Garrett P. Serviss - "The Second Deluge"

Translated from the German by Sophie A. Miller and Agnes M. Dunne - "After Long Years and Other Stories"

Georg Buchner - "Dantons Tod"

Florence Holbrook - "Northland Heroes"

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




Notwithstanding the abstraction of his legal studies, Coningsby could not
be altogether insensible to the political crisis. In the political world
of course he never mixed, but the friends of his boyhood were deeply
interested in affairs, and they lost no opportunity which he would permit
them, of cultivating his society. Their occasional fellowship, a visit now
and then to Sidonia, and a call sometimes on Flora, who lived at Richmond,
comprised his social relations. His general acquaintance did not desert
him, but he was out of sight, and did not wish to be remembered. Mr.
Ormsby asked him to dinner, and occasionally mourned over his fate in the
bow window of White's; while Lord Eskdale even went to see him in the
Temple, was interested in his progress, and said, with an encouraging
look, that, when he was called to the bar, all his friends must join and
get up the steam. Coningsby had once met Mr. Rigby, who was walking with
the Duke of Agincourt, which was probably the reason he could not notice a
lawyer. Mr. Rigby cut Coningsby.

Lord Eskdale had obtained from Villebecque accurate details as to the
cause of Coningsby being disinherited. Our hero, if one in such fallen
fortunes may still be described as a hero, had mentioned to Lord Eskdale
his sorrow that his grandfather had died in anger with him; but Lord
Eskdale, without dwelling on the subject, had assured him that he had
reason to believe that if Lord Monmouth had lived, affairs would have been
different. He had altered the disposition of his property at a moment of
great and general irritation and excitement; and had been too indolent,
perhaps really too indisposed, which he was unwilling ever to acknowledge,
to recur to a calmer and more equitable settlement. Lord Eskdale had been
more frank with Sidonia, and had told him all about the refusal to become
a candidate for Darlford against Mr. Millbank; the communication of Rigby
to Lord Monmouth, as to the presence of Oswald Millbank at the castle, and
the love of Coningsby for his sister; all these details, furnished by
Villebecque to Lord Eskdale, had been truly transferred by that nobleman
to his co-executor; and Sidonia, when he had sufficiently digested them,
had made Lady Wallinger acquainted with the whole history.

The dissolution of the Whig Parliament by the Whigs, the project of which
had reached Lord Monmouth a year before, and yet in which nobody believed
to the last moment, at length took place. All the world was dispersed in
the heart of the season, and our solitary student of the Temple, in his
lonely chambers, notwithstanding all his efforts, found his eye rather
wander over the pages of Tidd and Chitty as he remembered that the great
event to which he had so looked forward was now occurring, and he, after
all, was no actor in the mighty drama. It was to have been the epoch of
his life; when he was to have found himself in that proud position for
which all the studies, and meditations, and higher impulses of his nature
had been preparing him. It was a keen trial of a man. Every one of his
friends and old companions were candidates, and with sanguine prospects.
Lord Henry was certain for a division of his county; Buckhurst harangued a
large agricultural borough in his vicinity; Eustace Lyle and Vere stood in
coalition for a Yorkshire town; and Oswald Millbank solicited the
suffrages of an important manufacturing constituency. They sent their
addresses to Coningsby. He was deeply interested as he traced in them the
influence of his own mind; often recognised the very expressions to which
he had habituated them. Amid the confusion of a general election, no
unimpassioned critic had time to canvass the language of an address to an
isolated constituency; yet an intelligent speculator on the movements of
political parties might have detected in these public declarations some
intimation of new views, and of a tone of political feeling that has
unfortunately been too long absent from the public life of this country.

It was the end of a sultry July day, the last ray of the sun shooting down
Pall Mall sweltering with dust; there was a crowd round the doors of the
Carlton and the Reform Clubs, and every now and then an express arrived
with the agitating bulletin of a fresh defeat or a new triumph. Coningsby
was walking up Pall Mall. He was going to dine at the Oxford and Cambridge
Club, the only club on whose list he had retained his name, that he might
occasionally have the pleasure of meeting an Eton or Cambridge friend
without the annoyance of encountering any of his former fashionable
acquaintances. He lighted in his walk on Mr. Tadpole and Mr. Taper, both
of whom he knew. The latter did not notice him, but Mr. Tadpole, more
good-natured, bestowed on him a rough nod, not unmarked by a slight
expression of coarse pity.

