It was once said that wit is a point, but humour a straight line. This epigram is inadequate. Wit is no résumé of humour; the two qualities differ in kind. Wit is a department of style; and style is gesture, accent, expression. Wit is the faculty of combining the unlike, by the language of illustration, suggestion, and surprise. It sums up characters, things, and ideas. Like misery, “it yokes strange bedfellows,” but with the link of words alone. It is best when intellectually true, but its requisite is fancy, and its domain expression. Humour, on the other hand, is an exercise of perceptive sympathy; it is the faculty of discerning the incongruous, especially of human nature, in the visible alone; it “looks on this picture and on that;” it is most excellent when ethically sound, but its essence is insight, and its sphere, situation.

No one ever heard of a witty picture, or a humorous epigram. We laugh at humour, whereas at wit we smile. Wit is, as it were, Yorick with cap and bells; but humour unmasks him with a moral. Popular proverbs are the wit of the people; what the crowd laughs at is its humour, and its humour varies in different countries; but the standard of wit is the same in all civilisations. To define wit and humour would require both qualities, but, if I were to try my hand, I would venture to call wit, mirth turned philosopher—humour, philosophy at play.

Disraeli’s wit is at root arabesque. Its filagree flourishes, like the ornaments of the Alhambra, are supported by solid if slender pillars. It is fanciful grace sustained by a poised strength; but it is also tempered by the cheery, if sententious, cynicism of the eighteenth century, in which he had steeped himself from childhood. Its source was racial; but its form and colour were much influenced by Pope, Swift, and Voltaire. He was “a master of sentences.” He delighted to condense thought, as it were, in civilised proverbs, and at the same time to let his terse fancy169 embellish it with subtle and airy flourishes. His paradoxes are almost always thought in a nutshell, and never obscure nonsense in a clever frame. Of his directer wit, a good instance is to be found in his repartee to the crowd at his early Marylebone election: “On what do you stand?” “My head.” Or his remark on the member who solemnly assured the House that he “took” his “stand” on “progress.” “It occurred to me that progress was a somewhat slippery thing to take one’s stand on.” When the late Mr. Beresford Hope’s rather turgid remark on the “golden image set up on the sands of Arabia” provoked Disraeli’s famous phrase, its accompaniment was equally good. He said that there was “a certain prudery” about the honourable member’s eloquence which never failed to fascinate.170 The great Catholic lady who received her guests “with extreme unction” reminds one of Horace Walpole.

Wit, of whatever class, is, roughly speaking, twofold in degree—lightning wit and wit lambent—the wit that strikes sharply, and the pleasantry that shines around its object. In the first Disraeli excelled. Like his own Monsignor, he “sparkles with anecdote and blazes with repartee.” His pages bristle with good things; it is hard to choose. Every one remembers his political retorts and his literary aphorisms. “One whom I will not say that I respect, but rather that I regard.” Another, “Who has learned much, but has still to learn that petulance is not sarcasm, nor insolence invective.” The “conjuror who advances to the edge of the platform, and for hours draws yards of red tape from his mouth.” One quotation against Peel—“Always ready with his Virgil”—that of the Horatian “Vectabor tunc humeris;” and “Is England to be governed by Popkins’ plan?” “Batavian Grace,” “Superior Person,” and the like. Then there are the drunken recruits “full of spirit;” the hansom, the “gondola of London;” the critics, “the men who have failed;”171 Tadpole’s, “Tory men and Whig measures;” and Rigby’s, “little words in great capitals”—these are household words. “Our young Queen, and our old institutions.” There are Diplomatists, “the Hebrews of politics;” St. James’s Square, “the Faubourg St. Germain of London;” the “bad politician” of the ’thirties, who “like a bad shilling has worn off his edge by his very restlessness,” and the enlightened Whig minister “almost eructating with the plenary inspiration of the spirit of the age;” the men of the ’seventies who “played with billiard-balls games that were not billiards,” and the lady of the ’forties who “sacrificed even her lovers to her friends;” stolid bores, our “Social Polyphemi;” books, “the curse of the human race;” of Austria, “two things made her a nation, she was German and she was a Catholic, and now she is neither;” of the Reform Bill, “It gave to Manchester a bishop and to Birmingham a dandy.” And, less familiar, there is “Lord Squib’s” definition of money value, “very dear;” “Count Mirabel’s” pleasantry, “coffee and confidence;” “Essper George’s,” “Like all great travellers, I have seen more than I remember, and remembered more than I have seen;” Venus, the “goddess of watering-places,” and “Burlington” with “his old loves and new dances.” There is the advice in The Young Duke, too, that “good fortune with good management, no country house and no children, is Aladdin’s lamp,” and that in Lothair to “go into the country for the first note of the nightingale and return to town for the first muffin bell.” Then there is the “treatise on a subject in which everybody is interested, in a style no one understands;” and there are the French actresses averring at supper, “No language makes you so thirsty as French;” the English tradesmen who “console themselves for not getting their bills paid by inviting their customers to dinner;” the Utilitarian, whose dogma was “Rules are general, feelings are general, and property should be general;” and the definition of Liberty, “Do as others do, and never knock men down.” There is Monmouth’s “some woman has got hold of him and made him a Whig.” There is the great political lady “who liked handsome people, even handsome women;” and there is the unfortunate third-rate statesman, “who committed suicide from a want of imagination.” Nor should I omit an unprinted mot. He defined a political “Deputation” as “a noun of multitude meaning many, but not signifying much.” He was wont also to distinguish between “lawyers” and “legislators.” A brace of very witty similes also claim a mention here—the comparison of the Parliament-built region of Harley Square to “a large family of plain children with Portland Place and Portman Square for their respectable parents;” and that of the detached breakfast-tables at “Brentham,” to “a cluster of Greek or Italian Republics, instead of a great metropolitan table, like a central government, absorbing all the genius and resources of society.” Further, in the same category are the many metaphorical allusions and descriptions that ornament his speeches. The transference of the Bank currency crisis to the Neapolitan procession and miracle of St. Januarius, both from a common cause, “congealed circulation;” the picture of a maladroit reinforcement of opposition as the exploit of the Turkish Admiral, summoned by the Sultan and blessed by the muftis, to retrieve the war, who yet steered his imposing fleet right into the enemy’s port; and the many illustrations from Cervantes, whose irony they share.

