eding in
modifying our corrupt nature; his love of glory, and how little he cared
for the appreciation of the public of which he had experienced the
fickle favors; his knowledge of life, his simple tastes, his love of
nature, and the greatness of his mind, of which no ambition or worldly
feeling could tarnish the simplicity and even sublimity. In giving him
two individualities the novelist was better able to combine the
passionate sarcasms of Cadurcis with the smiles of goodness and
tolerance of Herbert, and to show him to us as he was wont to converse,
mixing the wittiest remarks with the most serious reflections. He had
made him express a number of opinions apparently contradictory, but
which belonged to his peculiar character, which was equally simple and
complex, alike sensible and passionate, subject to a thousand influences
of weather and seasons; and though inflexible in his principles of honor
as in the whole course of his existence, yet changeable in things of
minor importance. He loves to mystify, and writes, without reflecting as
to the possible consequences, a number of things which cross his mind,
and in which he does not believe, but of which his love of humor forces
the expression to his lips. Again, Disraeli tells us of a number of his
real ideas, initiates us into his literary tastes, his philosophical
views, his preferences, his admiration for the great men of antiquity
and of modern times; tells us why his favorite philosophers are Plato
and Epicurus, his favorite characters in antiquity Alexander and
Alcibiades, both young and handsome conquerors; in modern times, Milton
and Sir Philip Sydney, Bayle and Montaigne; what his opinions respecting
Shakspeare and Pope, what Cadurcis, and what Herbert thinks of these;
and finally he gives us his views upon the love which we should have for
truth, upon the influence which political situations bear upon the
grandeur of country, not only in literature and in arts, but likewise in
philosophy, and in a number of other ways.

All these means employed by the great novelist certainly succeed in
making of "Venetia" a most delightful book; but notwithstanding its
charms, as we read, it is impossible not to ask one's self at times
whether a historical novel is thus entitled to encroach upon the
biography of great men. Without pretending to settle the question, I own
that I rather appreciate the truth of a historical work than all the
pleasure which the talent of an au