Helena.

In judging these remarkable works, we ought to remember that they are
not primarily romances at all, that they do not compete with genuine
romances, and they ought to be read for the qualities they have, not
for those in which they fail. They are in part autobiographical
sketches, meditations on society, historical disquisitions, and
political manifestoes. They are the productions of a statesman aiming
at a practical effect, not of a man of letters creating a work of
imaginative art. The creative form is quite subsidiary and
subordinate. It would be unreasonable to expect in them elaborate
drawing of character, complex plot, or subtle types of contemporary
life. Their aim is to paint the actual political world, to trace its
origin, and to idealise its possible development. And this is done,
not by an outside man of letters, but by the very man who had conquered
a front place in this political world, and who had more or less
realised his ideal development. They are almost the only pictures of
the inner parliamentary life we have; and they are painted by an artist
who was first and foremost a great parliamentary power, of consummate
experience and insight. If the artistic skill were altogether absent,
we should not read them at all, as nobody reads Lord Russell's dramas
or the poems of Frederick the Great. But the art, though unequal and
faulty, is full of vigour, originality, and suggestion. Taken as a
whole, they are quite unique.

_Coningsby; or, the New Generation_, was the earliest and in some ways
the best of the trilogy. It is still highly diverting as a novel, and,
as we see to-day, was charged with potent ideas and searching
criticism. It was far more real and effective as a romance than
anything Disraeli had previously written. There are scenes and