Sir James George Frazer - "The Belief in Immortality and the Worship of the Dead, Volume I (of 3)"

Walt Whitman - "Complete Prose Works"

Charles McCellan Stevens (AKA 'Quondam') - "The Adventures of Uncle Jeremiah and Family at the Great Fair"

Evelyn Snead Barnett - "Jerry's Reward"

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 had sooner any fellow had been drowned than Coningsby,' whispered one
boy to another.

'I liked him, the best fellow at Eton,' responded his companion, in a
smothered tone.

'What a clever fellow he was!'

'And so deuced generous!'

'He would have got the medal if he had lived.'

'And how came he to be drowned? for he was such a fine swimmer!'

'I heerd Mr. Coningsby was saving another's life,' continued Boots in his
evidence, 'which makes it in a manner more sorrowful.'

'Poor Coningsby!' exclaimed a boy, bursting into tears: 'I move the whole
school goes into mourning.'

'I wish we could get hold of this bargeman,' said Sedgwick. 'Now stop,
stop, don't all run away in that mad manner; you frighten the people.
Charles Herbert and Palmer, you two go down to the Brocas and inquire.'

But just at this moment, an increased stir and excitement were evident in
the Long Walk; the circle round Sedgwick opened, and there appeared Henry
Sydney and Buckhurst.

There was a dead silence. It was impossible that suspense could be
strained to a higher pitch. The air and countenance of Sydney and
Buckhurst were rather excited than mournful or alarmed. They needed no
inquiries, for before they had penetrated the circle they had become aware
of its cause.

Buckhurst, the most energetic of beings, was of course the first to speak.
Henry Sydney indeed looked pale and nervous; but his companion, flushed
and resolute, knew exactly how to hit a popular assembly, and at once came
to the point.

'It is all a false report, an infernal lie; Coningsby is quite safe, and
nobody is drowned.'

There was a cheer that might have been heard at Windsor Castle. Then,
turning to Sedgwick, in an undertone Buckhurst added,

'It _is_ all right, but, by Jove! we have had a shaver. I will tell you
all in a moment, but we want to keep the thing quiet, and so let the
fellows disperse, and we will talk afterwards.'

In a few moments the Long Walk had resumed its usual character; but
Sedgwick, Herbert, and one or two others turned into the playing fields,
where, undisturbed and unnoticed by the multitude, they listened to the
promised communication of Buckhurst and Henry Sydney.

'You know we went up the river together,' said Buckhurst. 'Myself, Henry
Sydney, Coningsby, Vere, and Millbank. We had breakfasted together, and
after twelve agreed to go up to Maidenhead. Well, we went up much higher
than we had intended. About a quarter of a mile before we had got to the
Lock we pulled up; Coningsby was then steering. Well, we fastened the boat
to, and were all of us stretched out on the meadow, when Millbank and Vere
said they should go and bathe in the Lock Pool. The rest of us were
opposed; but after Millbank and Vere had gone about ten minutes,
Coningsby, who was very fresh, said he had changed his mind and should go
and bathe too. So he left us. He had scarcely got to the pool when he
heard a cry. There was a fellow drowning. He threw off his clothes and was
in in a moment. The fact is this, Millbank had plunged in the pool and
found himself in some eddies, caused by the meeting of two currents. He
called out to Vere not to come, and tried to swim off. But he was beat,
and seeing he was in danger, Vere jumped in. But the stream was so strong,
from the great fall of water from the lasher above, that Vere was
exhausted before he could reach Millbank, and nearly sank himself. Well,
he just saved himself; but Millbank sank as Coningsby jumped in. What do
you think of that?'

'By Jove!' exclaimed Sedgwick, Herbert, and all. The favourite oath of
schoolboys perpetuates the divinity of Olympus.

'And now comes the worst. Coningsby caught Millbank when he rose, but he
found himself in the midst of the same strong current that had before
nearly swamped Vere. What a lucky thing that he had taken into his head
not to pull to-day! Fresher than Vere, he just managed to land Millbank
and himself. The shouts of Vere called us, and we arrived to find the
bodies of Millbank and Coningsby apparently lifeless, for Millbank was
quite gone, and Coningsby had swooned on landing.'

'If Coningsby had been lost,' said Henry Sydney, 'I never would have shown
my face at Eton again.'

'Can you conceive a position more terrible?' said Buckhurst. 'I declare I
shall never forget it as long as I live. However, there was the Lock House
at hand; and we got blankets and brandy. Coningsby was soon all right; but
Millbank, I can tell you, gave us some trouble. I thought it was all up.
Didn't you, Henry Sydney?'

