should be in the negative, then will he, without a pang, hurl his lyre to Limbo." As the public laughed at the poem, nothing more has been heard of the sequel of the Revolutionary Epic.

After the lapse of a few years, Mr. Disraeli again appeared before the public in a succession of novels. Abandoning the ultra-romantic style he had adopted in the Wondrous Tale of Alroy, and the ultra-sardonic manner of Vivian Grey, he consented to enter upon a more beaten track, in which, by dint of perseverance and hard work, he was soon enabled to get ahead of most of his contemporaries. Henrietta Temple, Venetia, and The Young Duke, were rather sickening in their love passages, but the stories were well told. Violette the Danseuse was a charming tale, though there was about it rather too much of the "Man about Town." His later tales are well known; they are certainly his best. Coningsby, published in 1844; Sybil, in 1845; and Tancred, in 1847.

Coningsby and Sybil are of a strongly political character; they might almost be regarded as a sort of official state papers, embodying the theories of Young England as to politics, society, and history. Coningsby was hailed, on its appearance, as an exceedingly clever novel-clever in the higher acceptation of the term. It showed moral courage, mental independence, and worthy aims. It showed, on the writer's part, a strong desire to make Conservatism popular: and even while scouting democracy, he made his court to it. Coningsby is eminently a novel of progress; it might almost be termed democratic. The pictures of the aristocracy and their toadies, given there, do not make us fall in love with them-perhaps were not intended. In delineating the corruption of the rotten boroughs, though Disraeli may not equal Thackeray, or Dickens, he yet furnishes us with capital pictures, broadly painted, full of truthful vigour. His Rigby, Monmouth, Taper and Tadpole, will not soon be forgotten.

But it is difficult to ascertain from these novels, or even from Mr. Disraeli's speeches, what his precise principles are. One thing he is very enthusiastic about, and that is, the Judaic element in civilization, and he from time to time cries up "the pure Caucasian breed, the Venetian origin of the British Constitution." But his notions about the said British Constitution, are very peculiar. He decries the representative part of it, which many take to be its vital element. He sets the Press and Public Opinion above the Parliament. "Opinion," says he, is now supreme, and speaks in print. The representation of the Press is far more complete than the representation of Parliament. Parliamentary representation was the happy device of a ruder age, to which it was admirably adapted; an age of semicivilization, when there was a leading class in the community; but it exhibits many symptoms of desuetude. It is now controlled by a system of representation more vigorous and comprehensive." And then he goes on to say that "If we are forced to revolutions, let us propose to our consideration the idea of a free monarchy established on fundamental laws, itself the apex of a vast pile of municipal and local government, ruling an educated people, represented by a free and intellectual Press;" in fact, a kind of parental despotism, or combination of absolutism and democracy, such as we now see being tried on the other side of the English channel. All this may seem rather destructive in its tendencies. Indeed, Mr. Disraeli's forte is not constructiveness: he is good at pulling down; but any hodman can do this. The great practical genius must show how he can build. If we were called upon, after a perusal of Mr. Disraeli's writings and speeches, to give a definition of his politics, we should say,-his senti

ments are Tory, his presentiments are Radical; he feels like a Paladin, he thinks like a Republican. As for his proper political party, though he may at present be the leader of a party, his own is really to make yet. He has but few sympathies with the men whom he now leads, and they have few or none with him. The Buckingham county aristocracy turn up their noses at him, of course snubbing him therewith; but let these and other county magnates beware how they spit upon the Jewish gabardine. He may plant his foot upon their necks yet. He has himself publicly stated in the House of Commons that he had little sympathy for either of the great political parties into which the public men of this country have heretofore been divided; and in Coningsby, while he avers that "the Whigs are worn out," and "Radicalism is polluting," he also emphatically declares that "Conservatism is a sham."

Indeed, Mr. Disraeli is a thorough sceptic as regards all that we denominate social progress. He scouts it as a delusion, and represents it as a hoax. This is made very clear in his last and most matured novel, called Tancred. As the Edinburgh Review observed, in noticing the work on its appearance,"All that we are accustomed most to admire and desiderate, all that we are wont to rest upon as most stable amid the fluctuating fortunes of the world,—the progress of civilization, the development of human intelligence, the co-ordinate extension of power and responsibility among the masses of mankind, the advance of self-reliance and self-control,-all, in truth, for which not we alone, but all other nations, have been yearning, and fighting, and praying for the last three centuries,-all that has been done by the Reformation, by the English and French Revolutions, by American Independence, -is here proclaimed an entire delusion and failure; and we are taught that we can now only hope to improve our future by utterly renouncing our past."

