Political economy as a science was a constant butt for his wit, and in physical science he was dense to a point where his ignorance calls for pity.  He believed in the literal Mosaic account of creation, and said in his paradoxical way on one occasion, that in belief he was not only a Christian, but a Jew.  And this in spite of his most famous mot:  “All sensible men are of one religion.”

“And what is that?”

“Sensible men never tell.”

Had Disraeli been truly sensible he would not have attempted to hold Charles Darwin up to ridicule, by declaring in a speech at Oxford that “it is a choice between apes and angels.”  He had neither the ability, patience, nor inclination to read the “Origin of Species,” and yet was so absurd as to answer it.

In his novels of “Coningsby,” “Sybil” and “Tancred,” he argues with great skill and adroit sophistry that a landed aristocracy is necessary to a progressive civilization.  “The common people need an example of refinement in way of manners, art and intellect.  Some one must take the lead, and reveal the possibility of life in leisurely and luxurious living.”  And this example of beauty, gentleness and excellence was to come from the landed gentry of England—­ye gods!  Was it possible that this man believed in the necessity of the gentry as a virtuous example?  Or did he merely view the fact that the aristocracy were there in actual possession, and as they could not be evicted, why then the next best thing was to cajole, flatter and discreetly advise them?  Who shall say what this man believed!

Sensible men never tell.

But this we know, this man had no vice but ambition.  He conformed pretty closely to England’s ideals, and his thirst for power never caused him to take the chances of a Waterloo.  His novels show a close acquaintanceship with the ways of society, and he knew the human heart as few men ever do.  The degradation of the average toiler in Great Britain, the infamy of the policy extended toward Ireland, and the cruelty of imperialism—­all these he knew, for his books reveal it; but he was powerless as a leader to stem the current of tendency.  He acquiesced where he deemed action futile.

“Lothair” is his best novel, for in it he gets furthest away from himself.  It reveals a cleverness that is admirable, and this same brilliancy and shifty play of intellect are found in “Endymion,” written in his seventy-fifth year.  Whether these novels can ever take their place among the books that endure is a question that is growing more easy to answer each succeeding year.  They owed their popularity more to their flippant cleverness than to their insight, and their vogue was due, to a great extent, to the veiled personalities that interline their pages.

That Disraeli did not carry out all the plans and reforms he attempted, need not be set down to his discredit.  It is fortunate he did not succeed better than he did.  He, however, safely piloted the great ship in the direction the passengers desired to go; and his own personal ambition was reached when he, a Jew at heart—­member of a despised race—­had made himself master of the fleets, armies and treasury of the proudest nation the world has ever known.