which in that day governed English political life. As time went on, he
became surer than ever of the degeneracy of modern society, and he began
to despair of discovering any cure for it. In _Tancred_ he laid aside in
great measure his mood of satirical extravagance. The whole of this book
is steeped in the colours of poetry--of poetry, that is to say, as the
florid mind of Disraeli conceived it. It opens--as all his books love to
open--with the chronicle of an ardent and innocent boy's career. This is
commonplace, but when Tancred, who is mainly the author's customary type
of young Englishman born in the purple, arrives in the Holy Land, a
flush of pure romance passes over the whole texture of the narrative.
Real life is forgotten, and we move in a fabulous, but intensely
picturesque, world of ecstasy and dream.

The Prerogation of Judaism, as it had been laid down by Sidonia in
_Coningsby_, is emphasised and developed, and is indeed made the central
theme of the story in _Tancred_. This novel is inspired by an outspoken
and enthusiastic respect for the Hebrew race and a perfect belief in its
future. In the presence of the mighty monuments of Jerusalem, Disraeli
forgets that he is a Christian and an ambitious member of the English
Parliament. His only solicitude is to recover his privileges as a Jew,
and to recollect that he stands in the majestic cradle of his race. He
becomes interpenetrated with solemn mysticism; a wind of faith blows in
his hair. He cries, "God never spoke except to an Arab," and we are
therefore not surprised to find an actual Divine message presently
pronounced in Tancred's ears as he stands on the summit of Mount Sinai.
This is, perhaps, the boldest flight of imagination which occurs in the
writings of Disraeli. Tancred endeavours to counteract the purely
Hebraic influences of Palestine by making a journey of homage to
Astarte, a mysterious and beautiful Pagan queen--an "Aryan," as he loves
to put it--who reigns in the mountains of Syria. But even she does not