Tancred falls back upon an old idea of Mr. Disraeli's, the supremacy of the Jewish race, and their alleged prerogative of being at once the moral ruler and political master of humanity. Indeed, we are strongly impressed with the idea that this distinguished man's life and opinions have been in no small degree influenced by the fact of his own peculiar origin and ancestry. We say this in no offensive or hostile spirit. But a man cannot ignore his own blood: and of all other races of men, the "peculiar people" cling the most tenaciously to their traditions, and kindred, and ancestry. A Jew never becomes inspired by the national spirit of the people among whom he lives; he is a Jew still his home and country are in the East, -still in the promised land. What is more, he cannot sympathize fully with the ideas of progress and civilization entertained by other races. neither inspired by the military and adventurous spirit of the Celt, nor the colonizing, laborious enterprise of the Saxon. He never clings to the soil until it becomes native to him. Though centuries pass away, the Jewish family remains the same. It never merges nor subsides, like the Saxon, Dane, or Norman, into the nation amid which it has planted itself. Like the Gipsy, the Jewish blood refuses to mingle with the general blood of men.

He is

This essential characteristic of the Jew will be found to form the true key to Coningsby, Sybil, and especially to Tancred; and also to those peculiarly "destructive," and altogether indefinite, political views entertained (so far as can be collected from his speeches and writings) by the distinguished subject of our present memoir. In Tancred, the old Judaic notions as to the race will be found revived in their most intense form. He there represents "the slumber of the East as more vital than the waking life of

the rest of the globe," and Europe is described as "that quarter of the globe to which God has never spoken.' "I know well,'.says Tancred, though born in a northern or distant isle, that the Creator of the world speaks with men only in this land; and that is why I am here.' "Is it to be believed," writes Mr. Disraeli, speaking in his own proper person, "that there are no peculiar and eternal qualities in a land thus visited, which distinguish it from all others? that Palestine is like Normandy or Yorkshire, or even Athens or Rome?" Strange, that the country gentlemen of England should have adopted this Fetichist for their leader!

We have left ourselves but small space to refer to the political career of Mr. Disraeli; but it is not necessary we should refer to this at any length. In Vivian Grey his political views seemed bounded by a desire to find a Marquis de Carabas. The feverish excitement of the Reform Bill, which stimulated him to become the poet of the epoch, brought him out in the character of a Radical, or rather a hater of the Whigs, because, after all, he never seems to have clung very closely to Radicalism. However, he went down to High Wycombe as a candidate for the borough, in 1832, recommended by Mr. Hume and Sir E. L. Bulwer. Mr. O'Connell was, at the same time, applied to for a character. Mr. Disraeli was defeated; a second election took place in the same year, when he was again defeated; and he tried the borough a third time, in 1835, when he was a third time defeated. It seems that the late Earl Grey, on hearing of Disraeli having contested the Wycombe election with his relative, Colonel Grey, asked of some one the question, "Who is he?" and immediately the young aspirant for parliamentary honours published a furious pamphlet under this title. It was originally published by Hatchard of Piccadilly, but is not now to be had. It was a furious onslaught on the Whigs,very eloquent, but in many places very unintelligible.

A vacancy in the representation of Marylebone shortly after occurred, on which Disraeli announced himself as a candidate, published placards, and canvassed the constituency; but he did not go to the poll. Joseph Hume, on whom he called, gave him "the cold shoulder;" for the old veteran could not see very clearly through the young politician's hodgepodge notions of Anti Whig Liberalism, Tory Radicalism, ad Absolutist Democracy, which he had just developed in an address to the electors of High Wycombe, under the title of The Crisis Examined. So, abandoning the hope of getting into Parliament on Joseph Hume's or Daniel O'Connell's shoulders, the Young Englander suddenly wheeled round on the other tack, and forthwith came out in the character of a full-blown Tory. He went down to Taunton to oppose Mr. Labouchere, and was defeated. A furious altercation between him and O'Connell afterwards took place, in which the latter denounced bim, in his usual coarse, Swift-like style, as one who, "if his genealogy were traced, would be found to be the true heir-at-law of the impenitent thief who died upon the cross." On this, Disraeli, stung to madness, challenged Morgan O'Connell to fight him in a duel; but Morgan declined; Disraeli was bound over to keep the peace; and the correspondence was published. In his letter to O'Connell, he concluded with these words:" We shall meet at Philippi, where I will seize the first opportunity of inflicting castigation for the insults you have lavished upon me." The correspondence was a good deal laughed at, and Disraeli had by this time certainly succeeded in reducing himself to the lowest possible plight as a public man. But he had genius in him, and resolution; and he worked his way upward again, as we shall see.