Then, again, there are those terse figurative fancies which belong to the family of those first mentioned. The “Midland Sea” for the Mediterranean; the “Western minster” for Westminster Abbey; the “dark sex” for man; the “free-trader in gossip” for the bad listener; the “confused explanations and explained confusions,” “Stateswoman”172 and “Anecdotage,” which, by-the-by, is a phrase of Isaac Disraeli derived by him in conversation from Rogers173—all these and their kindred remind us that he was the son of an author portrayed by him as sauntering on his garden terrace meditating some happy phrase.

Of the second—the wit of sustained sparkle rather than of sudden flashes—there are abundant examples. There is the passage in which “Lady Constance” in Tancred unconsciously ironises evolution in her criticism of a pamphlet, “The Revelations of Chaos.” There is the lady’s reasoning on the Gulf Stream theory, and “Lothair’s” retort, “You believe in Gulf Stream to that extent—no skating.” There is the pious regret that a boring authoress could not be married to the author of “The Letters of Junius” and “have done with it;” and the pious hope that the Whigs would disfranchise every town without a Peel statue. Then, again, there is “Herbert” in Venetia.

“I doubt whether a man at fifty is the same material being that he is at five-and-twenty.”

“I wonder,” said Lord Cadurcis, “if a creditor brought an action against you at fifty for goods sold and delivered at five-and-twenty, one could set up the want of identity as a plea in bar; it would be a consolation to elderly gentlemen.”

And to go back to an even earlier date—

“What a pity, Miss Manvers, that the fashion has gone out of selling one’s self to the devil!... What a capital plan for younger brothers! It is a kind of thing I have been trying to do all my life, and never could succeed in. I began at school with toasted cheese and a pitchfork.”

Or take the report of the debate in the House of Lords, “imposing, particularly if we take a part in it”—

“Lord Exchamberlain thought the nation going on wrong, and he made a speech full of currency and constitution. Baron Deprivyseal seconded him with great effect, brief but bitter, satirical but sore. The Earl of Quarterday answered these, full of confidence in the nation and himself. When the debate was getting heavy, Lord Snap jumped up to give them something light. The Lords do not encourage wit, and so are obliged to put up with pertness. But Viscount Memoir was very statesmanlike, and spouted a sort of universal history. Then there was Lord Ego, who vindicated his character, when nobody knew he had one, and explained his motives, because his auditors could not understand his acts.”

Or the comparison of the defeated Tories to the Saxons converted by Charlemagne—

“... When the Emperor appeared, instead of conquering, he converted them. How were they converted? In battalions; the old chronicler informs us they were converted in battalions, and baptised in platoons. It was utterly impossible to bring these individuals from a state of reprobation to one of grace with sufficient celerity.”

