Wilhelm Ruland - "Legends of the Rhine"

Richard F. Burton - "To the Gold Coast for Gold"

J. E. Bygate - "Bell's Cathedrals: The Cathedral Church of Durham"

Hamlin Garland - "The Spirit of Sweetwater"

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




Within his hall, too, he holds his revel, and his beauteous bride welcomes
their guests, from her noble parents to the faithful tenants of the house.
All classes are mingled in the joyous equality that becomes the season, at
once sacred and merry. There are carols for the eventful eve, and mummers
for the festive day.

The Duke and Duchess, and every member of the family, had consented this
year to keep their Christmas with the newly-married couple. Coningsby,
too, was there, and all his friends. The party was numerous, gay, hearty,
and happy; for they were all united by sympathy.

They were planning that Henry Sydney should be appointed Lord of Misrule,
or ordained Abbot of Unreason at the least, so successful had been his
revival of the Mummers, the Hobby-horse not forgotten. Their host had
entrusted to Lord Henry the restoration of many old observances; and the
joyous feeling which this celebration of Christmas had diffused throughout
an extensive district was a fresh argument in favour of Lord Henry's
principle, that a mere mechanical mitigation of the material necessities
of the humbler classes, a mitigation which must inevitably be limited, can
never alone avail sufficiently to ameliorate their condition; that their
condition is not merely 'a knife and fork question,' to use the coarse and
shallow phrase of the Utilitarian school; that a simple satisfaction of
the grosser necessities of our nature will not make a happy people; that
you must cultivate the heart as well as seek to content the belly; and
that the surest means to elevate the character of the people is to appeal
to their affections.

There is nothing more interesting than to trace predisposition. An
indefinite, yet strong sympathy with the peasantry of the realm had been
one of the characteristic sensibilities of Lord Henry at Eton. Yet a
schoolboy, he had busied himself with their pastimes and the details of
their cottage economy. As he advanced in life the horizon of his views
expanded with his intelligence and his experience; and the son of one of
the noblest of our houses, to whom the delights of life are offered with
fatal facility, on the very threshold of his career he devoted his time
and thought, labour and life, to one vast and noble purpose, the elevation
of the condition of the great body of the people.

'I vote for Buckhurst being Lord of Misrule,' said Lord Henry: 'I will be
content with being his gentleman usher.'

'It shall be put to the vote,' said Lord Vere.

'No one has a chance against Buckhurst,' said Coningsby.

'Now, Sir Charles,' said Lady Everingham, 'your absolute sway is about to
commence. And what is your will?'

'The first thing must be my formal installation,' said Buckhurst. 'I vote
the Boar's head be carried in procession thrice round the hall, and Beau
shall be the champion to challenge all who may question my right. Duke,
you shall be my chief butler, the Duchess my herb-woman. She is to walk
before me, and scatter rosemary. Coningsby shall carry the Boar's head;
Lady Theresa and Lady Everingham shall sing the canticle; Lord Everingham
shall be marshal of the lists, and put all in the stocks who are found
sober and decorous; Lyle shall be the palmer from the Holy Land, and Vere
shall ride the Hobby-horse. Some must carry cups of Hippocras, some
lighted tapers; all must join in chorus.'

He ceased his instructions, and all hurried away to carry them into
effect. Some hastily arrayed themselves in fanciful dresses, the ladies in
robes of white, with garlands of flowers; some drew pieces of armour from
the wall, and decked themselves with helm and hauberk; others waved
ancient banners. They brought in the Boar's head on a large silver dish,
and Coningsby raised it aloft. They formed into procession, the Duchess
distributing rosemary; Buckhurst swaggering with all the majesty of
Tamerlane, his mock court irresistibly humorous with their servility; and
the sweet voice of Lady Everingham chanting the first verse of the
canticle, followed in the second by the rich tones of Lady Theresa:

I.
Caput Apri defero
Reddens laudes Domino.
The Boar's heade in hande bring I,
With garlandes gay and rosemary:
I pray you all singe merrily,
Qui estis in convivio.

II.
Caput Apri defero
Reddens laudes Domino.
The Boar's heade I understande
Is the chief servyce in this lande
Loke whereever it be fande,
Servite cum cantico.