'The most fishy thing I ever saw,' said Henry Sydney.

'Well, we were fairly frightened here,' said Sedgwick. 'The first report
was, that you had gone, but that seemed without foundation; but Coningsby
was quite given up. Where are they now?'

'They are both at their tutors'. I thought they had better keep quiet.
Vere is with Millbank, and we are going back to Coningsby directly; but we
thought it best to show, finding on our arrival that there were all sorts
of rumours about. I think it will be best to report at once to my tutor,
for he will be sure to hear something.'

'I would if I were you.'




CHAPTER X.


What wonderful things are events! The least are of greater importance than
the most sublime and comprehensive speculations! In what fanciful schemes
to obtain the friendship of Coningsby had Millbank in his reveries often
indulged! What combinations that were to extend over years and influence
their lives! But the moment that he entered the world of action, his pride
recoiled from the plans and hopes which his sympathy had inspired. His
sensibility and his inordinate self-respect were always at variance. And
he seldom exchanged a word with the being whose idea engrossed his
affection.

And now, suddenly, an event had occurred, like all events, unforeseen,
which in a few, brief, agitating, tumultuous moments had singularly and
utterly changed the relations that previously subsisted between him and
the former object of his concealed tenderness. Millbank now stood with
respect to Coningsby in the position of one who owes to another the
greatest conceivable obligation; a favour which time could permit him
neither to forget nor to repay. Pride was a sentiment that could no longer
subsist before the preserver of his life. Devotion to that being, open,
almost ostentatious, was now a duty, a paramount and absorbing tie. The
sense of past peril, the rapture of escape, a renewed relish for the life
so nearly forfeited, a deep sentiment of devout gratitude to the
providence that had guarded over him, for Millbank was an eminently
religious boy, a thought of home, and the anguish that might have
overwhelmed his hearth; all these were powerful and exciting emotions for
a young and fervent mind, in addition to the peculiar source of
sensibility on which we have already touched. Lord Vere, who lodged in the
same house as Millbank, and was sitting by his bedside, observed, as night
fell, that his mind wandered.

The illness of Millbank, the character of which soon transpired, and was
soon exaggerated, attracted the public attention with increased interest
to the circumstances out of which it had arisen, and from which the
parties principally concerned had wished to have diverted notice. The
sufferer, indeed, had transgressed the rules of the school by bathing at
an unlicensed spot, where there were no expert swimmers in attendance, as
is customary, to instruct the practice and to guard over the lives of the
young adventurers. But the circumstances with which this violation of
rules had been accompanied, and the assurance of several of the party that
they had not themselves infringed the regulations, combined with the high
character of Millbank, made the authorities not over anxious to visit with
penalties a breach of observance which, in the case of the only proved
offender, had been attended with such impressive consequences. The feat of
Coningsby was extolled by all as an act of high gallantry and skill. It
confirmed and increased the great reputation which he already enjoyed.

'Millbank is getting quite well,' said Buckhurst to Coningsby a few days
after the accident. 'Henry Sydney and I are going to see him. Will you
come?'

'I think we shall be too many. I will go another day,' replied Coningsby.

So they went without him. They found Millbank up and reading.

'Well, old fellow,' said Buckhurst, 'how are you? We should have come up
before, but they would not let us. And you are quite right now, eh?'

'Quite. Has there been any row about it?'

'All blown over,' said Henry Sydney; 'C*******y behaved like a trump.'

'I have seen nobody yet,' said Millbank; 'they would not let me till to-
day. Vere looked in this morning and left me this book, but I was asleep.
I hope they will let me out in a day or two. I want to thank Coningsby; I
never shall rest till I have thanked Coningsby.'

'Oh, he will come to see you,' said Henry Sydney; 'I asked him just now to
come with us.'

'Yes!' said Millbank, eagerly; 'and what did he say?'

'He thought we should be too many.'

'I hope I shall see him soon,' said Millbank, 'somehow or other.'

'I will tell him to come,' said Buckhurst.

'Oh! no, no, don't tell him to come,' said Millbank. 'Don't bore him.'

'I know he is going to play a match at fives this afternoon,' said
Buckhurst, 'for I am one.'

'And who are the others?' inquired Millbank.

'Herbert and Campbell.'

'Herbert is no match for Coningsby,' said Millbank.

And then they talked over all that had happened since his absence; and
Buckhurst gave him a graphic report of the excitement on the afternoon of
the accident; at last they were obliged to leave him.

'Well, good-bye, old fellow; we will come and see you every day. What can
we do for you? Any books, or anything?'