Coningsby ordered his dinner, and then took up the evening papers, where
he learnt the return of Vere and Lyle; and read a speech of Buckhurst
denouncing the Venetian Constitution, to the amazement of several thousand
persons, apparently not a little terrified by this unknown danger, now
first introduced to their notice. Being true Englishmen, they were all
against Buckhurst's opponent, who was of the Venetian party, and who ended
by calling out Buckhurst for his personalities.

Coningsby had dined, and was reading in the library, when a waiter brought
up a third edition of the _Sun_, with electioneering bulletins from the
manufacturing districts to the very latest hour. Some large letters which
expressed the name of Darlford caught his eye. There seemed great
excitement in that borough; strange proceedings had happened. The column
was headed, 'Extraordinary Affair! Withdrawal of the Liberal Candidate!
Two Tory Candidates in the field!!!'

His eye glanced over an animated speech of Mr. Millbank, his countenance
changed, his heart palpitated. Mr. Millbank had resigned the
representation of the town, but not from weakness; his avocations demanded
his presence; he had been requested to let his son supply his place, but
his son was otherwise provided for; he should always take a deep interest
in the town and trade of Darlford; he hoped that the link between the
borough and Hellingsley would be ever cherished; loud cheering; he wished
in parting from them to take a step which should conciliate all parties,
put an end to local heats and factious contentions, and secure the town an
able and worthy representative. For these reasons he begged to propose to
them a gentleman who bore a name which many of them greatly honoured; for
himself, he knew the individual, and it was his firm opinion that whether
they considered his talents, his character, or the ancient connection of
his family with the district, he could not propose a candidate more worthy
of their confidence than HARRY CONINGSBY, ESQ.

This proposition was received with that wild enthusiasm which occasionally
bursts out in the most civilised communities. The contest between Millbank
and Rigby was equally balanced, neither party was over-confident. The
Conservatives were not particularly zealous in behalf of their champion;
there was no Marquess of Monmouth and no Coningsby Castle now to back him;
he was fighting on his own resources, and he was a beaten horse. The
Liberals did not like the prospect of a defeat, and dreaded the
mortification of Rigby's triumph. The Moderate men, who thought more of
local than political circumstances, liked the name of Coningsby. Mr.
Millbank had dexterously prepared his leading supporters for the
substitution. Some traits of the character and conduct of Coningsby had
been cleverly circulated. Thus there was a combination of many favourable
causes in his favour. In half an hour's time his image was stamped on the
brain of every inhabitant of the borough as an interesting and
accomplished youth, who had been wronged, and who deserved to be rewarded.
It was whispered that Rigby was his enemy. Magog Wrath and his mob offered
Mr. Millbank's committee to throw Mr. Rigby into the river, or to burn
down his hotel, in case he was prudent enough not to show. Mr. Rigby
determined to fight to the last. All his hopes were now staked on the
successful result of this contest. It were impossible if he were returned
that his friends could refuse him high office. The whole of Lord
Monmouth's reduced legacy was devoted to this end. The third edition of
the _Sun_ left Mr. Rigby in vain attempting to address an infuriated
populace.

Here was a revolution in the fortunes of our forlorn Coningsby! When his
grandfather first sent for him to Monmouth House, his destiny was not
verging on greater vicissitudes. He rose from his seat, and was surprised
that all the silent gentlemen who were about him did not mark his
agitation. Not an individual there that he knew. It was now an hour to
midnight, and to-morrow the almost unconscious candidate was to go to the
poll. In a tumult of suppressed emotion, Coningsby returned to his
chambers. He found a letter in his box from Oswald Millbank, who had been
twice at the Temple. Oswald had been returned without a contest, and had
reached Darlford in time to hear Coningsby nominated. He set off instantly
to London, and left at his friend's chambers a rapid narrative of what had
happened, with information that he should call on him again on the morrow
at nine o'clock, when they were to repair together immediately to Darlford
in time for Coningsby to be chaired, for no one entertained a doubt of his
triumph.