He began to recover himself through means of the Press, always his great power. He wrote a very clever, brilliant, and admirable Essay, entitled A Vindication of the English Constitution; and about the same time he edited a morning newspaper called The Representative, published by John Murray, which turned out a failure. But soon after, he appeared in the Times newspaper, in a series of very clever letters, afterwards published in a volume, entitled the Letters of Runnymede. They were racy, brilliant, satirical, and well-informed, though occasionally rather insolent in their smartness. It is also supposed that, about the same time, and even down to a recent date, Mr. Disraeli contributed frequently to the leading columns of "The Thunderer."

At length, Mr. Disraeli succeeded in obtaining admission to Parliament, as one of the members for the borough of Maidstone. This was at the general election in 1837. No great expectations were formed of him, and yet there was some curiosity excited respecting his debut as an orator. He had delivered some blazing philippics against the Whigs out of doors, and uttered sundry mystic speeches crammed with classics. The gentlemen of the House of Commons expected that Disraeli would make a fool of himself; and he did not disappoint them. His first effort was a ludicrous failure, his maiden speech was received with "loud bursts of laughter." The newspapers said of him that he went up like a rocket, and came down like its stick. You may conceive the chagrin of the young legislator,-whose speech had been composed in the grandest and most ambitious strain of eloquence, but was received as if every period concluded a pun or a flash of wit. It was as if Hamlet had been played as a comedy! But towards the conclusion, he threw in a sentence worthy of being quoted, for it was a true prophecy. Writhing under the shouts of laughter which had drowned so much of his studied eloquence, he exclaimed in an almost savage voice, "I have begun several times many things, and have often succeeded at last. I shall sit down now, but the time will come when YOU WILL HEAR ME! The time did come,--for Disraeli now stands there in his place, the greatest Orator within the walls of the British Parliament.

The subsequent career of Disraeli furnishes an admirable lesson to all men: it shows what determination and energy will do. For he has owed all his success to hard work and patient industry. He began carefully to unlearn his faults, to study the character of his audience, to cultivate the arts of speech, and to fill his mind with the elements of parliamentary knowledge. He soon felt that success in oratory was not to be obtained at a bound, but had to be patiently worked for. His triumph did come, but it came slow, and by degrees. He at length learned to make the House laugh with him, instead of at him. A year and a half elapsed before he again attempted to address the House; and then the results of his care and study showed themselves in an excellent speech on the presentation of the Chartist Petition. He had already thrown away his poetic and historical imagery, and took his stand on facts, feelings, and strong common sense. In the following year, he delivered a speech full of strong sympathy for the incarcerated Chartists, Lovett and Collins, disclaiming the plea of inercy on the part of the state in their behalf, and insisting that they were the really aggrieved parties. His speeches on copyright and education in the following year were much admired, and also his famous attack on our foreign consular establishments in the session of 1842. These speeches served to efface the recollection of his first egregious failure, though he had not yet achieved a very high position in the house. He was, however,

steadily working his way towards that, as we shall

see.

The

In 1844, Mr. Disraeli commenced his series of oratorical attacks on Sir Robert Peel, and continued them with invincible pertinacity, and with growing power and force of satire until the fall of that lamented statesman, and even for some time after. It is said that Disraeli had been slighted in his aspirations for office, -at all events, he had been overlooked; for Sir Robert Peel always preferred to have under him men of strongly practical qualities. How that may be, we cannot tell; but certainly, the vehement personal attacks, the stinging, biting satire launched through the teeth, the almost vengeful wrath with which Disraeli pursued the minister, and met him with his poisoned shafts at every turn,-exhibit a determined personal hostility, which must have had its foundation in some slighted ambition or exasperated individual feeling. So far as Disraeli was concerned, it was war to the knife, and to the death. A series of assaults, so long sustained and so vindictive, is probably quite unexampled in the history of parliamentary warfare. There was a large and growing party of malcontents, too, in the house, who did not fail to second the satire of Disraeli by their laughter and applause. His irony became more and more polished, keen, and penetrating, His speeches were full of refinement-but equally full of venom. adder lurked under the rose-leaves: the golden arrows were tipped with deadly poison. No wonder that the sensitive subject of all those speeches should so often have writhed under them; and shuddered under the hands of his ruthless, but too skilful anatomist. Take a few instances of Disraeli's satire. On one occasion, he characterized the Premier as only "a great parliamentary middleman." And what is a middleman? "He was a man who bamboozled one party and plundered the other, till, having obtained a position to which he was not entitled, he called out, Let us have no party! Let us have fixity of tenure!"" This passage, however, has since been quoted against Mr. Disraeli himself. Then he went on to describe his great parliamentary antagonist's speeches, recorded in Hansard, as "dreary pages of interminable talk; full of predictions falsified, pledges broken, calculations that had gone wrong, and budgets that had blown up. And this not relieved by a single original thought, a single generous impulse, or a single happy expression." Then he described the Peel policy as "a system so matter-offact, yet so fallacious; taking in everybody, though everybody knew he was deceived; a system so mechanical, yet so Machiavellian, that he could hardly say what it was, except a sort of humdrum hocus-pocus, in which the Order of the Day' was moved to take in a nation ;" and he concluded that speech by calling on the house to prove that "cunning is not caution, nor habitual perfidy high policy of state;" exhorting them to "dethrone a dynasty of deception, by putting an end to this intolerable yoke of official despotism and parliamentary imposture." It was in the course of the same session (1846) that Mr. Disraeli made the happy hit of representing Sir Robert Peel as having "caught the Whigs bathing, and run away with their clothes,"--an idea which Punch seized upon, and worked out with characteristic vigour. There was also a terrible sting in his apparently off-hand, but perhaps studied, remark on Sir Robert Peel's habit of quotation, in which he advised him to "stick to quotation; because he never quoted any passage that had not previously received the full meed of parliamentary approbation." Of course, any description would fail to convey the screaming delight with which such passable hits were hailed on one side of the house,

