Allan Pinkerton - "Bucholz and the Detectives"

Frederik van Eeden - "The Bride of Dreams"

John Ruskin - "Mornings in Florence"

Various - "Scientific American Supplement, No. 286"

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.

Coningsby

B >> Benjamin Disraeli >> Coningsby




Coningsby hurried on, the forest became less close. All that he aspired to
was to gain more open country. Now he was in a rough flat land, covered
only here and there with dwarf underwood; the horizon bounded at no great
distance by a barren hill of moderate elevation. He gained its height with
ease. He looked over a vast open country like a wild common; in the
extreme distance hills covered with woods; the plain intersected by two
good roads: the sky entirely clouded, but in the distance black as ebony.

A place of refuge was at hand: screened from his first glance by some elm-
trees, the ascending smoke now betrayed a roof, which Coningsby reached
before the tempest broke. The forest-inn was also a farmhouse. There was a
comfortable-enough looking kitchen; but the ingle nook was full of
smokers, and Coningsby was glad to avail himself of the only private room
for the simple meal which they offered him, only eggs and bacon; but very
welcome to a pedestrian, and a hungry one.

As he stood at the window of his little apartment, watching the large
drops that were the heralds of a coming hurricane, and waiting for his
repast, a flash of lightning illumined the whole country, and a horseman
at full speed, followed by his groom, galloped up to the door.

The remarkable beauty of the animal so attracted Coningsby's attention
that it prevented him catching even a glimpse of the rider, who rapidly
dismounted and entered the inn. The host shortly after came in and asked
Coningsby whether he had any objection to a gentleman, who was driven
there by the storm, sharing his room until it subsided. The consequence of
the immediate assent of Coningsby was, that the landlord retired and soon
returned, ushering in an individual, who, though perhaps ten years older
than Coningsby, was still, according to Hippocrates, in the period of
lusty youth. He was above the middle height, and of a distinguished air
and figure; pale, with an impressive brow, and dark eyes of great
intelligence.

'I am glad that we have both escaped the storm,' said the stranger; 'and I
am greatly indebted to you for your courtesy.' He slightly and graciously
bowed, as he spoke in a voice of remarkable clearness; and his manner,
though easy, was touched with a degree of dignity that was engaging.

'The inn is a common home,' replied Coningsby, returning his salute.

'And free from cares,' added the stranger. Then, looking through the
window, he said, 'A strange storm this. I was sauntering in the sunshine,
when suddenly I found I had to gallop for my life. 'Tis more like a white
squall in the Mediterranean than anything else.'

'I never was in the Mediterranean,' said Coningsby. 'There is nothing I
should like so much as to travel.'

'You are travelling,' rejoined his companion. 'Every moment is travel, if
understood.'

'Ah! but the Mediterranean!' exclaimed Coningsby. 'What would I not give
to see Athens!'

'I have seen it,' said the stranger, slightly shrugging his shoulders;'
and more wonderful things. Phantoms and spectres! The Age of Ruins is
past. Have you seen Manchester?'

'I have seen nothing,' said Coningsby; 'this is my first wandering. I am
about to visit a friend who lives in this county, and I have sent on my
baggage as I could. For myself, I determined to trust to a less common-
place conveyance.'

'And seek adventures,' said the stranger, smiling, 'Well, according to
Cervantes, they should begin in an inn.'

'I fear that the age of adventures is past, as well as that of ruins,'
replied Coningsby.

'Adventures are to the adventurous,' said the stranger.

At this moment a pretty serving-maid entered the room. She laid the dapper
cloth and arranged the table with a self-possession quite admirable. She
seemed unconscious that any being was in the chamber except herself, or
that there were any other duties to perform in life beyond filling a
saltcellar or folding a napkin.

'She does not even look at us,' said Coningsby, when she had quitted the
room; 'and I dare say is only a prude.'

'She is calm,' said the stranger, 'because she is mistress of her subject;
'tis the secret of self-possession. She is here as a duchess at court.'

They brought in Coningsby's meal, and he invited the stranger to join him.
The invitation was accepted with cheerfulness.

''Tis but simple fare,' said Coningsby, as the maiden uncovered the still
hissing bacon and the eggs, that looked like tufts of primroses.

'Nay, a national dish,' said the stranger, glancing quickly at the table,
'whose fame is a proverb. And what more should we expect under a simple
roof! How much better than an omelette or a greasy olla, that they would
give us in a posada! 'Tis a wonderful country this England! What a napkin!
How spotless! And so sweet; I declare 'tis a perfume. There is not a
princess throughout the South of Europe served with the cleanliness that
meets us in this cottage.'

