f some mediocrities, but he
was neither angry nor impatient. The "brilliant personages who had just
scampered up from Melton, thinking it probable that Sir Robert might
want some moral Lords of the Bedchamber," and the Duke, who "might have
acquired considerable information, if he had not in his youth made so
many Latin verses," were true to their principles, and would scarcely
have done more than blush faintly when he poked his fun at them. Of all
the portraits none is more interesting than that of the dark, pale
stranger, Sidonia, as he revealed himself to Coningsby at the inn in the
forest, over the celebrated dish of "still-hissing bacon and eggs that
looked like tufts of primroses." This was a figure which was to recur,
and to become in the public mind almost coincident with that of Disraeli
himself.

When we pass from _Coningsby_ to _Sybil_ we find the purely narrative
interest considerably reduced in the pursuit of a scheme of political
philosophy. This is of all Disraeli's novels the one which most
resembles a pamphlet on a serious topic. For this reason it has never
been a favourite among his works, and his lighter readers have passed it
over with a glance. _Sybil_, however, is best not read at all if it is
not carefully studied. In the course of _Coningsby_, that young hero had
found his way to Manchester, and had discovered in it a new world,
"poignant with new ideas, and suggestive of new trains of thought and
feeling." His superficial observation had revealed many incongruities in
our methods of manipulating wealth, and Disraeli had sketched the
portrait of Mr. Jawster Sharp with a superfluity of sarcastic wit. But
it was not until somewhat later that the condition of the
working-classes in our northern manufacturing districts began to attract
his most serious attention. The late Duke of Rutland, that illustrious
and venerable friend who alone survived in the twentieth century to bear
witness to the sentiments of Young England, told me that he accompanied
Disraeli on the journey which led to the composition of Sybil, and that
he never, in long years of intimacy, saw him so profoundly moved as he
was at the aspect of the miserable dwellings of the hand-loom workers.

All this is reflected on the surface of _Sybil_, and, notwithstanding
curious faults in execution, the book bears the impress of a deep and
true emotion. Oddly enough, the style of Disraeli is never more stilted
than it is in the conversations