e contrast, even in the purely artistic
sense. We have no right to doubt that Disraeli thought that Coningsby
and his friends represented the true solution of the difficulty; yet if
anybody had wished to demonstrate that a genuine belief might sometimes
make a man more contemptible than hypocritical selfishness, he could
scarcely have defended the paradox more ingeniously. 'Unconscious
cerebration' has become a popular explanation of many phenomena; and it
would hardly be fanciful to assume that one lobe of Disraeli's brain is
in the habit of secreting bitter satire unknown to himself, and
cunningly inserting it behind the thin veil of sentiment unconsciously
elaborated by the other. We are prepared, indeed, to accept the new
doctrine, as cleverly as Balzac could have inoculated us with a
provisional belief in animal magnetism, to heighten our interest in a
thrilling story of wonder. We have judicious hints of esoteric political
doctrine, which has been partially understood by great men at various
periods of our history. The whole theory is carefully worked out in the
opening pages of 'Sybil.' The most remarkable thing about our popular
history, so Disraeli tells us, is, that it is 'a complete
mystification;' many of the principal characters never appear, as, for
example, Major Wildman, who was 'the soul of English politics from 1640
to 1688.' It is not surprising, therefore, that two of our three chief
statesmen in later times should be systematically depreciated. The
younger Pitt, indeed, has been extolled, though on wrong grounds. But
Bolingbroke and Shelburne, our two finest political geniuses, are passed
over with contempt by ordinary historians. A historian might amuse
himself by tracing the curious analogy between the most showy
representatives of the old race of statesmen and the modern successor
who delights to sing his praises. The Patriot King is really to some
extent an anticipation of Disraeli's peculiar democratic Toryism. But
the chief merit of Shelburne would seem to be that the qualities which
earned for him the nickname of Malagrida made him convenient as a
hypothetical depository of some esoteric scheme of politics. For the
purposes of fiction, at any rate, we may believe that English politics
are a riddle of which only three men have guessed the true solution
since the 'financial' revolution of 1688. Pitt was only sound so far as
he was the pupil of Shelburne; but Bolingbroke, Shelburne, and Disraeli