The procession thrice paraded the hall. Then they stopped; and the Lord of
Misrule ascended his throne, and his courtiers formed round him in circle.
Behind him they held the ancient banners and waved their glittering arms,
and placed on a lofty and illuminated pedestal the Boar's head covered
with garlands. It was a good picture, and the Lord of Misrule sustained
his part with untiring energy. He was addressing his court in a pompous
rhapsody of merry nonsense, when a servant approached Coningsby, and told
him that he was wanted without.

Our hero retired unperceived. A despatch had arrived for him from London.
Without any prescience of its purpose, he nevertheless broke the seal with
a trembling hand. His presence was immediately desired in town: Lord
Monmouth was dead.




CHAPTER II.


This was a crisis in the life of Coningsby; yet, like many critical
epochs, the person most interested in it was not sufficiently aware of its
character. The first feeling which he experienced at the intelligence was
sincere affliction. He was fond of his grandfather; had received great
kindness from him, and at a period of life when it was most welcome. The
neglect and hardships of his early years, instead of leaving a prejudice
against one who, by some, might be esteemed their author, had by their
contrast only rendered Coningsby more keenly sensible of the solicitude
and enjoyment which had been lavished on his happy youth.

The next impression on his mind was undoubtedly a natural and reasonable
speculation on the effect of this bereavement on his fortunes. Lord
Monmouth had more than once assured Coningsby that he had provided for him
as became a near relative to whom he was attached, and in a manner which
ought to satisfy the wants and wishes of an English gentleman. The
allowance which Lord Monmouth had made him, as considerable as usually
accorded to the eldest sons of wealthy peers, might justify him in
estimating his future patrimony as extremely ample. He was aware, indeed,
that at a subsequent period his grandfather had projected for him fortunes
of a still more elevated character. He looked to Coningsby as the future
representative of an ancient barony, and had been purchasing territory
with the view of supporting the title. But Coningsby did not by any means
firmly reckon on these views being realised. He had a suspicion that in
thwarting the wishes of his grandfather in not becoming a candidate for
Darlford, he had at the moment arrested arrangements which, from the tone
of Lord Monmouth's communication, he believed were then in progress for
that purpose; and he thought it improbable, with his knowledge of his
grandfather's habits, that Lord Monmouth had found either time or
inclination to resume before his decease the completion of these plans.
Indeed there was a period when, in adopting the course which he pursued
with respect to Darlford, Coningsby was well aware that he perilled more
than the large fortune which was to accompany the barony. Had not a
separation between Lord Monmouth and his wife taken place simultaneously
with Coningsby's difference with his grandfather, he was conscious that
the consequences might have been even altogether fatal to his prospects;
but the absence of her evil influence at such a conjuncture, its permanent
removal, indeed, from the scene, coupled with his fortunate though not
formal reconciliation with Lord Monmouth, had long ago banished from his
memory all those apprehensions to which he had felt it impossible at the
time to shut his eyes. Before he left town for Scotland he had made a
farewell visit to his grandfather, who, though not as cordial as in old
days, had been gracious; and Coningsby, during his excursion to the moors,
and his various visits to the country, had continued at intervals to write
to his grandfather, as had been for some years his custom. On the whole,
with an indefinite feeling which, in spite of many a rational effort, did
nevertheless haunt his mind, that this great and sudden event might
exercise a vast and beneficial influence on his worldly position,
Coningsby could not but feel some consolation in the affliction which he
sincerely experienced, in the hope that he might at all events now offer
to Edith a home worthy of her charms, her virtues, and her love.

Although he had not seen her since their hurried yet sweet reconciliation
in the gardens of Lady Everingham, Coningsby was never long without
indirect intelligence of the incidents of her life; and the correspondence
between Lady Everingham and Henry Sydney, while they were at the moors,
had apprised him that Lord Beaumanoir's suit had terminated unsuccessfully
almost immediately after his brother had quitted London.

It was late in the evening when Coningsby arrived in town: he called at
once on Lord Eskdale, who was one of Lord Monmouth's executors; and he
persuaded Coningsby, whom he saw depressed, to dine with him alone.

'You should not be seen at a club,' said the good-natured peer; 'and I
remember myself in old days what was the wealth of an Albanian larder.'

Lord Eskdale, at dinner, talked frankly of the disposition of Lord
Monmouth's property. He spoke as a matter of course that Coningsby was his
grandfather's principal heir.

