maladies. But since Swift we have had no Englishman who could give us
a vivid and amusing picture of our political life, as laid bare to the
eye of a consummate political genius.

It must be admitted that, with all the rare qualities of Disraeli's
literary work, he hardly ever took it quite seriously, or except as an
interlude and with some ulterior aim. In his early pieces he simply
sought to startle the town and to show what a wonderfully clever young
fellow had descended upon it. In his later books, such as _Coningsby_,
_Sybil_, and _Tancred_, he wished to propound a new party programme.
_Lothair_ was a picture of British society, partly indulgent and
sympathetic, partly caustic or contemptuous, but presented all through
with a vein of _persiflage_, mockery, and extravaganza. All this was
amusing and original; but every one of these things is fatal to
sustained and serious art. If an active politician seeks to galvanise
a new party by a series of novels, the romances cannot be works of
literary art. If a young man wants only to advertise his own
smartness, he will not produce a beautiful thing. And if a statesman
out of office wishes to amuse himself by alternate banter and laudation
of the very society which he has led and which looks to him as its
inspiration, the result will be infinitely entertaining, but not a
great work of art. Disraeli therefore with literary gifts of a very
high order never used them in the way in which a true artist works, and
only resorted to them as a means of gaining some practical and even
material end.

But, if Disraeli's ambition led him to political and social triumphs,
for which he sacrificed artistic success and literary honours, we ought
not to be blind to the rare qualities which are squandered in his
books. He did not produce immortal romances--he knew nothing of an