In his speeches again there is the locus classicus of “the range of exhausted volcanoes”—“not a flame flickers on a single pallid crest.” There are the wonderful political pictures of the “Calabrian Earthquake,” the “ragged regiment that would not march through Coventry—that’s flat;” “Melbourne with his Reform Ministry and Ducrow still professing to ride on three sullen jackasses at once, but sprawling in the sawdust of the arena;” of Peel as the profligate deserting his mistress and “sending down his valet to say, ‘I will have no whining here,’” and a hundred others as good.174 Perhaps “Gamaliel, with all the broad ‘phylacteries on his forehead,’ who ‘comes down to tell us that he is not as other men are,’ in reference to the ‘Cabal’ of 1859, should also be included. This is the ‘parliamentary wit’ which Gladstone avowed unrivalled, and these, the vivid illustrations and metaphors, which he declared supreme in power of ‘summing up characters and situations,’ and fraught with the gift of ‘appealing to the ear and the fancy.’”

But there is also one from The Press of 1853 which is unknown, and claims a memorial. He is referring to the “Coalition” Ministry of 1853—one, as he calls it, of “suspended opinions,” and “resembling the ark into which creatures of the most opposite species walked two by two.” It singles out a magnificent “over-educated mediocrity” among the strait sect of the “Peelites”—those who in Lady Clanricarde’s epigram “were always putting themselves up to auction and buying themselves in again.” It satirises that leader’s protest that he was still a “Conservative,” his announced “regret at the rupture of ancient ties,” his “hope of some future reunion”—

“... Amiable regret! Honourable hope! reminding us of those inhabitants of the South Sea Islands, who never devour their enemies—that would be paying them too great a compliment. They eat up only their own friends and relations with an appetite proportioned to the love that they bear to them. And then they hasten to deck themselves in the feathers and trappings of those thus tenderly devoured in memorial of their regret at the ‘rupture of ancient ties,’ and their ‘hope of some future reunion.’ Do you feel quite safe with your new ally? Do you not dread that the same affectionate tooth will some day be fastened upon your own shoulders?’”

No wonder that Lord Granville—“un radical qui aime la bonne societé”—described Disraeli as a “master” in the literary expression of “praise and blame.”

Last, though not least, should be mentioned Pinto’s dictum on English—

“It is an expressive language, but not difficult to master. Its range is limited. It consists, so far as I can observe, of four words, “nice,” “jolly,” “charming,” and “bore;” and some grammarians add “fond.”

But none knew better than Disraeli that wit unrelieved is metallic. He had a very real perception of the ludicrous, and it was usually of a cast bordering on irony. In boyhood, Disraeli had been a great admirer of Montaigne, one of those authors, as he acknowledged, who “give a spring to the mind;” but I cannot discern any influence of Montaigne’s twinkling stillness on Disraeli’s humour. The humour of Molière and of Sheridan, like that of Fielding, of Hogarth, and of Dickens, is direct and didactic, pointing to the follies and foibles of mankind. That, on the other hand, of Sterne, often of Thackeray, always of Heine, is indirect, inclined to be sentimental, and insinuating with all the machinery of playful surprise, the inconsistencies that enlist feeling or awaken thought. Swift’s grim and creative humour, also, that “knocks off the tallest of heads” with a knotted bludgeon, wielded, however, by an imaginative fierceness, is of the same order; and Swift had been early studied, was constantly quoted, and often imitated by Disraeli. The former is the broadsword of Cœur de Lion; the latter, the scimitar of Saladin. It is of this latter species that Disraeli at his best must be reckoned. It stamps the whole of Popanilla, and much of Ixion, and The Infernal Marriage, and it interleaves both his wit, his argument, and his reflection throughout his novels, and, conspicuously in his triumph, Coningsby.

Take “Lord Monmouth’s” indignant lesson to the hero: “You go with your family, sir, like a gentleman. You are not to consider your opinions like a philosopher or a political adventurer;” or the motive for his bequest of his bust to “Rigby,” “that he might perhaps wish to present it to another friend;” or the same amiable nobleman’s reason for esteeming besides appreciating “Sidonia”—he was so rich that he could not be bought. “A person or a thing that you perhaps could not buy, became,” in his eyes, “invested with a kind of halo amounting almost to sanctity.” “Lord Monmouth,” indeed, and “Rigby” are Disraeli’s masterpieces in this vein; and “Mrs. Guy Flouncey,” who, like “Becky,” “was always sure of an ally the moment the gentlemen entered the drawing-room,” follows at no very remote distance. Take “Waldershare’s” account of England’s ascendency:—

“I must say it was a grand idea of our Kings making themselves sovereigns of the sea. The greater portion of this planet is water, so we at once became a first-rate power.”

