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To tell the story of Disraeli’s thirty years in Parliament would be to write the political history of the time. He was in the front of every fight; he expressed himself on every subject; he crossed swords with the strongest men of his age. That he had no great and overpowering convictions on any subject is fully admitted now, even by his most ardent admirers–it was always a question of policy; that is to say, he was a politician. He gave a point here and there when he had to, and when he did, always managed to do it gracefully. When he ambled over from one party to another he affected a fine wrath and gave excellent reasons.

Three times he was Chancellor of the Exchequer, and twice was he Prime Minister, and for a time actual Dictator. But he took good care not to exercise his power too severely. When his word was supreme, the safety of the nation lay, as it always does, in a strong opposition.

In one notable instance was Disraeli wrong in his prophecies–he declared again and again that Free Trade meant commercial bankruptcy. Yet Free Trade came about, and the fires were started in ten thousand factories, and such prosperity came to England as she had never known before.

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.