'An inheritance from our Saxon fathers?' said Coningsby. 'I apprehend the
northern nations have a greater sense of cleanliness, of propriety, of
what we call comfort?'

'By no means,' said the stranger; 'the East is the land of the Bath. Moses
and Mahomet made cleanliness religion.'

'You will let me help you?' said Coningsby, offering him a plate which he
had filled.

'I thank you,' said the stranger, 'but it is one of my bread days. With
your permission this shall be my dish;' and he cut from the large loaf a
supply of crusts.

''Tis but unsavoury fare after a gallop,' said Coningsby.

'Ah! you are proud of your bacon and your eggs,' said the stranger,
smiling, 'but I love corn and wine. They are our chief and our oldest
luxuries. Time has brought us substitutes, but how inferior! Man has
deified corn and wine! but not even the Chinese or the Irish have raised
temples to tea and potatoes.'

'But Ceres without Bacchus,' said Coningsby, 'how does that do? Think you,
under this roof, we could Invoke the god?'

'Let us swear by his body that we will try,' said the stranger.

Alas! the landlord was not a priest to Bacchus. But then these inquiries
led to the finest perry in the world. The young men agreed they had seldom
tasted anything more delicious; they sent for another bottle. Coningsby,
who was much interested by his new companion, enjoyed himself amazingly.

A cheese, such as Derby alone can produce, could not induce the stranger
to be even partially inconstant to his crusts. But his talk was as
vivacious as if the talker had been stimulated by the juices of the finest
banquet. Coningsby had never met or read of any one like this chance
companion. His sentences were so short, his language so racy, his voice
rang so clear, his elocution was so complete. On all subjects his mind
seemed to be instructed, and his opinions formed. He flung out a result in
a few words; he solved with a phrase some deep problem that men muse over
for years. He said many things that were strange, yet they immediately
appeared to be true. Then, without the slightest air of pretension or
parade, he seemed to know everybody as well as everything. Monarchs,
statesmen, authors, adventurers, of all descriptions and of all climes, if
their names occurred in the conversation, he described them in an
epigrammatic sentence, or revealed their precise position, character,
calibre, by a curt dramatic trait. All this, too, without any excitement
of manner; on the contrary, with repose amounting almost to nonchalance.
If his address had any fault in it, it was rather a deficiency of
earnestness. A slight spirit of mockery played over his speech even when
you deemed him most serious; you were startled by his sudden transitions
from profound thought to poignant sarcasm. A very singular freedom from
passion and prejudice on every topic on which they treated, might be some
compensation for this want of earnestness, perhaps was its consequence.
Certainly it was difficult to ascertain his precise opinions on many
subjects, though his manner was frank even to abandonment. And yet
throughout his whole conversation, not a stroke of egotism, not a word,
not a circumstance escaped him, by which you could judge of his position
or purposes in life. As little did he seem to care to discover those of
his companion. He did not by any means monopolise the conversation. Far
from it; he continually asked questions, and while he received answers, or
had engaged his fellow-traveller in any exposition of his opinion or
feelings, he listened with a serious and fixed attention, looking
Coningsby in the face with a steadfast glance.

'I perceive,' said Coningsby, pursuing a strain of thought which the other
had indicated, 'that you have great confidence in the influence of
individual character. I also have some confused persuasions of that kind.
But it is not the Spirit of the Age.'

'The age does not believe in great men, because it does not possess any,'
replied the stranger. 'The Spirit of the Age is the very thing that a
great man changes.'

'But does he not rather avail himself of it?' inquired Coningsby.

'Parvenus do,' rejoined his companion; 'but not prophets, great
legislators, great conquerors. They destroy and they create.'

'But are these times for great legislators and great conquerors?' urged
Coningsby.

'When were they wanted more?' asked the stranger. 'From the throne to the
hovel all call for a guide. You give monarchs constitutions to teach them
sovereignty, and nations Sunday-schools to inspire them with faith.'

'But what is an individual,' exclaimed Coningsby, 'against a vast public
opinion?'

'Divine,' said the stranger. 'God made man in His own image; but the
Public is made by Newspapers, Members of Parliament, Excise Officers, Poor
Law Guardians. Would Philip have succeeded if Epaminondas had not been
slain? And if Philip had not succeeded? Would Prussia have existed had
Frederick not been born? And if Frederick had not been born? What would
have been the fate of the Stuarts if Prince Henry had not died, and
Charles I., as was intended, had been Archbishop of Canterbury?'

