a small bottle of
horse-radish; also some apples; also a book. Some of the nurses are
excellent. The woman-nurse in this ward I like very much. (Mrs.
Wright--a year afterwards I found her in Mansion house hospital,
Alexandria--she is a perfect nurse.)

In one bed a young man, Marcus Small, company K, 7th Maine--sick with
dysentery and typhoid fever--pretty critical case--I talk with him
often--he thinks he will die--looks like it indeed. I write a letter
for him home to East Livermore, Maine--I let him talk to me a little,
but not much, advise him to keep very quiet--do most of the talking
myself--stay quite a while with him, as he holds on to my hand--talk
to him in a cheering, but slow, low and measured manner--talk about
his furlough, and going home as soon as he is able to travel.

Thomas Lindly, 1st Pennsylvania cavalry, shot very badly through the
foot--poor young man, he suffers horridly, has to be constantly dosed
with morphine, his face ashy and glazed, bright young eyes--I give him
a large handsome apple, lay it in sight, tell him to have it roasted
in the morning, as he generally feels easier then, and can eat a
little breakfast. I write two letters for him.

Opposite, an old Quaker lady sits by the side of her son, Amer Moore,
2d U. S. artillery--shot in the head two weeks since, very low, quite
rational--from hips down paralyzed--he will surely die. I speak a very
few words to him every day and evening--he answers pleasantly--wants
nothing--(he told me soon after he came about his home affairs,
his mother had been an invalid, and he fear'd to let her know his
condition.) He died soon after she came.


MY PREPARATIONS FOR VISITS

In my visits to the hospitals I found it was in the simple matter of
personal presence, and emanating ordinary cheer and magnetism, that I
succeeded and help'd more than by medical nursing, or delicacies,
or gifts of money, or anything else. During the war I possess'd the
perfection of physical health. My habit, when practicable, was to
prepare for starting out on one of those daily or nightly tours
of from a couple to four or five hours, by fortifying myself with
previous rest, the bath, clean clothes, a good meal, and as cheerful
an appearance as possible.


AMBULANCE PROCESSIONS

_June 23, Sundown._--As I sit writing this paragraph I see a train of
about thirty huge four-horse wagons, used as ambulances, fill'd with
wounded, passing up Fourteenth street, on their way, probably, to
Columbian, Carver, and Mount Pleasant hospitals. This is the way the
men come in now, seldom in small numbers, but almost always in these
long, sad processions. Through the past winter, while our army lay
opposite Fredericksburg, the like strings of ambulances were of
frequent occurrence along Seventh street, passing slowly up from the
steamboat wharf, with loads from Aquia creek.


BAD WOUNDS--THE YOUNG

The soldiers are nearly all young men, and far more American than is
generally supposed--I should say nine-tenths are native-born. Among
the arrivals from Chancellorsville I find a large proportion of Ohio,
Indiana, and Illinois men. As usual, there are all sorts of wounds.
Some of the men fearfully burnt from the explosions of artillery
caissons. One ward has a long row of officers, some with ugly hurts.
Yesterday was perhaps worse than usual. Amputations are going on--the
attendants are dressing wounds. As you pass by, you must be on your
guard where you look. I saw the other day a gentlemen, a visitor
apparently from curiosity, in one of the wards, stop and turn a moment
to look at an awful wound they were probing. He turn'd pale, and in a
moment more he had fainted away and fallen to the floor.


THE MOST INSPIRITING OF ALL WAR'S SHOWS

_June 29._--Just before sundown this evening a very large cavalry
force went by--a fine sight. The men evidently had seen service. First
came a mounted band of sixteen bugles, drums and cymbals, playing wild
martial tunes--made my heart jump. Then the principal officers, then
company after company, with their officers at their heads, making of
course the main part of the cavalcade; then a long train of men with
led horses, lots of mounted negroes with special horses--and a long
string of baggage-wagons, each drawn by four horses--and then a motley
rear guard.

It was a pronouncedly warlike and gay show; the sabres clank'd, the
men look'd young and healthy and strong; the electric tramping of so
many horses on the hard road, and the gallant bearing, fine seat, and
bright faced appearance of a thousand and more handsome young American
men, were so good to see. An hour later another troop went by,
smaller in numbers, perhaps three hundred men. They too look'd like
serviceable men, campaigners used to field and fight.

_July 3_.--This forenoon, for more than an hour, again long strings
of cavalry, several regiments, very fine men and horses, four or five
abreast. I saw them in Fourteenth street, coming in town from north.
Several hundred extra horses, some of the mares with colts, trotting
along. (Appear'd to be a number of prisoners too.) How inspiriting
always the cavalry regiments. Our men are generally well mounted, feel
good, are young, gay on the saddle, their blankets in a roll behind
them, their sabres clanking at their sides. This noise and movement
and the tramp of many horses' hoofs has a curious effect upon one. The
bugles play--presently you hear them afar off, deaden'd, mix'd with
other noises. Then just as they had all pass'd, a string of ambulances
commenc'd from the other way, moving up Fourteenth street north,
slowly wending along, bearing a large lot of wounded to the hospitals.

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