'If any fellow asks after me,' said Millbank, 'tell him I shall be glad to
see him. It is very dull being alone. But do not tell any fellow to come
if he does not ask after me.'

Notwithstanding the kind suggestions of Buckhurst and Henry Sydney,
Coningsby could not easily bring himself to call on Millbank. He felt a
constraint. It seemed as if he went to receive thanks. He would rather
have met Millbank again in school, or in the playing fields. Without being
able then to analyse his feelings, he shrank unconsciously from that
ebullition of sentiment, which in more artificial circles is described as
a scene. Not that any dislike of Millbank prompted him to this reserve. On
the contrary, since he had conferred a great obligation on Millbank, his
prejudice against him had sensibly decreased. How it would have been had
Millbank saved Coningsby's life, is quite another affair. Probably, as
Coningsby was by nature generous, his sense of justice might have
struggled successfully with his painful sense of the overwhelming
obligation. But in the present case there was no element to disturb his
fair self-satisfaction. He had greatly distinguished himself; he had
conferred on his rival an essential service; and the whole world rang with
his applause. He began rather to like Millbank; we will not say because
Millbank was the unintentional cause of his pleasurable sensations. Really
it was that the unusual circumstances had prompted him to a more impartial
judgment of his rival's character. In this mood, the day after the visit
of Buckhurst and Henry Sydney, Coningsby called on Millbank, but finding
his medical attendant with him, Coningsby availed himself of that excuse
for going away without seeing him.

The next day he left Millbank a newspaper on his way to school, time not
permitting a visit. Two days after, going into his room, he found on his
table a letter addressed to 'Harry Coningsby, Esq.'

ETON, May--, 1832.

'DEAR CONINGSBY, I very much fear that you must think me a very ungrateful
fellow, because you have not heard from me before; but I was in hopes that
I might get out and say to you what I feel; but whether I speak or write,
it is quite impossible for me to make you understand the feelings of my
heart to you. Now, I will say at once, that I have always liked you better
than any fellow in the school, and always thought you the cleverest;
indeed, I always thought that there was no one like you; but I never would
say this or show this, because you never seemed to care for me, and
because I was afraid you would think I merely wanted to con with you, as
they used to say of some other fellows, whose names I will not mention,
because they always tried to do so with Henry Sydney and you. I do not
want this at all; but I want, though we may not speak to each other more
than before, that we may be friends; and that you will always know that
there is nothing I will not do for you, and that I like you better than
any fellow at Eton. And I do not mean that this shall be only at Eton, but
afterwards, wherever we may be, that you will always remember that there
is nothing I will not do for you. Not because you saved my life, though
that is a great thing, but because before that I would have done anything
for you; only, for the cause above mentioned, I would not show it. I do
not expect that we shall be more together than before; nor can I ever
suppose that you could like me as you like Henry Sydney and Buckhurst, or
even as you like Vere; but still I hope you will always think of me with
kindness now, and let me sign myself, if ever I do write to you, 'Your
most attached, affectionate, and devoted friend,

'OSWALD MILLBANK.'




CHAPTER XI.


About a fortnight after this nearly fatal adventure on the river, it was
Montem. One need hardly remind the reader that this celebrated ceremony,
of which the origin is lost in obscurity, and which now occurs
triennially, is the tenure by which Eton College holds some of its
domains. It consists in the waving of a flag by one of the scholars, on a
mount near the village of Salt Hill, which, without doubt, derives its
name from the circumstance that on this day every visitor to Eton, and
every traveller in its vicinity, from the monarch to the peasant, are
stopped on the road by youthful brigands in picturesque costume, and
summoned to contribute 'salt,' in the shape of coin of the realm, to the
purse collecting for the Captain of Eton, the senior scholar on the
Foundation, who is about to repair to King's College, Cambridge.

On this day the Captain of Eton appears in a dress as martial as his
title: indeed, each sixth-form boy represents in his uniform, though not
perhaps according to the exact rules of the Horse Guards, an officer of
the army. One is a marshal, another an ensign. There is a lieutenant, too;
and the remainder are sergeants. Each of those who are intrusted with
these ephemeral commissions has one or more attendants, the number of
these varying according to his rank. These servitors are selected
according to the wishes of the several members of the sixth form, out of
the ranks of the lower boys, that is, those boys who are below the fifth
form; and all these attendants are arrayed in a variety of fancy dresses.
The Captain of the Oppidans and the senior Colleger next to the Captain of
the school, figure also in fancy costume, and are called 'Saltbearers.' It
is their business, together with the twelve senior Collegers of the fifth
form, who are called 'Runners,' and whose costume is also determined by
the taste of the wearers, to levy the contributions. And all the Oppidans
of the fifth form, among whom ranked Coningsby, class as 'Corporals;' and
are severally followed by one or more lower boys, who are denominated
'Polemen,' but who appear in their ordinary dress.