Coningsby did not sleep a wink that night, and yet when he rose early felt
fresh enough for any exploit, however difficult or hazardous. He felt as
an Egyptian does when the Nile rises after its elevation had been
despaired of. At the very lowest ebb of his fortunes, an event had
occurred which seemed to restore all. He dared not contemplate the
ultimate result of all these wonderful changes. Enough for him, that when
all seemed dark, he was about to be returned to Parliament by the father
of Edith, and his vanquished rival who was to bite the dust before him was
the author of all his misfortunes. Love, Vengeance, Justice, the glorious
pride of having acted rightly, the triumphant sense of complete and
absolute success, here were chaotic materials from which order was at
length evolved; and all subsided in an overwhelming feeling of gratitude
to that Providence that had so signally protected him.

There was a knock at the door. It was Oswald. They embraced. It seemed
that Oswald was as excited as Coningsby. His eye sparkled, his manner was
energetic.

'We must talk it all over during our journey. We have not a minute to
spare.'

During that journey Coningsby learned something of the course of affairs
which gradually had brought about so singular a revolution in his favour.
We mentioned that Sidonia had acquired a thorough knowledge of the
circumstances which had occasioned and attended the disinheritance of
Coningsby. These he had told to Lady Wallinger, first by letter,
afterwards in more detail on her arrival in London. Lady Wallinger had
conferred with her husband. She was not surprised at the goodness of
Coningsby, and she sympathised with all his calamities. He had ever been
the favourite of her judgment, and her romance had always consisted in
blending his destinies with those of her beloved Edith. Sir Joseph was a
judicious man, who never cared to commit himself; a little selfish, but
good, just, and honourable, with some impulses, only a little afraid of
them; but then his wife stepped in like an angel, and gave them the right
direction. They were both absolutely impressed with Coningsby's admirable
conduct, and Lady Wallinger was determined that her husband should express
to others the convictions which he acknowledged in unison with herself.
Sir Joseph spoke to Mr. Millbank, who stared; but Sir Joseph spoke feebly.
Lady Wallinger conveyed all this intelligence, and all her impressions, to
Oswald and Edith. The younger Millbank talked with his father, who, making
no admissions, listened with interest, inveighed against Lord Monmouth,
and condemned his will.

After some time, Mr. Millbank made inquiries about Coningsby, took an
interest in his career, and, like Lord Eskdale, declared that when he was
called to the bar, his friends would have an opportunity to evince their
sincerity. Affairs remained in this state, until Oswald thought that
circumstances were sufficiently ripe to urge his father on the subject.
The position which Oswald had assumed at Millbank had necessarily made him
acquainted with the affairs and fortune of his father. When he computed
the vast wealth which he knew was at his parent's command, and recalled
Coningsby in his humble chambers, toiling after all his noble efforts
without any results, and his sister pining in a provincial solitude,
Oswald began to curse wealth, and to ask himself what was the use of all
their marvellous industry and supernatural skill? He addressed his father
with that irresistible frankness which a strong faith can alone inspire.
What are the objects of wealth, if not to bless those who possess our
hearts? The only daughter, the friend to whom the only son was indebted
for his life, here are two beings surely whom one would care to bless, and
both are unhappy. Mr. Millbank listened without prejudice, for he was
already convinced. But he felt some interest in the present conduct of
Coningsby. A Coningsby working for his bread was a novel incident for him.
He wished to be assured of its authenticity. He was resolved to convince
himself of the fact. And perhaps he would have gone on yet for a little
time, and watched the progress of the experiment, already interested and
delighted by what had reached him, had not the dissolution brought affairs
to a crisis. The misery of Oswald at the position of Coningsby, the silent
sadness of Edith, his own conviction, which assured him that he could do
nothing wiser or better than take this young man to his heart, so ordained
it that Mr. Millbank, who was after all the creature of impulse, decided
suddenly, and decided rightly. Never making a single admission to all the
representations of his son, Mr. Millbank in a moment did all that his son
could have dared to desire.

This is a very imperfect and crude intimation of what had occurred at
Millbank and Hellingsley; yet it conveys a faint sketch of the enchanting
intelligence that Oswald conveyed to Coningsby during their rapid travel.
When they arrived at Birmingham, they found a messenger and a despatch,
informing Coningsby, that at mid-day, at Darlford, he was at the head of
the poll by an overwhelming majority, and that Mr. Rigby had resigned. He
was, however, requested to remain at Birmingham, as they did not wish him
to enter Darlford, except to be chaired, so he was to arrive there in the
morning. At Birmingham, therefore, they remained.

