Walter Lippmann - "A Preface to Politics"

Various - "Punch, or the London Charivari, Volume 104, January 28, 1893"

Various - "Stories of Comedy"

Andrew Lang - "Myth, Ritual, and Religion, Vol. 1"

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




'I want men who will support the government on all unpopular questions,'
replied the witty statesman.

Mr. Wallinger was one of these men. His high character and strong purse
were always in the front rank in the hour of danger. His support in the
House was limited to his votes; but in other places equally important, at
a meeting at a political club, or in Downing Street, he could find his
tongue, take what is called a 'practical' view of a question, adopt what
is called an 'independent tone,' reanimate confidence in ministers, check
mutiny, and set a bright and bold example to the wavering. A man of his
property, and high character, and sound views, so practical and so
independent, this was evidently the block from which a Baronet should be
cut, and in due time he figured Sir Joseph.

A Spanish gentleman of ample means, and of a good Catalan family, flying
during a political convulsion to England, arrived with his two daughters
at Liverpool, and bore letters of introduction to the house of Wallinger.
Some little time after this, by one of those stormy vicissitudes of
political fortune, of late years not unusual in the Peninsula, he returned
to his native country, and left his children, and the management of that
portion of his fortune that he had succeeded in bringing with him, under
the guardianship of the father of the present Sir Joseph. This gentleman
was about again to become an exile, when he met with an untimely end in
one of those terrible tumults of which Barcelona is the frequent scene.

The younger Wallinger was touched by the charms of one of his father's
wards. Her beauty of a character to which he was unaccustomed, her
accomplishments of society, and the refinement of her manners, conspicuous
in the circle in which he lived, captivated him; and though they had no
heir, the union had been one of great felicity. Sir Joseph was proud of
his wife; he secretly considered himself, though his 'tone' was as liberal
and independent as in old days, to be on the threshold of aristocracy, and
was conscious that Lady Wallinger played her part not unworthily in the
elevated circles in which they now frequently found themselves. Sir Joseph
was fond of great people, and not averse to travel; because, bearing a
title, and being a member of the British Parliament, and always moving
with the appendages of wealth, servants, carriages, and couriers, and
fortified with no lack of letters from the Foreign Office, he was
everywhere acknowledged, and received, and treated as a personage; was
invited to court-balls, dined with ambassadors, and found himself and his
lady at every festival of distinction.

The elder Millbank had been Joseph Wallinger's youthful friend. Different
as were their dispositions and the rate of their abilities, their
political opinions were the same; and commerce habitually connected their
interests. During a visit to Liverpool, Millbank had made the acquaintance
of the sister of Lady Wallinger, and had been a successful suitor for her
hand. This lady was the mother of Edith and of the schoolfellow of
Coningsby. It was only within a very few years that she had died; she had
scarcely lived long enough to complete the education of her daughter, to
whom she was devoted, and on whom she lavished the many accomplishments
that she possessed. Lady Wallinger having no children, and being very fond
of her niece, had watched over Edith with infinite solicitude, and finally
had persuaded Mr. Millbank, that it would be well that his daughter should
accompany them in their somewhat extensive travels. It was not, therefore,
only that nature had developed a beautiful woman out of a bashful girl
since Coningsby's visit to Millbank; but really, every means and every
opportunity that could contribute to render an individual capable of
adorning the most accomplished circles of life, had naturally, and without
effort, fallen to the fortunate lot of the manufacturer's daughter. Edith
possessed an intelligence equal to those occasions. Without losing the
native simplicity of her character, which sprang from the heart, and which
the strong and original bent of her father's mind had fostered, she had
imbibed all the refinement and facility of the polished circles in which
she moved. She had a clear head, a fine taste, and a generous spirit; had
received so much admiration, that, though by no means insensible to
homage, her heart was free; was strongly attached to her family; and,
notwithstanding all the splendour of Rome, and the brilliancy of Paris,
her thoughts were often in her Saxon valley, amid the green hills and busy
factories of Millbank.

Sir Joseph, finding himself alone with the grandson of Lord Monmouth, was
not very anxious that the ladies should immediately appear. He thought
this a good opportunity of getting at what are called 'the real feelings
of the Tory party;' and he began to pump with a seductive semblance of
frankness. For his part, he had never doubted that a Conservative
government was ultimately inevitable; had told Lord John so two years ago,
and, between themselves, Lord John was of the same opinion. The present
position of the Whigs was the necessary fate of all progressive parties;
could not see exactly how it would end; thought sometimes it must end in a
fusion of parties; but could not well see how that could be brought about,
at least at present. For his part, should be happy to witness an union of
the best men of all parties, for the preservation of peace and order,
without any reference to any particular opinions. And, in that sense of
the word, it was not at all impossible he might find it his duty some day
to support a Conservative government.