It was a fine, bright morning; the bells of Eton and Windsor rang merrily;
everybody was astir, and every moment some gay equipage drove into the
town. Gaily clustering in the thronged precincts of the College, might be
observed many a glistening form: airy Greek or sumptuous Ottoman, heroes
of the Holy Sepulchre, Spanish Hidalgos who had fought at Pavia, Highland
Chiefs who had charged at Culloden, gay in the tartan of Prince Charlie.
The Long Walk was full of busy groups in scarlet coats or fanciful
uniforms; some in earnest conversation, some criticising the arriving
guests; others encircling some magnificent hero, who astounded them with
his slashed doublet or flowing plume.

A knot of boys, sitting on the Long Walk wall, with their feet swinging in
the air, watched the arriving guests of the Provost.

'I say, Townshend,' said one, 'there's Grobbleton; he _was_ a bully. I
wonder if that's his wife? Who's this? The Duke of Agincourt. He wasn't an
Eton fellow? Yes, he was. He was called Poictiers then. Oh! ah! his name
is in the upper school, very large, under Charles Fox. I say, Townshend,
did you see Saville's turban? What was it made of? He says his mother
brought it from Grand Cairo. Didn't he just look like the Saracen's Head?
Here are some Dons. That's Hallam! We'll give him a cheer. I say,
Townshend, look at this fellow. He doesn't think small beer of himself. I
wonder who he is? The Duke of Wellington's valet come to say his master is
engaged. Oh! by Jove, he heard you! I wonder if the Duke will come? Won't
we give him a cheer!'

'By Jove! who is this?' exclaimed Townshend, and he jumped from the wall,
and, followed by his companions, rushed towards the road.

Two britskas, each drawn by four grey horses of mettle, and each
accompanied by outriders as well mounted, were advancing at a rapid pace
along the road that leads from Slough to the College. But they were
destined to an irresistible check. About fifty yards before they had
reached the gate that leads into Weston's Yard, a ruthless but splendid
Albanian, in crimson and gold embroidered jacket, and snowy camise,
started forward, and holding out his silver-sheathed yataghan commanded
the postilions to stop. A Peruvian Inca on the other side of the road gave
a simultaneous command, and would infallibly have transfixed the outriders
with an arrow from his unerring bow, had they for an instant hesitated.
The Albanian Chief then advanced to the door of the carriage, which he
opened, and in a tone of great courtesy, announced that he was under the
necessity of troubling its inmates for 'salt.' There was no delay. The
Lord of the equipage, with the amiable condescension of a 'grand
monarque,' expressed his hope that the collection would be an ample one,
and as an old Etonian, placed in the hands of the Albanian his
contribution, a magnificent purse, furnished for the occasion, and heavy
with gold.

'Don't be alarmed, ladies,' said a very handsome young officer, laughing,
and taking off his cocked hat.

'Ah!' exclaimed one of the ladies, turning at the voice, and starting a
little. 'Ah! it is Mr. Coningsby.'

Lord Eskdale paid the salt for the next carriage. 'Do they come down
pretty stiff?' he inquired, and then, pulling forth a roll of bank-notes
from the pocket of his pea-jacket, he wished them good morning.

The courtly Provost, then the benignant Goodall, a man who, though his
experience of life was confined to the colleges in which he had passed his
days, was naturally gifted with the rarest of all endowments, the talent
of reception; and whose happy bearing and gracious manner, a smile ever in
his eye and a lively word ever on his lip, must be recalled by all with
pleasant recollections, welcomed Lord Monmouth and his friends to an
assemblage of the noble, the beautiful, and the celebrated gathered
together in rooms not unworthy of them, as you looked upon their
interesting walls, breathing with the portraits of the heroes whom Eton
boasts, from Wotton to Wellesley. Music sounded in the quadrangle of the
College, in which the boys were already quickly assembling. The Duke of
Wellington had arrived, and the boys were cheering a hero, who was an Eton
field-marshal. From an oriel window in one of the Provost's rooms, Lord
Monmouth, surrounded by every circumstance that could make life
delightful, watched with some intentness the scene in the quadrangle
beneath.

'I would give his fame,' said Lord Monmouth, 'if I had it, and my wealth,
to be sixteen.'