There was Oswald's election to talk of as well as Coningsby's. They had
hardly had time for this. Now they were both Members of Parliament. Men
must have been at school together, to enjoy the real fun of meeting thus,
and realising boyish dreams. Often, years ago, they had talked of these
things, and assumed these results; but those were words and dreams, these
were positive facts; after some doubts and struggles, in the freshness of
their youth, Oswald Millbank and Harry Coningsby were members of the
British Parliament; public characters, responsible agents, with a career.

This afternoon, at Birmingham, was as happy an afternoon as usually falls
to the lot of man. Both of these companions were labouring under that
degree of excitement which is necessary to felicity. They had enough to
talk about. Edith was no longer a forbidden or a sorrowful subject. There
was rapture in their again meeting under such circumstances. Then there
were their friends; that dear Buckhurst, who had just been called out for
styling his opponent a Venetian, and all their companions of early days.
What a sudden and marvellous change in all their destinies! Life was a
pantomime; the wand was waved, and it seemed that the schoolfellows had of
a sudden become elements of power, springs of the great machine.

A train arrived; restless they sallied forth, to seek diversion in the
dispersion of the passengers. Coningsby and Millbank, with that glance, a
little inquisitive, even impertinent, if we must confess it, with which
one greets a stranger when he emerges from a public conveyance, were
lounging on the platform. The train arrived; stopped; the doors were
thrown open, and from one of them emerged Mr. Rigby! Coningsby, who had
dined, was greatly tempted to take off his hat and make him a bow, but he
refrained. Their eyes met. Rigby was dead beat. He was evidently used up;
a man without a resource; the sight of Coningsby his last blow; he had met
his fate.

'My dear fellow,' said Coningsby, 'I remember I wanted you to dine with my
grandfather at Montem, and that fellow would not ask you. Such is life!'

About eleven o'clock the next morning they arrived at the Darlford
station. Here they were met by an anxious deputation, who received
Coningsby as if he were a prophet, and ushered him into a car covered with
satin and blue ribbons, and drawn by six beautiful grey horses,
caparisoned in his colours, and riden by postilions, whose very whips were
blue and white. Triumphant music sounded; banners waved; the multitude
were marshalled; the Freemasons, at the first opportunity, fell into the
procession; the Odd Fellows joined it at the nearest corner. Preceded and
followed by thousands, with colours flying, trumpets sounding, and endless
huzzas, flags and handkerchiefs waving from every window, and every
balcony filled with dames and maidens bedecked with his colours, Coningsby
was borne through enthusiastic Darlford like Paulus Emilius returning from
Macedon. Uncovered, still in deep mourning, his fine figure, and graceful
bearing, and his intelligent brow, at once won every female heart.

The singularity was, that all were of the same opinion: everybody cheered
him, every house was adorned with his colours. His triumphal return was no
party question. Magog Wrath and Bully Bluck walked together like lambs at
the head of his procession.

The car stopped before the principal hotel in the High Street. It was Mr.
Millbank's committee. The broad street was so crowded, that, as every one
declared, you might have walked on the heads of the people. Every window
was full; the very roofs were peopled. The car stopped, and the populace
gave three cheers for Mr. Millbank. Their late member, surrounded by his
friends, stood in the balcony, which was fitted up with Coningsby's
colours, and bore his name on the hangings in gigantic letters formed of
dahlias. The flashing and inquiring eye of Coningsby caught the form of
Edith, who was leaning on her father's arm.

The hustings were opposite the hotel, and here, after a while, Coningsby
was carried, and, stepping from his car, took up his post to address, for
the first time, a public assembly. Anxious as the people were to hear him,
it was long before their enthusiasm could subside into silence. At length
that silence was deep and absolute. He spoke; his powerful and rich tones
reached every ear. In five minutes' time every one looked at his
neighbour, and without speaking they agreed that there never was anything
like this heard in Darlford before.

