Their author gives you no time to weary of him, for he is worldly and passionate, fantastic and trenchant, cynical and ambitious, flippant and sentimental, ornately rhetorical and triumphantly simple in a breath.  He is imperiously egoistic, but while constantly parading his own personality he is careful never to tell you anything about it.  And withal he is imperturbably good-tempered: he brands and gibbets with a smile, and with a smile he adores and applauds.  Intellectually he is in sympathy with character of every sort; he writes as becomes an artist who has recognised that ‘the conduct of men depends upon the temperament, not upon a bunch of musty maxims,’ and that ‘there is a

great deal of vice that is really sheer inadvertence.’  It is said that the Monmouth of Coningsby and the Steyne of Vanity Fair are painted from one and the same original; and you have but to compare the savage realism of Thackeray’s study to the scornful amenity of the other’s—as you have but to contrast the elaborate and extravagant cruelty of Thackeray’s Alcide de Mirobolant with the polite and half-respectful irony of Disraeli’s treatment of the cooks in Tancred—to perceive that in certain ways the advantage is not with ‘the greatest novelist of his time,’ and that the Monmouth produces an impression which is more moral because more kindly and humane than the impression left by the Steyne, while in its way it is every whit as vivid and as convincing.  Yet another excellence, and a great one, is his mastery of apt and forcible dialogue.  The talk of Mr. Henry James’s personages is charmingly equable and appropriate, but it is also trivial and tame; the talk in Anthony Trollope is surprisingly natural and abundant, but it is also commonplace and immemorable; the talk of Mr. George Meredith is always eloquent and fanciful, but the eloquence is too often dark and the fancy too commonly inhuman.  What Disraeli’s people have to say is not always original nor profound, but it is crisply and happily phrased and uttered, it reads well, its impression seldom fails of permanency.  His Wit and Wisdom is a kind of Talker’s Guide or Handbook of Conversation.  How

should it be otherwise, seeing that it contains the characteristic utterances of a great artist in life renowned for memorable speech?

A Contrast.

Now, if you ask a worshipper of him that was so long his rival, to repeat a saying, a maxim, a sentence, of which his idol is the author, it is odds but he will look like a fool, and visit you with an evasive answer.  What else should he do?  His deity is a man of many words and no sayings.  He is the prince of agitators, but it would be impossible for him to mint a definition of ‘agitation’; he is the world’s most eloquent arithmetician, but it is beyond him to epigrammatise the fact that two and two make four.  And it seems certain, unless the study of Homer and religious fiction inspire him to some purpose, that his contributions to axiomatic literature will be still restricted to the remark that ‘There are three courses open’ to something or other: to the House, to the angry cabman, to what and whomsoever you will.  In sober truth, he is one who writes for to-day, and takes no thought of either yesterdays or morrows.  For him the Future is next session; the Past does not extend beyond his last change of mind.  He is a prince of journalists,

and his excursions into monthly literature remain to show how great and copious a master of the ‘leader’—ornate, imposing, absolutely insignificant—his absorption in politics has cost the English-speaking world.

His Backgrounds.

Disraeli’s imagination, at once practical and extravagant, is not of the kind that delights in plot and counterplot.  His novels abound in action, but the episodes wear a more or less random look: the impression produced is pretty much that of a story of adventure.  But if they fail as stories they are unexceptionable as canvases.  Our author unrolls them with superb audacity; and rapidly and vigorously he fills them in with places and people, with faces that are as life and words expressive even as they.  Nothing is too lofty or too low for him.  He hawks at every sort of game, and rarely does he make a false cast.  It is but a step from the wilds of Lancashire to the Arabian Desert, from the cook’s first floor to the Home of the Bellamonts; for he has the Seven-League-Boots of the legend, and more than the genius of adventure of him that wore them.  His castles may be of cardboard, his cataracts of tinfoil, the sun of his adjurations the veriest figment; but he never lets his readers

see that he knows it.  His irony, sudden and reckless and insidious though it be, yet never extends to his properties.  There may be a sneer beneath that mask which, with an egotism baffling as imperturbable, he delights in intruding among his creations; but you cannot see it.  You suspect its presence, because he is a born mocker.  But you remember that one of his most obvious idiosyncrasies is an inordinate love of all that is sumptuous, glittering, radiant, magnificent; and you incline to suspect that he keeps his sneering for the world of men, and admires his scenes and decorations too cordially to visit them with anything so merciless.

His Men and Women.

But dashing and brilliant as are his sketches of places and things, they are after all the merest accessories.  It was as a student of Men and Women that he loved to excel, and it is as their painter that I praise him now.  Himself a worshipper of intellect, it was intellectually that he mastered and developed them.  Like Sidonia he moves among them not to feel with them but to understand and learn from them.  Such sympathy as he had was either purely sensuous, as for youth and beauty and all kinds of comeliness; or purely intellectual, as for intelligence, artificiality, servility,

meanness.  And as his essence was satirical, as he was naturally irreverent and contemptuous, it follows that he is best and strongest in the act of punishment not of reward.  His passion for youth was beautiful, but it did not make him strong.  His scorn for things contemptible, his hate for things hateful, are at times too bitter even for those who think with him; but in these lay his force—they filled his brain with light, and they touched his lips with fire.  The wretched Rigby is far more vigorous and life-like than the amiable Coningsby; Tom Cogit—a sketch, but a sketch of genius—is infinitely more interesting than May Dacre or even the Young Duke; Tancred is a good fellow, and very real and true in his goodness, but contrast him with Fakredeen!  And after his knaves, his fools, his tricksters, the most striking figures in his gallery are those whom he has considered from a purely intellectual point of view: either kindly, as Sidonia, or coolly, as Lord Monmouth, but always calmly and with no point of passion in his regard: the Eskdales, Villebecques, Ormsbys, Bessos, Marneys, Meltons, and Mirabels, the Bohuns and St. Aldegondes and Grandisons, the Tadpoles and the Tapers, the dominant and subaltern humanity of the world.  All these are drawn with peculiar boldness of line, precision of touch, and clearness of intention.  And as with his men so is it with his women: the finest are not those he likes best but those who interested him

most.  Male and female, his eccentrics