Sir Joseph was much astonished when Coningsby, who being somewhat
impatient for the entrance of the ladies was rather more abrupt than his
wont, told the worthy Baronet that he looked, upon a government without
distinct principles of policy as only a stop-gap to a wide-spread and
demoralising anarchy; that he for one could not comprehend how a free
government could endure without national opinions to uphold it; and that
governments for the preservation of peace and order, and nothing else, had
better be sought in China, or among the Austrians, the Chinese of Europe.
As for Conservative government, the natural question was, What do you mean
to conserve? Do you mean to conserve things or only names, realities or
merely appearances? Or, do you mean to continue the system commenced in
1834, and, with a hypocritical reverence for the principles, and a
superstitious adhesion to the forms, of the old exclusive constitution,
carry on your policy by latitudinarian practice?

Sir Joseph stared; it was the first time that any inkling of the views of
the New Generation had caught his ear. They were strange and unaccustomed
accents. He was extremely perplexed; could by no means make out what his
companion was driving at; at length, with a rather knowing smile,
expressive as much of compassion as comprehension, he remarked,

'Ah! I see; you are a regular Orangeman.'

'I look upon an Orangeman,' said Coningsby, 'as a pure Whig; the only
professor and practiser of unadulterated Whiggism.'

This was too much for Sir Joseph, whose political knowledge did not reach
much further back than the ministry of the Mediocrities; hardly touched
the times of the Corresponding Society. But he was a cautious man, and
never replied in haste. He was about feeling his way, when he experienced
the golden advantage of gaining time, for the ladies entered.

The heart of Coningsby throbbed as Edith appeared. She extended to him her
hand; her face radiant with kind expression. Lady Wallinger seemed
gratified also by his visit. She had much elegance in her manner; a calm,
soft address; and she spoke English with a sweet Doric irregularity. They
all sat down, talked of the last night's ball, of a thousand things. There
was something animating in the frank, cheerful spirit of Edith. She had a
quick eye both for the beautiful and the ridiculous, and threw out her
observations in terse and vivid phrases. An hour, and more than an hour,
passed away, and Coningsby still found some excuse not to depart. It
seemed that on this morning they were about to make an expedition into the
antique city of Paris, to visit some old hotels which retained their
character; especially they had heard much of the hotel of the Archbishop
of Sens, with its fortified courtyard. Coningsby expressed great interest
in the subject, and showed some knowledge. Sir Joseph invited him to join
the party, which of all things in the world was what he most desired.




CHAPTER IV.


Not a day elapsed without Coningsby being in the company of Edith. Time
was precious for him, for the spires and pinnacles of Cambridge already
began to loom in the distance, and he resolved to make the most determined
efforts not to lose a day of his liberty. And yet to call every morning in
the Rue de Rivoli was an exploit which surpassed even the audacity of
love! More than once, making the attempt, his courage failed him, and he
turned into the gardens of the Tuileries, and only watched the windows of
the house. Circumstances, however, favoured him: he received a letter from
Oswald Millbank; he was bound to communicate in person this evidence of
his friend's existence; and when he had to reply to the letter, he must
necessarily inquire whether his friend's relatives had any message to
transmit to him. These, however, were only slight advantages. What
assisted Coningsby in his plans and wishes was the great pleasure which
Sidonia, with whom he passed a great deal of his time, took in the society
of the Wallingers and their niece. Sidonia presented Lady Wallinger with
his opera-box during her stay at Paris; invited them frequently to his
agreeable dinner-parties; and announced his determination to give a ball,
which Lady Wallinger esteemed a delicate attention to Edith; while Lady
Monmouth flattered herself that the festival sprang from the desire she
had expressed of seeing the celebrated hotel of Sidonia to advantage.

Coningsby was very happy. His morning visits to the Rue de Rivoli seemed
always welcome, and seldom an evening elapsed in which he did not find
himself in the society of Edith. She seemed not to wish to conceal that
his presence gave her pleasure, and though she had many admirers, and had
an airy graciousness for all of them, Coningsby sometimes indulged the
exquisite suspicion that there was a flattering distinction in her
carriage to himself. Under the influence of these feelings, he began daily
to be more conscious that separation would be an intolerable calamity; he
began to meditate upon the feasibility of keeping a half term, and of
postponing his departure to Cambridge to a period nearer the time when
Edith would probably return to England.