'I don't know whether you will be happier with a large fortune?' said Lord
Eskdale. 'It is a troublesome thing: nobody is satisfied with what you do
with it; very often not yourself. To maintain an equable expenditure; not
to spend too much on one thing, too little on another, is an art. There
must be a harmony, a keeping, in disbursement, which very few men have.
Great wealth wearies. The thing to have is about ten thousand a year, and
the world to think you have only five. There is some enjoyment then; one
is let alone. But the instant you have a large fortune, duties commence.
And then impudent fellows borrow your money; and if you ask them for it
again, they go about town saying you are a screw.'

Lord Monmouth had died suddenly at his Richmond villa, which latterly he
never quitted, at a little supper, with no persons near him but those who
were amusing. He suddenly found he could not lift his glass to his lips,
and being extremely polite, waited a few minutes before he asked Clotilde,
who was singing a sparkling drinking-song, to do him that service. When,
in accordance with his request, she reached him, it was too late. The
ladies shrieked, being frightened: at first they were in despair, but,
after reflection, they evinced some intention of plundering the house.
Villebecque, who was absent at the moment, arrived in time; and everybody
became orderly and broken-hearted.

The body had been removed to Monmouth House, where it had been embalmed
and laid in state. The funeral was not numerously attended. There was
nobody in town; some distinguished connections, however, came up from the
country, though it was a period inconvenient for such movements. After the
funeral, the will was to be read in the principal saloon of Monmouth
House, one of those gorgeous apartments that had excited the boyish wonder
of Coningsby on his first visit to that paternal roof, and now hung in
black, adorned with the escutcheon of the deceased peer.

The testamentary dispositions of the late lord were still unknown, though
the names of his executors had been announced by his family solicitor, in
whose custody the will and codicils had always remained. The executors
under the will were Lord Eskdale, Mr. Ormsby, and Mr. Rigby. By a
subsequent appointment Sidonia had been added. All these individuals were
now present. Coningsby, who had been chief mourner, stood on the right
hand of the solicitor, who sat at the end of a long table, round which, in
groups, were ranged all who had attended the funeral, including several of
the superior members of the household, among them M. Villebecque.

The solicitor rose and explained that though Lord Monmouth had been in the
habit of very frequently adding codicils to his will, the original will,
however changed or modified, had never been revoked; it was therefore
necessary to commence by reading that instrument. So saying, he sat down,
and breaking the seals of a large packet, he produced the will of Philip
Augustus, Marquess of Monmouth, which had been retained in his custody
since its execution.

By this will, of the date of 1829, the sum of 10,000_l._ was left to
Coningsby, then unknown to his grandfather; the same sum to Mr. Rigby.
There was a great number of legacies, none of superior amount, most of
them of less: these were chiefly left to old male companions, and women in
various countries. There was an almost inconceivable number of small
annuities to faithful servants, decayed actors, and obscure foreigners.
The residue of his personal estate was left to four gentlemen, three of
whom had quitted this world before the legator; the bequests, therefore,
had lapsed. The fourth residuary legatee, in whom, according to the terms
of the will, all would have consequently centred, was Mr. Rigby.

There followed several codicils which did not materially affect the
previous disposition; one of them leaving a legacy of 20,000_l._ to the
Princess Colonna; until they arrived at the latter part of the year 1832,
when a codicil increased the 10,000_l._ left under the will to Coningsby
to 50,000_l._.

After Coningsby's visit to the Castle in 1836 a very important change
occurred in the disposition of Lord Monmouth's estate. The legacy of
50,000_l._ in his favour was revoked, and the same sum left to the
Princess Lucretia. A similar amount was bequeathed to Mr. Rigby; and
Coningsby was left sole residuary legatee.

The marriage led to a considerable modification. An estate of about nine
thousand a year, which Lord Monmouth had himself purchased, and was
therefore in his own disposition, was left to Coningsby. The legacy to Mr.
Rigby was reduced to 20,000_l._, and the whole of his residue left to his
issue by Lady Monmouth. In case he died without issue, the estate
bequeathed to Coningsby to be taken into account, and the residue then to
be divided equally between Lady Monmouth and his grandson. It was under
this instrument that Sidonia had been appointed an executor and to whom
Lord Monmouth left, among others, the celebrated picture of the Holy
Family by Murillo, as his friend had often admired it. To Lord Eskdale he
left all his female miniatures, and to Mr. Ormsby his rare and splendid
collection of French novels, and all his wines, except his Tokay, which he
left, with his library, to Sir Robert Peel; though this legacy was
afterwards revoked, in consequence of Sir Robert's conduct about the Irish
corporations.

