ct alike.

With Bulwer and Disraeli we get into a different sphere of
literature--whether into the same in both cases, and whether, if so,
into one of the highest, are questions on which no general agreement has
yet been reached--on which, perhaps, no general agreement is even
possible.

With regard to the second, it must be remembered that to him, whether as
Mr. Disraeli or as Lord Beaconsfield, novel-writing was always a
"by-work"--partly a means to his real end of politics, partly a
relaxation from the work necessary to that end. He called himself a
"gentleman of the press"--with that mixture of sincerity, purpose, and
ironical simulation which brought on him, from unintelligent or not very
honest opponents, and even from others, the charge of affectation, if
not of hypocrisy. And, undoubtedly, he did a good deal of work for the
press, and very remarkable work too--almost wholly in the kind of
novel-writing, from _Vivian Grey_ (1826) to _Endymion_ (1880). Yet it
may be permitted--in the face of some more than respectable opinion on
the other side--to doubt whether, except in some curious sports and
by-products, he ever produced real novel-work of the highest class. In
the satiric-fantastic tale--in a kind of following of Voltaire--such as
_Ixion_, he has hardly a superior, unless it be Anthony Hamilton, who is
the superior of Voltaire himself and the master of everybody. For a pure
love-novel of a certain kind, _Henrietta Temple_ (1837) is bad to
beat--and in a curious cross between the historical, biographical, and
the romantic, _Venetia_ (same year) also stands pretty much alone. But
all the rest, more or less political, more or less "of society," more or
less fantastic--_Coningsby_ (1844) as well as _Alroy_ (1833), _Tancred_
(1847) as well as _Vivian Grey, Sybil_ (1845), as well as _The Young
Duke_ (1831), "leave to desire" in a strange way. Like the three which
have been excepted for praise, each is in a manner _sui generis_, while
the whole group stands, in a manner also, apart from others and by
itself. There is astonishing cleverness everywhere, in regard to almost
every point of novel-composition, though with special regard to
epigrammatic phrase. But the whole is _inorganic_ somehow, and more than
somehow unreal; without (save in the cases mentioned) attaining that
obviously unreal but persuasive phantasmagoria which some great writers
of fiction have managed to put in existence and motion. How far this is