Or the Homeric simplicity of the “Ansary” tribe, who believe London to be surrounded by sea, and inquire if the English dwell in ships, and are thus corrected by their would-be interpreter “Keferinis”—

“The English live in ships only during six months of the year—principally when they go to India—the rest entirely at their country houses.”

Similarly, too, is the oblique sarcasm of “Tancred’s” “Fakredeen”—

“... We ought never to be surprised at anything that is done by the English, who are, after all, in a certain sense, savages.... Everything they require is imported from other countries.... I have been assured at Beiroot that they do not grow even their own cotton; but that I can hardly believe. Even their religion is an exotic, and, as they are indebted for that to Syria, it is not surprising they should import their education from Greece.”

So, too, the piteous plight of the two honest servants—“Freeman and Trueman”—who complain to their master, in sight of Sinai, that they “do miss the ‘ome-brewed ale and the family prayers;” and the twice-raised wonder of the “Swells” as to what could drag one of their compeers to Palestine: “I believe Jeremiah somewhere mentions partridges.” Nor should “St. Aldegonde’s sigh”—“of a rebellious Titan”—at refusing to attend morning church at Brentham be forgotten: “Sunday in London is bad, but Sunday in the country is infernal;” or his dainty wife’s elaborate efforts that he should never be bored; or the handsome Duke’s175 daily thanksgiving as he completed his “consummate toilette” that he had a family “worthy of him.”

“Rigby’s” election, too—an excellent example—well illustrates the man to whom the country meant nothing in comparison with the constituency, and to whom his titled patron’s choice of him as executor was a “sublime truth.” The whole scene is one of sustained humour. I will only cite “Rigby’s” “grand peroration.”

“... He assured them that the eyes of the whole empire were on this particular election (cries of ‘That’s true!’ on all sides), and England expected every man to do his duty. ‘And who do you expect to do yours,’ inquired a gentleman below, ‘about that ’ere pension?’...”

Then again, the episode of the Justice of the Peace in Venetia, and this from Endymion—

“The chairman opened the proceedings, but was coldly received, though he spoke sensibly and at some length. He then introduced a gentleman who was absolutely an alderman to move a resolution.... The august position of the speaker atoned for his halting rhetoric; and a city which had only just for the first time been invested with municipal privileges was hushed before a man who might in time even become a mayor.”

So, too, once more; the description of “Armine’s” experiences in the sponging-house, where the only literature was a Hebrew Bible. This is from Henrietta Temple. In Vivian Grey, his first novel, occurs the same whimsical humour that is to be found in his last, Endymion. The German statesman is pointing a gourmet-metaphysician, “stuffing ‘kalte schale’ in a corner.”

“... The leaven of the idealists, a pupil of the celebrated Fichte.... The first principle of this school is to reject all expressions which incline in the slightest degree to substantiality.... Matter is his great enemy. My dear sir, observe how exquisitely Nature revenges herself on these capricious and fantastic children. Methinks that the best answer to the idealism of M. Fichte is to see his pupil devouring kalte schale.”

In Lothair few will forget the hero’s musings after the opera attendant’s “Thank you, my lord” had attested the “overpowering honorarium.”

“‘He knows me,’ thought Lothair; but it was not so. When the British nation is at once grateful and enthusiastic, they always call you ‘my lord.’” And in the same novel occurs the admirable humour of the scene at Muriel Towers, where the new French dance which is remembered and at last arranged by the impromptu good humour and cleverness of “Theodora,” is muddled by “Lord Carisbrook,” who sums up his knowledge by “Newest thing in Paris,” yet, notwithstanding, grins afterwards, quite self-satisfied, with his “I am glad I remembered it.”

There remains this light thrust at London architecture—

“Shall we find refuge in a committee of taste, escape from the mediocrity of one to the mediocrity of many?... One suggestion might be made. No profession in England has done its best until it has furnished its victim. The pure administration of justice dates from the deposition of Macclesfield.... Even our boasted navy never achieved a victory until we shot an admiral. Suppose an architect were hanged!”

And, finally, how admirable is the mock epic of the chef’s dilemma at the opening of Tancred: “It is worthy of Boileau.”