The solicitor paused and begged permission to send for a glass of water.
While this was arranging there was a murmur at the lower part of the room,
but little disposition to conversation among those in the vicinity of the
lawyer. Coningsby was silent, his brow a little knit. Mr. Rigby was pale
and restless, but said nothing. Mr. Ormsby took a pinch of snuff, and
offered his box to Lord Eskdale, who was next to him. They exchanged
glances, and made some observation about the weather. Sidonia stood apart,
with his arms folded. He had not, of course attended the funeral, nor had
he as yet exchanged any recognition with Coningsby.

'Now, gentlemen,' said the solicitor, 'if you please, I will proceed.'

They came to the year 1839, the year Coningsby was at Hellingsley. This
appeared to be a critical period in the fortunes of Lady Monmouth; while
Coningsby's reached to the culminating point. Mr. Rigby was reduced to his
original legacy under the will of 10,000_l._; a sum of equal amount was
bequeathed to Armand Villebecque, in acknowledgment of faithful services;
all the dispositions in favour of Lady Monmouth were revoked, and she was
limited to her moderate jointure of 3,000_l._ per annum, under the
marriage settlement; while everything, without reserve, was left
absolutely to Coningsby.

A subsequent codicil determined that the 10,000_l._ left to Mr. Rigby
should be equally divided between him and Lucian Gay; but as some
compensation Lord Monmouth left to the Right Honourable Nicholas Rigby the
bust of that gentleman, which he had himself presented to his Lordship,
and which, at his desire, had been placed in the vestibule at Coningsby
Castle, from the amiable motive that after Lord Monmouth's decease Mr.
Rigby might wish, perhaps, to present it to some other friend.

Lord Eskdale and Mr. Ormsby took care not to catch the eye of Mr. Rigby.
As for Coningsby, he saw nobody. He maintained, during the extraordinary
situation in which he was placed, a firm demeanour; but serene and
regulated as he appeared to the spectators, his nerves were really strung
to a high pitch.

There was yet another codicil. It bore the date of June 1840, and was made
at Brighton, immediately after the separation with Lady Monmouth. It was
the sight of this instrument that sustained Rigby at this great emergency.
He had a wild conviction that, after all, it must set all right. He felt
assured that, as Lady Monmouth had already been disposed of, it must
principally refer to the disinheritance of Coningsby, secured by Rigby's
well-timed and malignant misrepresentations of what had occurred in
Lancashire during the preceding summer. And then to whom could Lord
Monmouth leave his money? However he might cut and carve up his fortunes,
Rigby, and especially at a moment when he had so served him, must come in
for a considerable slice.

His prescient mind was right. All the dispositions in favour of 'my
grandson Harry Coningsby' were revoked; and he inherited from his
grandfather only the interest of the sum of 10,000_l._ which had been
originally bequeathed to him in his orphan boyhood. The executors had the
power of investing the principal in any way they thought proper for his
advancement in life, provided always it was not placed in 'the capital
stock of any manufactory.'

Coningsby turned pale; he lost his abstracted look; he caught the eye of
Rigby; he read the latent malice of that nevertheless anxious countenance.
What passed through the mind and being of Coningsby was thought and
sensation enough for a year; but it was as the flash that reveals a whole
country, yet ceases to be ere one can say it lightens. There was a
revelation to him of an inward power that should baffle these conventional
calamities, a natural and sacred confidence in his youth and health, and
knowledge and convictions. Even the recollection of Edith was not
unaccompanied with some sustaining associations. At least the mightiest
foe to their union was departed.

All this was the impression of an instant, simultaneous with the reading
of the words of form with which the last testamentary disposition of the
Marquess of Monmouth left the sum of 30,000_l._ to Armand Villebecque; and
all the rest, residue, and remainder of his unentailed property,
wheresoever and whatsoever it might be, amounting in value to nearly a
million sterling, was given, devised, and bequeathed to Flora, commonly
called Flora Villebecque, the step-child of the said Armand Villebecque,
'but who is my natural daughter by Marie Estelle Matteau, an actress at
the Theatre Francais in the years 1811-15, by the name of Stella.'




CHAPTER III.


'This is a crash!' said Coningsby, with a grave rather than agitated
countenance, to Sidonia, as his friend came up to greet him, without,
however, any expression of condolence.

