oldest attempt he ever made to tell
a great consecutive story of passion, and no doubt there have been those
who have palpitated over the love-at-first-sight of Ferdinand Armine and
Henrietta Temple. But Disraeli's serious vein is here over-luscious; the
love-passages are too emphatic and too sweet. An early critic spoke of
this _dulcia vitia_ of style which we meet with even in _Contarini
Fleming_ as the sin by which the young author was most easily beset. His
attempts at serious sentiment and pompous reflection are too often
deplorable, because inanimate and stilted. When he warns a heroine
against an error of judgment by shouting, "'Tis the madness of the fawn
who gazes with adoration on the lurid glare of the anaconda's eye," or
murmurs, "Farewell, my lovely bird; I'll soon return to pillow in thy
nest," we need all the stimulus of his irony and his velocity to carry
us over such marshlands of cold style.

Of these imperfections, fewer are to be found in _Venetia_ and fewest in
_Contarini Fleming_. This beautiful romance is by far the best of
Disraeli's early books, and that in which his methods at this period can
be most favourably studied. A curious shadow of Disraeli himself is
thrown over it all; it cannot be styled in any direct sense an
autobiography, and yet the mental and moral experiences of the author
animate every chapter of it. This novel is written with far more ease
and grace than any previous book of the author's, and Contarini gives a
reason which explains the improvement in his creator's manner when he
remarks: "I wrote with greater facility than before, because my
experience of life was so much increased that I had no difficulty in
making my characters think and act." _Contarini Fleming_ belongs to
1831, when its writer, at the comparatively ripe age of twenty-seven,
had already seen a vast deal of man and of the world of Europe.

We are not to believe the preposterous account that Contarini-Disraeli
gives of his methods of composition:--

"My thoughts, my passion, the rush of my invention, were too quick
for my pen. Page followed page; as a sheet was finished I threw it
on the floor; I was amazed at the rapid and prolific production,
yet I could not stop to wonder. In half a dozen hours I sank back
exhausted, with an aching frame. I rang the bell, ordered some
refreshment, and walked about the room. The wine invigorated me and
warmed up my sinking fancy, which,