“... ‘What you learned from me,’ says Papa Prevost, ‘came at least from a good school. It is something to have served under Napoleon,’ he added, with the grand air of the imperial kitchen. ‘Had it not been for Waterloo, I should have had the cross. But the Bourbons and the Cooks of the Empire never could understand each other. They brought over an emigrant chef who did not comprehend the taste of the age. He wished to bring everything back to the time of the “œil-de-bœuf.” When Monsieur passed my soup of Austerlitz untasted, I knew the old family was doomed..’... ‘We must muster all our forces,’ says the great Leander. ‘There is a want not only of genius but of men in our art. The Cooks are like the civil engineers: since the middle class have taken to giving dinners, the demand exceeds the supply.’ ‘There is Andrien,’ said Papa Prevost; ‘you had some hopes of him.’ ‘He is too young. I took him to Hellingsley, and he lost his head on the third day. I entrusted the soufflés to him, and but for the most desperate personal exertions, all would have been lost. It was an affair of the Bridge of Arcola.’...” How Lilliput and Brobdingnag here combine! I prefer this epic-fantasy to the lyric-fantasy of Thackeray’s “Mirobolant.”

When Disraeli was out of office for the last term, he was walking with a leading member of the Government that had replaced his own. The statesman asked him how he thought the new Administration was getting on. “Pretty well,” was his answer, “but I like the old-fashioned methods. The first year you do nothing; the second year you talk of doing something; the third year you do something—and succeed; the fourth you do something—and fail; the fifth year you spend in discussing whether it was a failure or not; the sixth, you go to the country, who pronounce that it was.”

Most of these are to some degree fanciful persiflage. Not so the following—a passage alluded to in a note already, and compared with another one from Heine. He is describing the Vintage Feast of Tabernacles, and the passage is the more remarkable because Disraeli’s father instances this very festival as one of the obsolete and fanatical absurdities that unfit the Old Testament religion for its proper fulfilment by the New:—

“Picture to yourself the child of Israel in the dingy suburb or the stolid quarter of some bleak Northern town, where there is never a sun that can at any rate ripen grapes; yet he must celebrate the vintage of purple Palestine.... He rises in the morning, goes early to some Whitechapel market, purchases some willow boughs for which he has previously given a commission, and which are brought probably from one of the neighbouring rivers of Essex, hastens home, cleans out the yard of his miserable tenement, builds his bower, decks it even profusely with the finest flowers and fruit he can procure, and hangs its roof with variegated lamps. After the service of his synagogue, he sups late with his wife and children, as if he were in the pleasant villages of Galilee beneath its sweet and starry sky.... Perhaps as he is offering up the peculiar thanksgiving, ... and his wife and children are joining in a pious ‘Hosanna’—that is, ‘Save us’—a party of Anglo-Saxons, very respectable men, ten-pounders, a little elevated, it may be, though certainly not in honour of the vintage, pass the house, and words like these are heard: ‘I say, Buggins, what’s that row?’ ‘Oh, it’s those cursed Jews! We’ve a lot of them. It’s one of their horrible feasts. The Lord Mayor ought to interfere. However, things are not so bad as they used to be. They used always to crucify little boys at their hullabaloos, but now they only eat sausages made of stinking pork.’ ‘To be sure,’ replies his companion, ‘we all make progress.’”

And there are many pendants to this kind of pathetic humour in the sad vagaries, degraded ignorance, sordid joys and squalid sorrows of the operatives of “Wodgate” so sympathetically presented in Sybil:—

“... ‘They call me Tummas, but I ayn’t got no second name; but now I’m married I mean to take my wife’s, for she has been baptised, and so has got two.’ ‘Yes, sir,’ said the girl with the vacant face and the back like a grasshopper, ‘I be a reg’lar born Christian, and my mother afore me, and that’s what few gals in the yard can say. Thomas will take to it himself when work is slack; and he believes now in Our Lord and Saviour Pontius Pilate, who was crucified to save our sins, and in Moses, Goliath, and the rest of the apostles.’ ‘Ah, me!’ thought Morley, ‘and could not they spare one missionary from Tahiti for their fellow-countrymen at Wodgate?’”

I must turn to the romantic and the picturesque in Disraeli’s fiction. It is a large subject, but it need not necessitate a long treatment.

