That such grave words as these should explain and not hinder the romances of Disraeli is the highest tribute to his skill. And not only did he understand the proper conduct of his fable; not only did he know how to interweave political philosophy in his fiction ; he possessed a fine talent for the portrayal of character. Leander and the other cooks of Shepherd's Market show a keen perception of their kind, which Thackeray in his Mirobolant panted after and did not reach. His Tapers and his Tadpoles are eternally enduring types. The characters of the men, whom he had seen and known, are drawn with equal courage and vision. Contrast Rigby and Monmouth with Wenham and Steyne, and you will have no doubt where to award the preference. Disraeli, in brief, though he pursued the craft of fiction in the leisure snatched from the exacting business of politics, was so lavishly endowed by nature that he claimed and still holds a high and separate place among our novelists.

VII.

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-A POSTHUMOUS FRAGMENT 1

The fragment of Disraeli's unfinished novel bears upon every line the true mark of authenticity. It is alive with wit, and vivid with character. Brief as it is, it is long enough to give its author the opportunity of realising, by a few deft touches, half a dozen personages, whom we should hardly have known better had the story been carried to its appointed end. Moreover, it is, like all Disraeli's best works, an

1 An Unpublished Novel (London: The Times), 1905.

admirable specimen of satiric presentation. Its irony is not savage, as is Fielding's; perhaps it bites no less shrewdly because it is expressed with the unfailing gentleness of good humour. Here, as elsewhere, Disraeli turns upon the country, which he governed and loved, an eye of playful contempt; with perfect impartiality he holds up to ridicule an amiable family of the middle-class, and the noble lord who patronises it; and in the background you see faintly outlined the mysterious denizens of the East, who would presently have unravelled all the difficulties of the situation, even if in the process they had brought upon the world that destruction which, as one of them says, 'must be welcomed in every form.'

In the opening chapter Disraeli once again competes with Thackeray. Wilberforce Falconet, like Thomas Newcome, resides at Clapham, taking an equal pride in his piety and his pine-apples. The life of this respectable merchant in his respectable suburb is described with exquisite raillery. His religion does not dim his sense of a bargain, and, devoted as he is to psalmody and other exercises, he plays the part at home of an 'affectionate despot.' Mrs. Falconet, 'the founder of many institutions and the soul of all,' is no unworthy companion for her husband. Schools and hymns, and Bible-classes and tract distributions and industrial homes engrossed her life,' and her husband not only admired her prettiness but sympathised with her pursuits. It was no wonder, then, that the young gentlemen of Clapham Common 'yielded to the

blended spell of religious devotion, female charms, and the most comfortable and piously luxurious domestic establishment in the whole neighbourhood.' And no one of them all was so profoundly religious or so highly accomplished as Joseph Toplady Falconet, the merchant's youngest son.

Now, in Joseph Toplady Falconet, Disraeli has drawn the best portrait of the youthful Gladstone that we have. It is true that it is but a sketch, and that the novelist carries his hero no further than to the door of the House of Commons. Ex pede Herculem, and from these few pages we can divine what Gladstone's portrait would have been when Disraeli's hand had perfected it. Moreover, in one sense, Gladstone's career was singularly homogeneous. He changed all his opinions several times; he never changed his character a jot. Even Lord Morley's excellent Life does but repeat with infinite variety the same story. And, since one episode may symbolise a career as clearly as a hundred, the biography of the greatest man must needs suffer from monotony. For me the interest of Lord Morley's Life of Gladstone culminates when, in 1832, the hero first stood for Newark. It will be remembered that on that occasion he rode on the mailcoach to London. It was a Sunday, and he beguiled the tedium of the journey by discussing the question of Sunday travelling with a Tory countryman. Not only did he condemn the practice with severity, but he gave some tracts to his companion; and after this the Life of Gladstone is a mere anti-climax. In one moment of

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confidence he reveals not only what he is, but what he will be. He announces that he is a law unto himself, that those things are permitted to him which others must avoid as deadly sins. In the very moment of crime he can present an accomplice with a tract, and in this one action makes clear all the puzzles of an intricate career.

Disraeli knew nothing of the journey to Newark; he did not spend his years in the study of Gladstone's archives; his quick wit discerned the youthful character of the man. He tells us that Joseph Toplady Falconet was of singular precocity, ‘a grave boy, and scarcely ever known to smile.' His distinguishing characteristic was 'a complete deficiency in the sense of humour, of which he seemed quite debarred.' Here is a glimpse of the Oxford graduate, who gave away tracts on the London coach. And the young Falconet resembled his original at many other points. He displayed also a disputatious temper, and was gifted with a flow of language, which, even as a child, was ever at command to express his arguments.' To what could such a youth aspire, after a demure career at public school and university, but to Parliamentary eminence? Falconet, too, like Gladstone, was determined to support the Church from without. Firm in his faith in an age of dissolving creeds, he wished to believe that he was ordained to vindicate the sublime cause of religious truth.' He did not long await an opportunity. A noble lord offered him a seat, he delivered a famous oration on the

slave trade in the Red Sea, and his triumph was assured.

Though the portrait is so close to life as to be unmistakable, some ingenious persons have suggested that Joseph Toplady Falconet was intended for Macaulay, because he was born on Clapham Common. The reason is wholly inadequate. It is no part of the novelist's business to cultivate a mechanical accuracy. It is enough for him to tell the essential truth. Though Gladstone went from Liverpool to Eton, he was essentially a native of Clapham. Moreover, Falconet resembles Macaulay in nothing else than a lack of humour, and we do not know why Disraeli should have been at the pains to represent the distinguished historian in the light of a statesman. Nor is Joseph Toplady the only character perfectly realised. The noble lord is suggested in a few strokes —urbane, witty, and not a little contemptuous. 'I wish I had asked permission to bring Lady Bertram with me,' says he, after the family party, at which a long grace before and after meat had taken the place of a religious ceremony. And you feel that Disraeli is smiling at his lordship, as well as at his zealous hosts. Still better is Lord Gaston, a clever reminiscence of the early 'forties, a clever, disillusioned young man, who might have played his part in Coningsby or Sybil. He is tired of politics, because he is convinced that 'Parliaments are played out.' And the failure of Parliaments is not the worst sign of a feeble age. 'Nothing is so exhausted,' says he, ‘as the human race