He addressed them for a considerable time, for he had a great deal to say;
not only to express his gratitude for the unprecedented manner in which he
had become their representative, and for the spirit in which they had
greeted him, but he had to offer them no niggard exposition of the views
and opinions of the member whom they had so confidingly chosen, without
even a formal declaration of his sentiments.

He did this with so much clearness, and in a manner so pointed and
popular, that the deep attention of the multitude never wavered. His
lively illustrations kept them often in continued merriment. But when,
towards his close, he drew some picture of what he hoped might be the
character of his future and lasting connection with the town, the vast
throng was singularly affected. There were a great many present at that
moment who, though they had never seen Coningsby before, would willingly
have then died for him. Coningsby had touched their hearts, for he had
spoken from his own. His spirit had entirely magnetised them. Darlford
believed in Coningsby: and a very good creed.

And now Coningsby was conducted to the opposite hotel. He walked through
the crowd. The progress was slow, as every one wished to shake hands with
him. His friends, however, at last safely landed him. He sprang up the
stairs; he was met by Mr. Millbank, who welcomed him with the greatest
warmth, and offered his hearty congratulations.

'It is to you, dear sir, that I am indebted for all this,' said Coningsby.

'No,' said Mr. Millbank, 'it is to your own high principles, great
talents, and good heart.'

After he had been presented by the late member to the principal personages
in the borough, Mr. Millbank said,

'I think we must now give Mr. Coningsby a little rest. Come with me,' he
added, 'here is some one who will be very glad to see you.'

Speaking thus, he led our hero a little away, and placing his arm in
Coningsby's with great affection opened the door of an apartment. There
was Edith, radiant with loveliness and beaming with love. Their agitated
hearts told at a glance the tumult of their joy. The father joined their
hands, and blessed them with words of tenderness.




CHAPTER VII.


The marriage of Coningsby and Edith took place early in the autumn. It was
solemnised at Millbank, and they passed their first moon at Hellingsley,
which place was in future to be the residence of the member for Darlford.
The estate was to devolve to Coningsby after the death of Mr. Millbank,
who in the meantime made arrangements which permitted the newly-married
couple to reside at the Hall in a manner becoming its occupants. All these
settlements, as Mr. Millbank assured Coningsby, were effected not only
with the sanction, but at the express instance, of his son.

An event, however, occurred not very long after the marriage of Coningsby,
which rendered this generous conduct of his father-in-law no longer
necessary to his fortunes, though he never forgot its exercise. The gentle
and unhappy daughter of Lord Monmouth quitted a scene with which her
spirit had never greatly sympathised. Perhaps she might have lingered in
life for yet a little while, had it not been for that fatal inheritance
which disturbed her peace and embittered her days, haunting her heart with
the recollection that she had been the unconscious instrument of injuring
the only being whom she loved, and embarrassing and encumbering her with
duties foreign to her experience and her nature. The marriage of Coningsby
had greatly affected her, and from that day she seemed gradually to
decline. She died towards the end of the autumn, and, subject to an ample
annuity to Villebecque, she bequeathed the whole of her fortune to the
husband of Edith. Gratifying as it was to him to present such an
inheritance to his wife, it was not without a pang that he received the
intelligence of the death of Flora. Edith sympathised in his affectionate
feelings, and they raised a monument to her memory in the gardens of
Hellingsley.

Coningsby passed his next Christmas in his own hall with his beautiful and
gifted wife by his side, and surrounded by the friends of his heart and
his youth.

They stand now on the threshold of public life. They are in the leash, but
in a moment they will be slipped. What will be their fate? Will they
maintain in august assemblies and high places the great truths which, in
study and in solitude, they have embraced? Or will their courage exhaust
itself in the struggle, their enthusiasm evaporate before hollow-hearted
ridicule, their generous impulses yield with a vulgar catastrophe to the
tawdry temptations of a low ambition? Will their skilled intelligence
subside into being the adroit tool of a corrupt party? Will Vanity
confound their fortunes, or Jealousy wither their sympathies? Or will they
remain brave, single, and true; refuse to bow before shadows and worship
phrases; sensible of the greatness of their position, recognise the
greatness of their duties; denounce to a perplexed and disheartened world
the frigid theories of a generalising age that have destroyed the
individuality of man, and restore the happiness of their country by
believing in their own energies, and daring to be great?

Copyright (c) 2007. topboookz.com. All rights reserved.