'But when men are young they want experience,' said Coningsby; 'and when
they have gained experience, they want energy.'

'Great men never want experience,' said the stranger.

'But everybody says that experience--'

'Is the best thing in the world, a treasure for you, for me, for millions.
But for a creative mind, less than nothing. Almost everything that is
great has been done by youth.'

'It is at least a creed flattering to our years,' said Coningsby, with a
smile.

'Nay,' said the stranger; 'for life in general there is but one decree.
Youth is a blunder; Manhood a struggle; Old Age a regret. Do not suppose,'
he added, smiling, 'that I hold that youth is genius; all that I say is,
that genius, when young, is divine. Why, the greatest captains of ancient
and modern times both conquered Italy at five-and-twenty! Youth, extreme
youth, overthrew the Persian Empire. Don John of Austria won Lepanto at
twenty-five, the greatest battle of modern time; had it not been for the
jealousy of Philip, the next year he would have been Emperor of
Mauritania. Gaston de Foix was only twenty-two when he stood a victor on
the plain of Ravenna. Every one remembers Conde and Rocroy at the same
age. Gustavus Adolphus died at thirty-eight. Look at his captains: that
wonderful Duke of Weimar, only thirty-six when he died. Banier himself,
after all his miracles, died at forty-five. Cortes was little more than
thirty when he gazed upon the golden cupolas of Mexico. When Maurice of
Saxony died at thirty-two, all Europe acknowledged the loss of the
greatest captain and the profoundest statesman of the age. Then there is
Nelson, Clive; but these are warriors, and perhaps you may think there are
greater things than war. I do not: I worship the Lord of Hosts. But take
the most illustrious achievements of civil prudence. Innocent III., the
greatest of the Popes, was the despot of Christendom at thirty-seven. John
de Medici was a Cardinal at fifteen, and according to Guicciardini,
baffled with his statecraft Ferdinand of Arragon himself. He was Pope as
Leo X. at thirty-seven. Luther robbed even him of his richest province at
thirty-five. Take Ignatius Loyola and John Wesley, they worked with young
brains. Ignatius was only thirty when he made his pilgrimage and wrote the
"Spiritual Exercises." Pascal wrote a great work at sixteen, and died at
thirty-seven, the greatest of Frenchmen.

'Ah! that fatal thirty-seven, which reminds me of Byron, greater even as a
man than a writer. Was it experience that guided the pencil of Raphael
when he painted the palaces of Rome? He, too, died at thirty-seven.
Richelieu was Secretary of State at thirty-one. Well then, there were
Bolingbroke and Pitt, both ministers before other men left off cricket.
Grotius was in great practice at seventeen, and Attorney-General at
twenty-four. And Acquaviva; Acquaviva was General of the Jesuits, ruled
every cabinet in Europe, and colonised America before he was thirty-seven.
What a career!' exclaimed the stranger; rising from his chair and walking
up and down the room; 'the secret sway of Europe! That was indeed a
position! But it is needless to multiply instances! The history of Heroes
is the history of Youth.'

'Ah!' said Coningsby, 'I should like to be a great man.'

The stranger threw at him a scrutinising glance. His countenance was
serious. He said in a voice of almost solemn melody:

'Nurture your mind with great thoughts. To believe in the heroic makes
heroes.'

'You seem to me a hero,' said Coningsby, in a tone of real feeling, which,
half ashamed of his emotion, he tried to turn into playfulness.

'I am and must ever be,' said the stranger, 'but a dreamer of dreams.'
Then going towards the window, and changing into a familiar tone as if to
divert the conversation, he added, 'What a delicious afternoon! I look
forward to my ride with delight. You rest here?'

'No; I go on to Nottingham, where I shall sleep.'

'And I in the opposite direction.' And he rang the bell, and ordered his
horse.

'I long to see your mare again,' said Coningsby. 'She seemed to me so
beautiful.'

'She is not only of pure race,' said the stranger, 'but of the highest and
rarest breed in Arabia. Her name is "the Daughter of the Star." She is a
foal of that famous mare, which belonged to the Prince of the Wahabees;
and to possess which, I believe, was one of the principal causes of war
between that tribe and the Egyptians. The Pacha of Egypt gave her to me,
and I would not change her for her statue in pure gold, even carved by
Lysippus. Come round to the stable and see her.'