The Brontës and Bulwer Lytton, in opposed spheres and with opposite material, are perhaps the only modern pure romantics in English fiction, before the romantic revival of the last twenty years or so had set in. In the early nineteenth century Sir Walter Scott had headed another romantic revival. Miss Austen, however,—the miniaturist of realism—recalled fiction in her delicate manner to the beaten high-road of the eighteenth. Dickens, romantic by instinct, dwelt on the horrible and grotesque, and was more melodramatic than strictly romantic. Thackeray, sternly combating the infinite romance of his own nature, disclaimed a hero, and proved sentimental rather than romantic. Trollope, who photographed feeling, abominated romance. George Eliot set out as a romantic, but she soon became gloriously whelmed in the vortex of scientific psychology. Others, who lack her imagination, have since followed in her track. We have been treated to analytic presentations of life, where some five persons engage in a mutual war of motive, and the very reasons for turning a door-handle are minutely involved in character. On the one hand, we had the English and French sensationalists elaborately unravelling mysteries; on the other, the boudoir psychologists as elaborately anatomising moods. The great “naturalist” school supervened with its claims to scientise misery. Victor Hugo’s romanticism was doomed by the merciless lancet of these literary surgeons. And throughout—even now, in the main, using “romance” more with regard to situation and expression than to events—the purely and simply heroic and adventurous has lost ground. Mind rather than action engrossed a great part of late nineteenth-century fiction.

With all faults, native and imposed, Disraeli proclaimed in his novels, in those which were political fairy-tales, as in those which were not, “adventures are to the adventurous;” and this very phrase, too, occurs in his earliest satire. Contarini Fleming was originally styled “The Psychological Romance;” Alroy is undoubtedly a romance historical; The Young Duke, a romance of fashion; Vivian Grey, one both of fashion and of ambition; Venetia, of biography; Henrietta Temple, of love; and the rest, romances of the world’s actors and action.

But the extraordinary is merely the mantle of romanticism proper. Its method is everything. It is one that brings up before us at once the thing seen and the man seeing. It releases individuality from stereotyped shackles, it transfers interest from achievement to achievement’s atmosphere, and it lends to landscape-painting the same element that it lends to character-drawing.

The French separate their terms in distinguishing between real and feigned romance. The one they call romantique; the other, romanesque. The really romantic in fiction is so to write as to import into the interest of the extraordinary the interest also of the author’s temperament. Both the unusual subject and the imparted atmosphere are requisites. Rasselas is an unusual subject sententiously treated. It is parable, not romance. The Song of the Shirt is an, alas! commonplace theme transfigured by sympathy. It is pathetic, not romantic. Sir Walter Scott, however, is romantic par excellence. We are sure that his background is unusual, and he stamps his individuality on the foreground. So, too, with his pictures of scenery. The writer’s heart, rather than his head, pervades the perspective. The unromantic author is a showman, the romantic author an actor. The one fits character to persons; the other from persons evolves character. The romantic reveals the wonderful to us by personal feeling. Ruskin once defined the picturesque as “parasitical sublimity;” Carlyle, too (as romantic and picturesque himself as Ruskin), denounces the faculty in which he excelled. But these thinkers failed, perhaps, to grasp that the root of the most beautiful impressions is association interwoven with memory, fancy, affection, even superstition, and the symbols of very names. Strip Venice of her climate, rob man of his memory, and where is the Venice that Ruskin adored? Absolute beauty does exist, but rarely; and we atone for imperfections by supplementing it with the endearments of outward accident. It is Nature’s own method; she garlands the rift of ruins with her greenery. The dead letter sleeps in literature as in life, of which literature ought to be the most sensitive mirror. Warmth is as indispensable as light; and if fiction is to remain an art and not sink into a false science, the dry bones of hard facts must be made to live. By these means, too, the personal influence of great writers is most practically preserved. The wonderful in Nature can never be unnatural. It is only the affectation of it that is so—and that is usually accompanied by Mrs. Malaprop’s “nice derangement of epitaphs.”

Now, so far as Disraeli’s characters merely typify—and they do often—causes or movements, they are not romantic, however picturesque their garb. But so far as they do not, they are essentially romantic, and, where politicians in council are not concerned, this is constantly the case.

Nothing can be more romantic, both in matter and manner, than the first introduction of “Sidonia.” The “Princess Lucretia Colonna” in Coningsby, is romance incarnate. “Morley,” again, in Sybil is a most romantic figure. The whole episode of the “Baronis,” in Tancred, is genuinely and strikingly romantic. So is the figure of “Theodora” in Lothair; and all these occur in political novels. But in the non-political they abound. The early squibs are, perhaps, the only romantic skits in our language. Vivian Grey, too, is full of romance, and comprises the romantic drolleries of “Essper George,” a modern Sancho. The whole of Venetia and all the action of Contarini are romantic; so is his only and halting drama, Alarcos. Though at times, and from causes which I shall consider, there is in these early novels something of old Drury, and too much occasionally of the “Ha!-and-Pah!” attitude, these are only blemishes in the costume; the figures remain romantic.