In the meanwhile, the Parisian world talked much of the grand fete which
was about to be given by Sidonia. Coningsby heard much of it one day when
dining at his grandfather's. Lady Monmouth seemed very intent on the
occasion. Even Lord Monmouth half talked of going, though, for his part,
he wished people would come to him, and never ask him to their houses.
That was his idea of society. He liked the world, but he liked to find it
under his own roof. He grudged them nothing, so that they would not insist
upon the reciprocity of cold-catching, and would eat his good dinners
instead of insisting on his eating their bad ones.

'But Monsieur Sidonia's cook is a gem, they say,' observed an Attache of
an embassy.

'I have no doubt of it; Sidonia is a man of sense, almost the only man of
sense I know. I never caught him tripping. He never makes a false move.
Sidonia is exactly the sort of man I like; you know you cannot deceive
him, and that he does not want to deceive you. I wish he liked a rubber
more. Then he would be perfect.'

'They say he is going to be married,' said the Attache.

'Poh!' said Lord Monmouth.

'Married!' exclaimed Lady Monmouth. 'To whom?'

'To your beautiful countrywoman, "la belle Anglaise," that all the world
talks of,' said the Attache.

'And who may she be, pray?' said the Marquess. 'I have so many beautiful
countrywomen.'

'Mademoiselle Millbank,' said the Attache.

'Millbank!' said the Marquess, with a lowering brow. 'There are so many
Millbanks. Do you know what Millbank this is, Harry?' he inquired of his
grandson, who had listened to the conversation with a rather embarrassed
and even agitated spirit.

'What, sir; yes, Millbank?' said Coningsby.

'I say, do you know who this Millbank is?'

'Oh! Miss Millbank: yes, I believe, that is, I know a daughter of the
gentleman who purchased some property near you.'

'Oh! that fellow! Has he got a daughter here?'

'The most beautiful girl in Paris,' said the Attache.

'Lady Monmouth, have you seen this beauty, that Sidonia is going to
marry?' he added, with a fiendish laugh.

'I have seen the young lady,' said Lady Monmouth; 'but I had not heard
that Monsieur Sidonia was about to marry her.'

'Is she so very beautiful?' inquired another gentleman.

'Yes,' said Lady Monmouth, calm, but pale.

'Poh!' said the Marquess again.

'I assure you that it is a fact,' said the Attache, 'not at least an _on-
dit_. I have it from a quarter that could not well be mistaken.'

Behold a little snatch of ordinary dinner gossip that left a very painful
impression on the minds of three individuals who were present.

The name of Millbank revived in Lord Monmouth's mind a sense of defeat,
discomfiture, and disgust; Hellingsley, lost elections, and Mr. Rigby;
three subjects which Lord Monmouth had succeeded for a time in expelling
from his sensations. His lordship thought that, in all probability, this
beauty of whom they spoke so highly was not really the daughter of his
foe; that it was some confusion which had arisen from the similarity of
names: nor did he believe that Sidonia was going to marry her, whoever she
might be; but a variety of things had been said at dinner, and a number of
images had been raised in his mind that touched his spleen. He took his
wine freely, and, the usual consequence of that proceeding with Lord
Monmouth, became silent and sullen. As for Lady Monmouth, she had learnt
that Sidonia, whatever might be the result, was paying very marked
attention to another woman, for whom undoubtedly he was giving that very
ball which she had flattered herself was a homage to her wishes, and for
which she had projected a new dress of eclipsing splendour.

