Beyond apparently imposing upon Sir Stafford Northcote, Disraeli himself never made any vain pretensions to be devoted to pursuits for which he did not care a rap.  He once dreamt of an epic poem, and his early ambition urged him a step or two in that direction, but his critical faculty, which, despite all his monstrosities of taste, was vital, restrained him from making a fool of himself, and he forswore the muse, puffed the prostitute away, and carried his very saleable wares to another market, where his efforts were crowned with prodigious success.  Sir William Fraser introduces his great man to us as observing, in reply to a question, that revenge was the passion which gives pleasure the latest.  A man, he continued, will enjoy that when even avarice has ceased to please.  As a matter of fact, Disraeli himself was neither avaricious nor revengeful, and, as far as one can judge, was never tempted to be either.  This is the fatal defect of almost all Disraeli’s aphorisms:  they are dead words, whilst the words of a true aphorism have veins filled with the life of their utterer.  Nothing of this sort ever escaped the lips of our modern Sphinx.  If he had any faiths, any deep convictions, any rooted principles, he held his tongue about them.  He was, Sir William tells us, an indolent man.  It is doubtful whether he ever did, apart from the preparation and delivery of his speeches, what would be called by a professional man a hard day’s work in his life.  He had courage, wit, insight, instinct, prevision, and a thorough persuasion that he perfectly understood the materials he had to work upon and the tools within his reach.  Perhaps no man ever gauged more accurately or more profoundly despised that ‘world’ Sir William Fraser so pathetically laments.  For folly, egotism, vanity, conceit, and stupidity, he had an amazing eye.  He could not, owing to his short sight, read men’s faces across the floor of the House, but he did not require the aid of any optic nerve to see the petty secrets of their souls.  His best sayings have men’s weaknesses for their text.  Sir William’s book gives many excellent examples.  One laughs throughout.

Sir William would have us believe that in later life Disraeli clung affectionately to dulness—­to gentle dulness.  He did not want to be surrounded by wits.  He had been one himself in his youth, and he questioned their sincerity.  It would almost appear from passages in the book that Disraeli found even Sir William Fraser too pungent for him.  Once, we are told, the impenetrable Prime Minister quailed before Sir William’s reproachful oratory.  The story is not of a cock and a bull, but of a question put in the House of Commons by Sir William, who was snubbed by the Home Secretary, who was cheered by Disraeli.  This was intolerable, and accordingly next day, being, as good luck would have it, a Friday, when, as all men and members know, ’it is in the power of any member to bring forward any topic he may choose,’ Sir William naturally chose the topic nearest to his heart, and ’said a few words on my wrongs.’