These are not the blemishes of his great political novels; but there is in them also, with all their deep thought and striking insight, their absolute originality and stimulating suggestiveness, an air at times of the perfumer’s shop rather than of the fresh air. Even “Sybil” cries out, “Oh! the saints, ’tis a merry morn!” “Coningsby” meets his lady-love at a ball, which “is a dispensation of almost supernatural ecstasy;” and in _Lothair_ itself we revert to “barbs” and “jennets.” I think that these later defects were partly due to the reaction against the constraint, repression, and formality compelled by his political career. They were a reaction in form, but in no case were they artificial in substance. They meant something, and they pressed it home. Disraeli was always a fantastic, and the fantastic holds high rank in literature. It distinguishes Disraeli’s pet, Cervantes. But fantasy is different far from frippery. Fantasy is the flicker of firelight, not the flare of gas. Again, it is always hard for originality to win a first hearing from the public. Browning once remarked in a letter that to fasten the attention of the British public some stroke of style is required. This is true. Browning is himself an example; Carlyle, another; for his early essays completely lack that compound of Jean Paul’s German, and old Mrs. Carlyle’s Scotch, out of which Carlylese was evolved. Ruskin is another instance. Disraeli in his correspondence is far more free and flowing than in his books. Of those books there is least trace of apparent affectation in _Coningsby_, which is the best political novel in any language. Reviewed as a whole, his novels are creative, and a marvellous medium for thought. Some bedizenment there is doubtless, and there are many gauds of fancy; and parts of the characterisation may be said to be written in italics. It is true also that some of the persons are waxworks, but none of the characters are, and his movement of ideas, as well as his ideas of movement, display a flexibility rarely joined to such piercing penetration. Next to his three great political novels and in some respects above them, I would rank _Venetia_, which has never met with such widespread appreciation. _Alroy_ and _Contarini_ are psychological romances, exceptional of their kind. His method of composition was the same throughout his life. He pondered in the night what he penned in the morning. And of his early preparation he has left a memorial--