ingenious plot, or a striking situation, or a creative character--but
he did give us inimitable political satires and some delicious social
pantomimes; and he presented these with an original wit in which the
French excel, which is very rare indeed in England. Ask not of
Disraeli more than he professes to give you, judge him by his own
standard, and he will still furnish you with delightful reading, with
suggestive and original thoughts. He is usually inclined to make game
of his reader, his subject, and even of himself; but he lets you see
that he never forgets this, and never attempts to conceal it. He is
seldom dull, never sardonic or cruel, and always clean, healthy, and
decent. His heroines are ideal fairy queens, his heroes are all
visionary and chivalrous nincompoops; and even, though we know that
much of it is whimsical banter and nonsensical fancy, there is an air
of refined extravaganza in these books which may continue to give them
a lasting charm.

The short juvenile drolleries of his restless youth are the least
defective as works of art; and, being brief and simple _jeux d'esprit_
of a rare order, they are entirely successful and infinitely amusing.
_Ixion in Heaven_, _The Infernal Marriage_, and _Popanilla_, are
astonishing products of a lad of twenty-three, who knew nothing of
English society, and who had had neither regular education nor social
opportunities. They have been compared with the social satirettes of
Lucian, Swift, and Voltaire. It is true they have not the fine touch
and exquisite polish of the witty Greek of Samosata, nor the subtle
irony of Voltaire and Montesquieu, nor the profound grasp of the Dean.
But they are full of wit, observation, sparkle, and fun. The style is
careless and even incorrect, but it is full of point and life. The
effects are rather stagey, and the smartness somewhat strained--that
is, if these boyish trifles are compared with _Candide_ and the