lty
denounced by theologians, which delights in systematic logical inquiry,
and hopes to attain truth by the unrestricted conflict of innumerable
minds. It is an abnormal power of piercing mysteries granted only to a
few distinguished seers. It does not lead to an earthly science,
expressible in definite formulas, and capable of being taught in Sunday
schools. The knowledge cannot be fully communicated to the profane, and
is at most to be shadowed forth in dim oracular utterances. Disraeli's
instinctive affinity for some kind of mystic teaching is indicated by
Vivian Grey's first request to his father. 'I wish,' he exclaims, 'to
make myself master of the latter Platonists. I want Plotinus and
Porphyry, and Iamblichus, and Syrianus, and Mosanius Tyrius, and
Pericles, and Hierocles, and Sallustius, and Damasenis!' But Vivian
Grey, as we know, wanted also to conquer the Marquis of Carabas; and the
odd combination between a mystic philosopher and a mere political
charlatan displays Disraeli's peculiar irony. Intellect with him is a
double-edged weapon: it is at once the faculty which reads the dark
riddle of the universe, and the faculty which makes use of Tapers and
Tadpoles. Our modern Daniel is also a shrewd electioneering agent.
Cynics, indeed, have learned in these later days to regard mystery as
too often synonymous with nonsense. The difficulty of interpreting
esoteric doctrines to the vulgar generally consists in this--that the
doctrines are mere collections of big words which collapse, instead of
becoming lucid, when put into plain English. The mystagogue is but too
closely allied to the charlatan. He may be straining to utter some
secret too deep for human utterance, or he is looking wise to conceal
absolute vacuity of thought. And at other times he must surely be
laughing at the youthful audacity which fancies that speculation is to
be carried on by a series of sudden inspirations, instead of laborious
accumulation of rigorously-tested reasonings.

The three novels, 'Coningsby,' 'Sybil,' and 'Tancred,' published from
1844 to 1847, form, as their author has told us, a trilogy intended to
set forth his views of political, social, and religious problems. Each
of them exhibits, in one form or other, this peculiar train of thought.
'Coningsby,' if I am not mistaken, is by far the ablest, and probably
owes its pre-eminence to the simple fact that it deals with the topics
in which its author felt the keenest interest. T