have a ground.  Disraeli, in truth, belongs to that very small group of real political satirists of whom Swift is the type.  He is not the equal of the terrible Dean; but it may be doubted if any Englishman since Swift has had the same power of presenting vivid pictures and decisive criticisms of the political and social organism of his times.  It is this Aristophanic gift which Swift had.  Voltaire, Montesquieu, Rabelais, Diderot, Heine, Beaumarchais had it.  Carlyle had it for other ages, and in a historic spirit.  There have been far greater satirists, men like Fielding and Thackeray, who have drawn far more powerful pictures of particular characters, foibles, or social maladies.  But since Swift we have had no Englishman who could give us a vivid and amusing picture of our political life, as laid bare to the eye of a consummate political genius.

It must be admitted that, with all the rare qualities of Disraeli’s literary work, he hardly ever took it quite seriously, or except as an interlude and with some ulterior aim.  In his early pieces he simply sought to startle the town and to show what a wonderfully clever young fellow had descended upon it.  In his later books, such as Coningsby, Sybil, and Tancred, he wished to propound a new party programme. Lothair was a picture of British society, partly indulgent and sympathetic, partly caustic or contemptuous, but presented all through with a vein of persiflage, mockery, and extravaganza.  All this was amusing and original; but every one of these things is fatal to sustained and serious art.  If an active politician seeks to galvanise a new party by a series of novels, the romances cannot be works of literary art.  If a young man wants only to advertise his own smartness, he will not produce a beautiful thing.  And if a statesman out of office wishes to amuse himself by alternate banter and laudation of the very society which he has led and which looks to him as its inspiration, the result will be infinitely entertaining, but not a great work of art.  Disraeli therefore with literary gifts of a very high order never used them in the way in which a true artist works, and only resorted to them as a means of gaining some practical and even material end.

But, if Disraeli’s ambition led him to political and social triumphs, for which he sacrificed artistic success and literary honours, we ought not to be blind to the rare qualities which are squandered in his books.  He did not produce immortal romances—­he knew nothing of an ingenious plot, or a striking situation, or a creative character—­but he did give us inimitable political satires and some delicious social pantomimes; and he presented these with an original wit in which the French excel, which is very rare indeed in England.  Ask not of Disraeli more than he professes to give you, judge him by his own standard, and he will still furnish you with delightful reading, with suggestive and original thoughts.