Coningsby felt quite sure that the story of Sidonia's marriage with Edith
was the most ridiculous idea that ever entered into the imagination of
man; at least he thought he felt quite sure. But the idlest and wildest
report that the woman you love is about to marry another is not
comfortable. Besides, he could not conceal from himself that, between the
Wallingers and Sidonia there existed a remarkable intimacy, fully extended
to their niece. He had seen her certainly on more than one occasion in
lengthened and apparently earnest conversation with Sidonia, who, by-the-
bye, spoke with her often in Spanish, and never concealed his admiration
of her charms or the interest he found in her society. And Edith; what,
after all, had passed between Edith and himself which should at all
gainsay this report, which he had been particularly assured was not a mere
report, but came from a quarter that could not well be mistaken? She had
received him with kindness. And how should she receive one who was the
friend and preserver of her only brother, and apparently the intimate and
cherished acquaintance of her future husband? Coningsby felt that sickness
of the heart that accompanies one's first misfortune. The illusions of
life seemed to dissipate and disappear. He was miserable; he had no
confidence in himself, in his future. After all, what was he? A dependent
on a man of very resolute will and passions. Could he forget the glance
with which Lord Monmouth caught the name of Millbank, and received the
intimation of Hellingsley? It was a glance for a Spagnoletto or a
Caravaggio to catch and immortalise. Why, if Edith were not going to marry
Sidonia, how was he ever to marry her, even if she cared for him? Oh! what
a future of unbroken, continuous, interminable misery awaited him! Was
there ever yet born a being with a destiny so dark and dismal? He was the
most forlorn of men, utterly wretched! He had entirely mistaken his own
character. He had no energy, no abilities, not a single eminent quality.
All was over!




CHAPTER V.


It was fated that Lady Monmouth should not be present at that ball, the
anticipation of which had occasioned her so much pleasure and some pangs.

On the morning after that slight conversation, which had so disturbed the
souls, though unconsciously to each other, of herself and Coningsby, the
Marquess was driving Lucretia up the avenue Marigny in his phaeton. About
the centre of the avenue the horses took fright, and started off at a wild
pace. The Marquess was an experienced whip, calm, and with exertion still
very powerful. He would have soon mastered the horses, had not one of the
reins unhappily broken. The horses swerved; the Marquess kept his seat;
Lucretia, alarmed, sprang up, the carriage was dashed against the trunk of
a tree, and she was thrown out of it, at the very instant that one of the
outriders had succeeded in heading the equipage and checking the horses.

The Marchioness was senseless. Lord Monmouth had descended from the
phaeton; several passengers had assembled; the door of a contiguous house
was opened; there were offers of service, sympathy, inquiries, a babble of
tongues, great confusion.

'Get surgeons and send for her maid,' said Lord Monmouth to one of his
servants.

In the midst of this distressing tumult, Sidonia, on horseback, followed
by a groom, came up the avenue from the Champs Elysees. The empty phaeton,
reins broken, horses held by strangers, all the appearances of a
misadventure, attracted him. He recognised the livery. He instantly
dismounted. Moving aside the crowd, he perceived Lady Monmouth senseless
and prostrate, and her husband, without assistance, restraining the
injudicious efforts of the bystanders.

'Let us carry her in, Lord Monmouth,' said Sidonia, exchanging a
recognition as he took Lucretia in his arms, and bore her into the
dwelling that was at hand. Those who were standing at the door assisted
him. The woman of the house and Lord Monmouth only were present.

'I would hope there is no fracture,' said Sidonia, placing her on a sofa,
'nor does it appear to me that the percussion of the head, though
considerable, could have been fatally violent. I have caught her pulse.
Keep her in a horizontal position, and she will soon come to herself.'

The Marquess seated himself in a chair by the side of the sofa, which
Sidonia had advanced to the middle of the room. Lord Monmouth was silent
and very serious. Sidonia opened the window, and touched the brow of
Lucretia with water. At this moment M. Villebecque and a surgeon entered
the chamber.

'The brain cannot be affected, with that pulse,' said the surgeon; 'there
is no fracture.'

'How pale she is!' said Lord Monmouth, as if he were examining a picture.

'The colour seems to me to return,' said Sidonia.

The surgeon applied some restoratives which he had brought with him. The
face of the Marchioness showed signs of life; she stirred.

'She revives,' said the surgeon.

The Marchioness breathed with some force; again; then half-opened her
eyes, and then instantly closed them.

'If I could but get her to take this draught,' said the surgeon.

'Stop! moisten her lips first,' said Sidonia.

They placed the draught to her mouth; in a moment she put forth her hand
as if to repress them, then opened her eyes again, and sighed.

'She is herself,' said the surgeon.

'Lucretia!' said the Marquess.

'Sidonia!' said the Marchioness.

Lord Monmouth looked round to invite his friend to come forward.

'Lady Monmouth!' said Sidonia, in a gentle voice.

She started, rose a little on the sofa, stared around her. 'Where am I?'
she exclaimed.

'With me,' said the Marquess; and he bent forward to her, and took her
hand.

