The man who scorns, scoffs, gibes and jeers other men, and at the same time is willing to drop his guard and laugh at himself, is not a bad man.  Very, very seldom is found a man under thirty who does not take himself and all his wit seriously.  But Disraeli, the lawyer’s clerk, at twenty was wise and subtle beyond all men in London Town.  Mrs. Austen must have been wise, too, for had she been like most other good women she would have wanted her protege admired, and have rebelled in tears at the thought of placing him in a position where society would serve him up for tittle-tattle.  Small men can be laughed down, but great ones, never.

A little American testimony as to the appearance of Disraeli in his manhood may not here be amiss.  Says N.P.  Willis:  “He was sitting in a window looking on Hyde Park, the last rays of sunlight reflected from the gorgeous gold flowers of a splendidly embroidered waistcoat.  Patent-leather pumps, a white stick with a black cord and tassel, and a quantity of chains about his neck and pockets, served to make him a conspicuous object.  He has one of the most remarkable faces I ever saw.  He is lividly pale, and but for the energy of his action and strength of his lungs would seem to be a victim of consumption.  His eye is black as Erebus, and has the most mocking, lying-in-wait sort of expression conceivable.  His mouth is alive with a kind of working and impatient nervousness, and when he has burst forth, as he does constantly, with a particularly successful cataract of expression, it assumes a curl of triumphant scorn that would be worthy of Mephistopheles.  His hair is as extraordinary as his taste in waistcoats.  A thick, heavy mass of jet-black ringlets falls on his left cheek almost to his collarless stock, which on the right temple is parted and put away with the smooth carefulness of a girl.  The conversation turned on Beckford.  I might as well attempt to gather up the foam of the sea as to convey an idea of the extraordinary language in which he clothed his description.  He talked like a racehorse approaching the winning-post, every muscle in action.”

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Disraeli, like Byron, awoke one morning and found himself famous.  And like Byron, he was yet a stripling.  Pitt was Prime Minister at twenty-five.  Genius has its example, and Disraeli worshiped alternately at the shrines of Byron and Pitt.  The daring intellect and haughty indifference of Byron, and the compelling power of Pitt—­he saw no reason why he should not unite these qualities within himself.  He had been grubbing in a lawyer’s office, and had revealed decided ability in a business way, but novel-writing in office-hours was not appreciated by his employer—­Ben was told so, and this gave him an opportunity to resign.  He had set his heart on a political career—­he thirsted for power—­and no doubt Mrs. Austen encouraged him in this.  To push a man to the front, and thus win a vicarious triumph, has been a source of great joy to more than one ambitious woman.  To get on in politics, Disraeli must enter the House of Commons.  Even now, with the help of the Austens, and his father’s purse, a pocket borough might be secured, but it was not enough—­he must enter with eclat.