They went out together. It was a soft sunny afternoon; the air fresh from
the rain, but mild and exhilarating.

The groom brought forth the mare. 'The Daughter of the Star' stood before
Coningsby with her sinewy shape of matchless symmetry; her burnished skin,
black mane, legs like those of an antelope, her little ears, dark speaking
eye, and tail worthy of a Pacha. And who was her master, and whither was
she about to take him?

Coningsby was so naturally well-bred, that we may be sure it was not
curiosity; no, it was a finer feeling that made him hesitate and think a
little, and then say:

'I am sorry to part.'

'I also,' said the stranger. 'But life is constant separation.'

'I hope we may meet again,' said Coningsby.

'If our acquaintance be worth preserving,' said the stranger, 'you may be
sure it will not be lost.'

'But mine is not worth preserving,' said Coningsby, earnestly. 'It is
yours that is the treasure. You teach me things of which I have long
mused.'

The stranger took the bridle of 'the Daughter of the Star,' and turning
round with a faint smile, extended his hand to his companion.

'Your mind at least is nurtured with great thoughts,' said Coningsby;
'your actions should be heroic.'

'Action is not for me,' said the stranger; 'I am of that faith that the
Apostles professed before they followed their master.'

He vaulted into his saddle, 'the Daughter of the Star' bounded away as if
she scented the air of the Desert from which she and her rider had alike
sprung, and Coningsby remained in profound meditation.




CHAPTER II.


The day after his adventure at the Forest Inn, Coningsby arrived at
Beaumanoir. It was several years since he had visited the family of his
friend, who were indeed also his kin; and in his boyish days had often
proved that they were not unmindful of the affinity. This was a visit that
had been long counted on, long promised, and which a variety of
circumstances had hitherto prevented. It was to have been made by the
schoolboy; it was to be fulfilled by the man. For no less a character
could Coningsby under any circumstances now consent to claim, since he was
closely verging to the completion of his nineteenth year; and it appeared
manifest that if it were his destiny to do anything great, he had but few
years to wait before the full development of his power. Visions of Gastons
de Foix and Maurices of Saxony, statesmen giving up cricket to govern
nations, beardless Jesuits plunged in profound abstraction in omnipotent
cabinets, haunted his fancy from the moment he had separated from his
mysterious and deeply interesting companion. To nurture his mind with
great thoughts had ever been Coningsby's inspiring habit. Was it also
destined that he should achieve the heroic?

There are some books, when we close them; one or two in the course of our
life, difficult as it may be to analyse or ascertain the cause; our minds
seem to have made a great leap. A thousand obscure things receive light; a
multitude of indefinite feelings are determined. Our intellect grasps and
grapples with all subjects with a capacity, a flexibility, and a vigour,
before unknown to us. It masters questions hitherto perplexing, which are
not even touched or referred to in the volume just closed. What is this
magic? It is the spirit of the supreme author, by a magentic influence
blending with our sympathising intelligence, that directs and inspires it.
By that mysterious sensibility we extend to questions which he has not
treated, the same intellectual force which he has exercised over those
which he has expounded. His genius for a time remains in us. 'Tis the same
with human beings as with books. All of us encounter, at least once in our
life, some individual who utters words that make us think for ever.

There are men whose phrases are oracles; who condense in a sentence the
secrets of life; who blurt out an aphorism that forms a character or
illustrates an existence. A great thing is a great book; but greater than
all is the talk of a great man.

And what is a great man? Is it a Minister of State? Is it a victorious
General? A gentleman in the Windsor uniform? A Field Marshal covered with
stars? Is it a Prelate, or a Prince? A King, even an Emperor? It may be
all these; yet these, as we must all daily feel, are not necessarily great
men. A great man is one who affects the mind of his generation: whether he
be a monk in his cloister agitating Christendom, or a monarch crossing the
Granicus, and giving a new character to the Pagan World.

Our young Coningsby reached Beaumanoir in a state of meditation. He also
desired to be great. Not from the restless vanity that sometimes impels
youth to momentary exertion, by which they sometimes obtain a distinction
as evanescent as their energy. The ambition of our hero was altogether of
a different character. It was, indeed, at present not a little vague,
indefinite, hesitating, inquiring, sometimes desponding. What were his
powers? what should be his aim? were often to him, as to all young
aspirants, questions infinitely perplexing and full of pain. But, on the
whole, there ran through his character, notwithstanding his many dazzling
qualities and accomplishments, and his juvenile celebrity, which has
spoiled so much promise, a vein of grave simplicity that was the
consequence of an earnest temper, and of an intellect that would be
content with nothing short of the profound.