But it is, perhaps, in the short but charming descriptions of character and of scenery that Disraeli best showed his powers for the romantic and the picturesque. Take the character of “Fakredeen;” take even the character of Sir Robert Peel in the Life of Lord George Bentinck. Take a hundred touches from his Home Letters, and those to his sister and family. He there says that “description is a bore,” but he contrived in a few strokes to picture without describing. The sunset at Athens, “like the neck of a dove.” His vignettes of the Parthenon, of the Lagoons, of Jerusalem, of Syria, both here and in Contarini, Tancred, and Lothair, are etched by a master-hand.

Disraeli casts over his scenes the reflected glow of associative feeling. Peruse the beautiful rendering of “Marney Abbey” in Sybil (too long to quote). It is essentially a placid scene romantically described, with an individual feeling of soft regret and tender awe communicated to the dreamy landscape. It proves his delight in what he called “the sweet order of country life;” his feeling for the “order of the peasantry ... succeeded by a race of serfs who are called labourers and burn ricks.”

If we would note the contrast in unromantic writers of genius, we have only to re-read Jane Austen’s description of Northanger Abbey, where, be it marked, in purposely deriding the false romance of a girl’s sickly fancy, she must have desired to depict the demesne with every impressive attribute.

And take this from Tancred: “Sometimes the land is cleared, and he finds himself by the homestead of a forest farm.... Still advancing the deer become rarer, and the road is formed by an avenue of chestnuts.... Persons are moving to and fro on the side-path of the road. Horsemen and carts seem returning from market; women with empty baskets, and then the rare vision of a stage-coach. The postillion spurs his horses, cracks his whip, and dashes at full gallop into the town of Montacute, the capital of the forest.... Nor does this green domain terminate till it touches the vast and purple moors that divide the kingdoms of Great Britain.”

The effects of light play a leading part in Disraeli’s landscapes.

“... Nor is there, indeed, a sight” (of Mont Blanc in Contarini) “more lovely than to watch at decline of day the last embrace of the sun lingering on the rosy glaciers. Soon, too soon, the great luminary dies; the warm peaks subside into purple, and then die into a ghostly white: but soon, and not too soon, the moon springs up from behind a mountain, flings over the lake a stream of light, and the sharp glaciers glitter like silver.”

This, too, of night in Venice—

“... The music and the moon reign supreme.... Around on every side are palaces and temples rising from the waves which they shadow with their solemn form, their costly fronts rich with the spoils of kingdoms and softened with the magic of the midnight beam. The whole city, too, is poured forth for festival. The people lounge on the quays and cluster on the bridges; the light barks skim along in crowds, just touching the surface of the water, while their bright prows of polished iron gleam in the moonshine and glitter in the rippling wave. Not a sound that is not graceful—the tinkle of guitars, the sighs of serenaders, and the responsive chorus of gondoliers. Now and then a laugh, light, joyous, and yet musical, bursts forth from some illuminated coffee-house, before which a buffo disports....”

Here, again, is an English summer morning from Sybil—

“A bloom was spread over the morning sky; a soft golden light bathed with its fresh sheen the bosom of the valley, except where a delicate haze rather than a mist still partially lingered over the river, which yet occasionally gleamed and sparkled in the sunshine. A sort of shadowy lustre suffused the landscape, which, though distinct, was mitigated in all its features—the distant woods, the clumps of tall trees that rose about the old grey bridge, the cottage chimneys that sent their smoke into the blue, still air, amid their clustering orchards and gardens, flowers and herbs.”

There are many more such studies of light in home landscape, and not least in Lothair. And these are all renderings of scenery, and not scene-painting. In those abroad I might have included, too, the German Twilight from Vivian Grey, and the Grecian Sunset from Contarini, each dashed off with speed, yet each breathing a delicate and pensive peace.

Another feature of his pencil is its fondness for and studied conversance with the forms, and even the sounds, of trees. Their “various voices” are introduced with effect into the storm in Vivian Grey. As years went on, this love of trees grew stronger. It is expressly mentioned as the hobby of his old age by Lady John Manners. There is not one of his novels where the varieties of wood and forest are not handled with distinctness and affectionate observation. “Contarini’s” pet tree is oak. In Endymion is a park entirely of ilex. A glade at “Hurstley” is “bounded on each side with masses of yew, their dark green forms now studded with crimson berries.” “Nigel Penruddock,” the Tractarian, lolls “on the turf amid the old beeches and the juniper;” and in the woods of a castle in Vivian Grey, “There was the elm with its rich branches bending down like clustering grapes; there was the wide-spreading oak with its roots fantastically gnarled; there was the ash with its smooth bark, and the silver beech, and the gracile birch, and the dark fir affording with its rough foliage a contrast to the trunks of its more beautiful companions, or shooting far above their branches with a spirit of freedom worthy of a rough child of the mountains.” “Elegant” and “gracile” in this boyish sketch are Johnsonese, it is true; but its romantic faculty is evident. He delighted, too, in Elizabethan gardens and Italian parterres; and he has drawn, both in outward and inward outline, suggestive and romantic presentments of Oxford, Cambridge, and Eton.