'Sidonia!' she again exclaimed, in a voice of inquiry.

'Is here,' said Lord Monmouth. 'He carried you in after our accident.'

'Accident! Why is he going to marry?'

The Marquess took a pinch of snuff.

There was an awkward pause in the chamber.

'I think now,' said Sidonia to the surgeon, 'that Lady Monmouth would take
the draught.'

She refused it.

'Try you, Sidonia,' said the Marquess, rather dryly.

'You feel yourself again?' said Sidonia, advancing.

'Would I did not!' said the Marchioness, with an air of stupor. 'What has
happened? Why am I here? Are you married?'

'She wanders a little,' said Sidonia.

The Marquess took another pinch of snuff.

'I could have borne even repulsion,' said Lady Monmouth, in a voice of
desolation, 'but not for another!'

'M. Villebecque!' said the Marquess.

'My Lord?'

Lord Monmouth looked at him with that irresistible scrutiny which would
daunt a galley-slave; and then, after a short pause, said, 'The carriage
should have arrived by this time. Let us get home.'




CHAPTER VI.


After the conversation at dinner which we have noticed, the restless and
disquieted Coningsby wandered about Paris, vainly seeking in the
distraction of a great city some relief from the excitement of his mind.
His first resolution was immediately to depart for England; but when, on
reflection, he was mindful that, after all, the assertion which had so
agitated him might really be without foundation, in spite of many
circumstances that to his regardful fancy seemed to accredit it, his firm
resolution began to waver.

These were the first pangs of jealousy that Coningsby had ever
experienced, and they revealed to him the immensity of the stake which he
was hazarding on a most uncertain die.

The next morning he called in the Rue Rivoli, and was informed that the
family were not at home. He was returning under the arcades, towards the
Rue St. Florentin, when Sidonia passed him in an opposite direction, on
horseback, and at a rapid rate. Coningsby, who was not observed by him,
could not resist a strange temptation to watch for a moment his progress.
He saw him enter the court of the hotel where the Wallinger family were
staying. Would he come forth immediately? No. Coningsby stood still and
pale. Minute followed minute. Coningsby flattered himself that Sidonia was
only speaking to the porter. Then he would fain believe Sidonia was
writing a note. Then, crossing the street, he mounted by some steps the
terrace of the Tuileries, nearly opposite the Hotel of the Minister of
Finance, and watched the house. A quarter of an hour elapsed; Sidonia did
not come forth. They were at home to him; only to him. Sick at heart,
infinitely wretched, scarcely able to guide his steps, dreading even to
meet an acquaintance, and almost feeling that his tongue would refuse the
office of conversation, he contrived to reach his grandfather's hotel, and
was about to bury himself in his chamber, when on the staircase he met
Flora.

Coningsby had not seen her for the last fortnight. Seeing her now, his
heart smote him for his neglect, excusable as it really was. Any one else
at this time he would have hurried by without a recognition, but the
gentle and suffering Flora was too meek to be rudely treated by so kind a
heart as Coningsby's.

He looked at her; she was pale and agitated. Her step trembled, while she
still hastened on.

'What is the matter?' inquired Coningsby.

'My Lord, the Marchioness, are in danger, thrown from their carriage.'
Briefly she detailed to Coningsby all that had occurred; that M.
Villebecque had already repaired to them; that she herself only this
moment had learned the intelligence that seemed to agitate her to the
centre. Coningsby instantly turned with her; but they had scarcely emerged
from the courtyard when the carriage approached that brought Lord and Lady
Monmouth home. They followed it into the court. They were immediately at
its door.

'All is right, Harry,' said the Marquess, calm and grave.

Coningsby pressed his grandfather's hand. Then he assisted Lucretia to
alight.

'I am quite well,' she said, 'now.'

'But you must lean on me, dearest Lady Monmouth,' Coningsby said in a tone
of tenderness, as he felt Lucretia almost sinking from him. And he
supported her into the hall of the hotel.

Lord Monmouth had lingered behind. Flora crept up to him, and with
unwonted boldness offered her arm to the Marquess. He looked at her with a
glance of surprise, and then a softer expression, one indeed of an almost
winning sweetness, which, though rare, was not a stranger to his
countenance, melted his features, and taking the arm so humbly presented,
he said,

'Ma Petite, you look more frightened than any of us. Poor child!'

He had reached the top of the flight of steps; he withdrew his arm from
Flora, and thanked her with all his courtesy.

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