a few lines and of catching the
superficial aspects of society, a brisk narrative, a sprightly
dialogue, a keen insight into the selfishness of men and the vanities
of women, with flashes of wit lighting up the whole stage. It is
always a stage. The brilliance is never open-air sunshine. There is
scarcely one of the characters whom we feel we might have met and
known. Heroes and heroines are theatrical figures; their pathos
rings false, their love, though described as passionate, does not
spring from the inner recesses of the soul. The studies of men of
the world, and particularly of heartless ones, are the most
life-like; yet, even here, any one who wants to feel the difference
between the great painter and the clever sketcher need only
compare Thackeray's Marquis of Steyne with Disraeli's Marquis of
Monmouth, both of them suggested by the same original. There is
little intensity, little dramatic power in these stories, as also in
his play of _Alarcos_; and if we read them with pleasure it is not
for the sake either of plot or of character, but because they contain
so many sparkling witticisms and reflections, setting in a strong
light, yet not always an unkindly light, the seamy side of politics
and human nature. The slovenliness of their style, which is often
pompous, but seldom pure, makes them appear to have been written
hastily. But Disraeli seems to have taken the composition of them
(except, perhaps, the two latest) quite seriously. When he wrote the
earlier tales, he meant to achieve literary greatness; while the
middle ones, especially _Coningsby_ and _Sybil_, were designed as
political manifestoes. The less they have a purpose or profess to
be serious, the better they are; and the most vivacious of all are
two classical burlesques, written at a time when that kind of
composition had not yet become common--_Ixion in Heaven_ and _The
Infernal Marriage_--little pieces of funning worthy of Thackeray, I
had almost said of Voltaire. They recall, perhaps they were
suggested by, similar pieces of Lucian's. Is Semitic genius specially
rich in this mocking vein? Lucian was a Syrian from Samosata,
probably a Semite; Heinrich Heine was a Semite; James Russell
Lowell used to insist, though he produced little evidence for his
belief, that Voltaire was a Semite.

Whether Disraeli could ever have taken high rank as a novelist if he
had thrown himself completely into the profession may be doubted,
for his defects were such