And he could paint the marvellous to perfection. In Alroy, the magic ravine over which the hero must cross to win his talisman, rises before the view with the detail of reality: so does the ideal island of Popanilla. So—and they really belong to the marvellous—do the great country seats of “Montacute,” “Hellingsley,” “Beaumanoir,” “Alhambra,” “Château Désir,” “Hainault,” “Princewood,” and “Muriel Towers.” There are pictures, besides, of Seville, Cairo, and the Frankfort Fair. I could have subjoined the flaming castle in Sybil, the Derby in Endymion, the bull-fight in Contarini, the desert in Alroy, the mountain storm in Vivian Grey. But I prefer his tranquil pictures, and perhaps one of the best is the “Cherbury” in Venetia.

Another prominent characteristic of his romance was its fondness for London and the suburbs, the beauty of which, he always held, was only half appreciated. “Airy” Brompton and “merry” Kensington, with its young Queen “in a palace in a garden,” touched his fancy; and the Georgian pleasaunces of Roehampton, the antiquer abodes of Sheen dedicated to Swift, Temple, and Stella, and the deer-haunted woodland of Richmond Park still breathing of Anne, and Ormonde, Pope, and Thomson, and Walpole; even, too, the Regency villas of Wimbledon. A few romantic strokes in Henrietta Temple thus etch the Park of London:—

“At the end of a long sunny morning, ... where can we see such beautiful women and gallant cavaliers, such fine horses and such brilliant equipages? The scene, too, is worthy of such agreeable accessories; the groves, the gleaming waters, and the triumphal arches. In the distance the misty heights of Surrey and the bowery glades of Kensington.” And readers of Lothair will remember with what romance he clothes an early June morning in Bond Street, and how, out of the prismatic hues of the fishmonger’s shop, he weaves a garland of gay fancies; nor will he forget St. James’s Street—that “celebrated eminence” in Endymion. But it was more serious London that he admired most. The foreign crannies of Soho and the dingy length of Marylebone have both been explored by him. The Strand and the City purlieus, however, were his favourites. The quaint sites, the busy romances of the now grimy riverside, the historic names, the contrast of outside flurry with inside repose, the dwelling-houses of a past age rich with its art but now reserved for musty parchments or massive ledgers, fascinated him. “It is at Charing Cross,” he avers, that “London becomes more interesting.” This is how he limns one of finance’s headquarters:—

“In a long, dark, narrow, crooked street, which is still called a lane, and which runs from the south side of the street of the Lombards towards the river, there is one of these old houses of a century past.... A pair of massy iron gates of elaborate workmanship separates the street from its spacious and airy courtyard, which is formed on either side by a wing of the mansion, itself a building of deep red brick, with a pediment and pilasters and copings of stone; in the middle of the plot there is a small garden plot inclosing a fountain, and a very fine plane tree. The stillness, doubly effective after the tumult just quitted, the lulling voice of the water, the soothing aspect of the quivering foliage, the noble building and the cool and spacious quadrangle—the aspect even of those who enter, and frequently enter, the precincts, and who are generally young men gliding in and out earnest and full of thought—all contribute to give to this locality something of the classic repose of a college, instead of a place agitated with the most urgent interests of the current hour.”

London’s motley vastness, too, and magnetism of attraction were constantly his themes. “... It is a wonderful place, ... this London; a nation, not a city; with a population greater than some kingdoms, and districts as different as if they were under different governments, and spoke different languages.” And yet (of “Lothair”), “I have been living here six months, and my life has been passed in a park, two or three squares, and half a dozen streets!”

In Vivian Grey Disraeli whimsically observed that literature was declining in the ’twenties through a wealth grown so luxurious as to rank it with “ottomans, bonbons, and pier-glasses.” “Consols at a hundred were the origin of all book societies. There is nothing like a fall in consols to bring the blood of our good people of England into good order.”

Consols have now fallen, and maybe literature is reviving. Certain I am that, when its revival becomes pronounced, it will be through the invigoration of romance. The strange need not be sought in the remote. Wordsworth found it in “laughing daffodils,” as truly as Byron in the Corsair. Unromantic matter, romantically treated, is more refreshing than romantic matter unquickened by personal feeling—by