'This time next year you will not think so,' said Sidonia.

Coningsby shrugged his shoulders.

'The principal annoyance of this sort of miscarriage,' said Sidonia, 'is
the condolence of the gentle world. I think we may now depart. I am going
home to dine. Come, and discuss your position. For the present we will not
speak of it.' So saying, Sidonia good-naturedly got Coningsby out of the
room.

They walked together to Sidonia's house in Carlton Gardens, neither of
them making the slightest allusion to the catastrophe; Sidonia inquiring
where he had been, what he had been doing, since they last met, and
himself conversing in his usual vein, though with a little more feeling in
his manner than was his custom. When they had arrived there, Sidonia
ordered their dinner instantly, and during the interval between the
command and its appearance, he called Coningsby's attention to an old
German painting he had just received, its brilliant colouring and quaint
costumes.

'Eat, and an appetite will come,' said Sidonia, when he observed Coningsby
somewhat reluctant. 'Take some of that Chablis: it will put you right; you
will find it delicious.'

In this way some twenty minutes passed; their meal was over, and they were
alone together.

'I have been thinking all this time of your position,' said Sidonia.

'A sorry one, I fear,' said Coningsby.

'I really cannot see that,' said his friend. 'You have experienced this
morning a disappointment, but not a calamity. If you had lost your eye it
would have been a calamity: no combination of circumstances could have
given you another. There are really no miseries except natural miseries;
conventional misfortunes are mere illusions. What seems conventionally, in
a limited view, a great misfortune, if subsequently viewed in its results,
is often the happiest incident in one's life.'

'I hope the day may come when I may feel this.'

'Now is the moment when philosophy is of use; that is to say, now is the
moment when you should clearly comprehend the circumstances which surround
you. Holiday philosophy is mere idleness. You think, for example, that you
have just experienced a great calamity, because you have lost the fortune
on which you counted?'

'I must say I do.'

'I ask you again, which would you have rather lost, your grandfather's
inheritance or your right leg?'

'Most certainly my inheritance,'

'Or your left arm?'

'Still the inheritance.'

'Would you have received the inheritance on condition that your front
teeth should be knocked out?'

'No.'

'Would you have given up a year of your life for that fortune trebled?'

'Even at twenty-three I would have refused the terms.'

'Come, come, Coningsby, the calamity cannot be very great.'

'Why, you have put it in an ingenious point of view; and yet it is not so
easy to convince a man, that he should be content who has lost
everything.'

'You have a great many things at this moment that you separately prefer to
the fortune that you have forfeited. How then can you be said to have lost
everything?'

'What have I?' said Coningsby, despondingly.

'You have health, youth, good looks, great abilities, considerable
knowledge, a fine courage, a lofty spirit, and no contemptible experience.
With each of these qualities one might make a fortune; the combination
ought to command the highest.'

'You console me,' said Coningsby, with a faint blush and a fainter smile.

'I teach you the truth. That is always solacing. I think you are a most
fortunate young man; I should not have thought you more fortunate if you
had been your grandfather's heir; perhaps less so. But I wish you to
comprehend your position: if you understand it you will cease to lament.'

'But what should I do?'

'Bring your intelligence to bear on the right object. I make you no offers
of fortune, because I know you would not accept them, and indeed I have no
wish to see you a lounger in life. If you had inherited a great patrimony,
it is possible your natural character and previous culture might have
saved you from its paralysing influence; but it is a question, even with
you. Now you are free; that is to say, you are free, if you are not in
debt. A man who has not seen the world, whose fancy is harassed with
glittering images of pleasures he has never experienced, cannot live on
300_l._ per annum; but you can. You have nothing to haunt your thoughts,
or disturb the abstraction of your studies. You have seen the most
beautiful women; you have banqueted in palaces; you know what heroes, and
wits, and statesmen are made of: and you can draw on your memory instead
of your imagination for all those dazzling and interesting objects that
make the inexperienced restless, and are the cause of what are called
scrapes. But you can do nothing if you be in debt. You must be free.
Before, therefore, we proceed, I must beg you to be frank on this head. If
you have any absolute or contingent incumbrances, tell me of them without
reserve, and permit me to clear them at once to any amount. You will
sensibly oblige me in so doing: because I am interested in watching your
career, and if the racer start with a clog my psychological observations
will be imperfect.'

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