His was a mind that loved to pursue every question to the centre. But it
was not a spirit of scepticism that impelled this habit; on the contrary,
it was the spirit of faith. Coningsby found that he was born in an age of
infidelity in all things, and his heart assured him that a want of faith
was a want of nature. But his vigorous intellect could not take refuge in
that maudlin substitute for belief which consists in a patronage of
fantastic theories. He needed that deep and enduring conviction that the
heart and the intellect, feeling and reason united, can alone supply. He
asked himself why governments were hated, and religions despised? Why
loyalty was dead, and reverence only a galvanised corpse?

These were indeed questions that had as yet presented themselves to his
thought in a crude and imperfect form; but their very occurrence showed
the strong predisposition of his mind. It was because he had not found
guides among his elders, that his thoughts had been turned to the
generation that he himself represented. The sentiment of veneration was so
developed in his nature, that he was exactly the youth that would have
hung with enthusiastic humility on the accents of some sage of old in the
groves of Academus, or the porch of Zeno. But as yet he had found age only
perplexed and desponding; manhood only callous and desperate. Some thought
that systems would last their time; others, that something would turn up.
His deep and pious spirit recoiled with disgust and horror from such lax,
chance-medley maxims, that would, in their consequences, reduce man to the
level of the brutes. Notwithstanding a prejudice which had haunted him
from his childhood, he had, when the occasion offered, applied to Mr.
Rigby for instruction, as one distinguished in the republic of letters, as
well as the realm of politics; who assumed the guidance of the public
mind, and, as the phrase runs, was looked up to. Mr. Rigby listened at
first to the inquiries of Coningsby, urged, as they ever were, with a
modesty and deference which do not always characterise juvenile
investigations, as if Coningsby were speaking to him of the unknown
tongues. But Mr. Rigby was not a man who ever confessed himself at fault.
He caught up something of the subject as our young friend proceeded, and
was perfectly prepared, long before he had finished, to take the whole
conversation into his own hands.

Mr. Rigby began by ascribing everything to the Reform Bill, and then
referred to several of his own speeches on Schedule A. Then he told
Coningsby that want of religious Faith was solely occasioned by want of
churches; and want of Loyalty, by George IV. having shut himself up too
much at the cottage in Windsor Park, entirely against the advice of Mr.
Rigby. He assured Coningsby that the Church Commission was operating
wonders, and that with private benevolence, he had himself subscribed
1,000_l._, for Lord Monmouth, we should soon have churches enough. The
great question now was their architecture. Had George IV. lived all would
have been right. They would have been built on the model of the Budhist
pagoda. As for Loyalty, if the present King went regularly to Ascot races,
he had no doubt all would go right. Finally, Mr. Rigby impressed on
Coningsby to read the Quarterly Review with great attention; and to make
himself master of Mr. Wordy's History of the late War, in twenty volumes,
a capital work, which proves that Providence was on the side of the
Tories.

Coningsby did not reply to Mr. Rigby again; but worked on with his own
mind, coming often enough to sufficiently crude conclusions, and often
much perplexed and harassed. He tried occasionally his inferences on his
companions, who were intelligent and full of fervour. Millbank was more
than this. He was of a thoughtful mood; had also caught up from a new
school some principles, which were materials for discussion. One way or
other, however, before he quitted Eton there prevailed among this circle
of friends, the initial idea doubtless emanating from Coningsby, an
earnest, though a rather vague, conviction that the present state of
feeling in matters both civil and religious was not healthy; that there
must be substituted for this latitudinarianism something sound and deep,
fervent and well defined, and that the priests of this new faith must be
found among the New Generation; so that when the bright-minded rider of
'the Daughter of the Star' descanted on the influence of individual
character, of great thoughts and heroic actions, and the divine power of
youth and genius, he touched a string that was the very heart-chord of his
companion, who listened with fascinated enthusiasm as he introduced him to
his gallery of inspiring models.

Coningsby arrived at Beaumanoir at a season when men can neither hunt nor
shoot. Great internal resources should be found in a country family under
such circumstances. The Duke and Duchess had returned from London only a
few days with their daughter, who had been presented this year. They were
all glad to find themselves again in the country, which they loved and
which loved them. One of their sons-in-law and his wife, and Henry Sydney,
completed the party.

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