Five hundred of the youth of England, sparkling with health, high spirits,
and fancy dresses, were now assembled in the quadrangle. They formed into
rank, and headed by a band of the Guards, thrice they marched round the
court. Then quitting the College, they commenced their progress 'ad
Montem.' It was a brilliant spectacle to see them defiling through the
playing fields, those bowery meads; the river sparkling in the sun, the
castled heights of Windsor, their glorious landscape; behind them, the
pinnacles of their College.

The road from Eton to Salt Hill was clogged with carriages; the broad
fields as far as eye could range were covered with human beings. Amid the
burst of martial music and the shouts of the multitude, the band of
heroes, as if they were marching from Athens, or Thebes, or Sparta, to
some heroic deed, encircled the mount; the ensign reaches its summit, and
then, amid a deafening cry of 'Floreat Etona!' he unfurls, and thrice
waves the consecrated standard.

'Lord Monmouth,' said Mr. Rigby to Coningsby, 'wishes that you should beg
your friends to dine with him. Of course you will ask Lord Henry and your
friend Sir Charles Buckhurst; and is there any one else that you would
like to invite?'

'Why, there is Vere,' said Coningsby, hesitating, 'and--'

'Vere! What Lord Vere?' said Rigby. 'Hum! He is one of your friends, is
he? His father has done a great deal of mischief, but still he is Lord
Vere. Well, of course, you can invite Vere.'

'There is another fellow I should like to ask very much,' said Coningsby.
'if Lord Monmouth would not think I was asking too many.'

'Never fear that; he sent me particularly to tell you to invite as many as
you liked.'

'Well, then, I should like to ask Millbank.'

'Millbank!' said Mr. Rigby, a little excited, and then he added, 'Is that
a son of Lady Albinia Millbank?'

'No; his mother is not a Lady Albinia, but he is a great friend of mine.
His father is a Lancashire manufacturer.'

'By no means,' exclaimed Mr. Rigby, quite agitated. 'There is nothing in
the world that Lord Monmouth dislikes so much as Manchester manufacturers,
and particularly if they bear the name of Millbank. It must not be thought
of, my dear Harry. I hope you have not spoken to the young man on the
subject. I assure you it is out of the question. It would make Lord
Monmouth quite ill. It would spoil everything, quite upset him.'

It was, of course, impossible for Coningsby to urge his wishes against
such representations. He was disappointed, rather amazed; but Madame
Colonna having sent for him to introduce her to some of the scenes and
details of Eton life, his vexation was soon absorbed in the pride of
acting in the face of his companions as the cavalier of a beautiful lady,
and becoming the cicerone of the most brilliant party that had attended
Montem. He presented his friends, too, to Lord. Monmouth, who gave them a
cordial invitation to dine with him at his hotel at Windsor, which they
warmly accepted. Buckhurst delighted the Marquess by his reckless genius.
Even Lucretia deigned to appear amused; especially when, on visiting the
upper school, the name of CARDIFF, the title Lord Monmouth bore in his
youthful days, was pointed out to her by Coningsby, cut with his
grandfather's own knife on the classic panels of that memorable wall in
which scarcely a name that has flourished in our history, since the
commencement of the eighteenth century, may not be observed with curious
admiration.

It was the humour of Lord Monmouth that the boys should be entertained
with the most various and delicious banquet that luxury could devise or
money could command. For some days beforehand orders had been given for
the preparation of this festival. Our friends did full justice to their
Lucullus; Buckhurst especially, who gave his opinion on the most refined
dishes with all the intrepidity of saucy ignorance, and occasionally shook
his head over a glass of Hermitage or Cote Rotie with a dissatisfaction
which a satiated Sybarite could not have exceeded. Considering all things,
Coningsby and his friends exhibited a great deal of self-command; but they
were gay, even to the verge of frolic. But then the occasion justified it,
as much as their youth. All were in high spirits. Madame Colonna declared
that she had met nothing in England equal to Montem; that it was a
Protestant Carnival; and that its only fault was that it did not last
forty days. The Prince himself was all animation, and took wine with every
one of the Etonians several times. All went on flowingly until Mr. Rigby
contradicted Buckhurst on some point of Eton discipline, which Buckhurst
would not stand. He rallied Mr. Rigby roundly, and Coningsby, full of
champagne, and owing Rigby several years of contradiction, followed up the
assault. Lord Monmouth, who liked a butt, and had a weakness for
boisterous gaiety, slily encouraged the boys, till Rigby began to lose his
temper and get noisy.

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