and the blank dismay which they caused on the other. Their sting lay in the tone with which the words were uttered, and in the position of the contending parties at the time. They were addressed to minds familiar with the person attacked, with his history as written in Hansard, and hot with the living politics of the day. To us now, when appearing for the first time on the printed paper, they may seem comparatively dead and pointless.

Disraeli's boldness increased with his success. There was no other man on his side to compare with him. He towered infinitely above the host of country gentlemen, who, though exasperated Protectionists, were nevertheless, for the most part, dumb, and could only find a vent for their eloquence in cheering Disraeli's bitter attacks on the Premier. The session of 1846 brought his oratory to its climax. He then took the lead in opposing the Premier's measure of Corn Law Repeal, and delivered on the occasion several of his ablest speeches, full of cutting sarcasm and powerful invective. In the debate on the third reading of the Corn Bill, in a strain of withering irony, he acquitted the Premier of meditated deception in his adoption of Free Trade principles, "seeing that he had all along, for thirty or forty years, traded on the ideas of others; that his life had been one great appropriation clause; and that he had ever been the burglar of other men's intellects." He also denounced him as the "political pedlar, who, adopting the principles of Free Trade, had bought his party in the cheapest market, and sold them in the dearest." The feeling which dictated these speeches was obviously not so much based on deep-rooted convic tions as on personal malignity and revenge; and though Disraeli's followers may have cheered, they could not but, at the same time, condemn much of what he so eloquently uttered. Sir Robert Peel fell from power, and only then did his enemy's attacks

cease.

The subsequent history of Mr. Disraeli is too well known to require comment at our hands. We do not here discuss politics or parties. In this sketch we have aimed merely at giving an idea of the littérateur and the statesman, whose talents, energy and industry, have already carried him so high, and may possibly carry him still higher.

With the features and general portraiture of Disraeli the reader of Punch is already familiar; indeed that useful periodical may be regarded as a gallery of the portraits of living men of mark. His external appearance is very characteristic. A face of ashy paleness, large dark eyes, curling black hair, a stooping gait, an absorbed look, a shuffling walk,-these are his external marks; and once seen, you will remember Disraeli again. There is something unusual, something quite foreign, in his appearance; and you could not by any possibility mistake him for a Saxon. Notwithstanding his position, he is an exceedingly isolated being. He makes no intimates,—— has few or no personal friends, he seems to be lonely and self-absorbed. He has no confidential acquaintances; living in his own world, and feeding upon his own thoughts.

As an orator, Mr. Disraeli is entitled to a very high rank, perhaps the highest in the present House of Commons. But it must be confessed that his oratory is entirely intellectual. He never touches the heart: his greatest efforts have been satirical,-of the scathing, blighting, and destroying kind: his best speeches have been eminently of a destructive character. Yet their finish has been perfect, -perfect as a product of the mere intellect. He never carries away his auditors in a fit of enthusiasm as O'Connell and Shiel could do. The feeling he leaves with you is that of high admiration of his intellectual powers,-and you

cannot help saying, "What a remarkably clever orator Disraeli is! Though usually ungainly and somewhat supercilious in his action, no speaker can be more effective than he is, in making his "points." His by-play, as actors call it, is perfect; and to his sneers and sarcasms he gives the fullest force by the most subtle modulations of his voice, by transient expressions of the features, and by the always inimitable shrug; and, while the House is convulsed by the laughter which he has raised at an adversary's expense, he himself usually remains as apparently unmoved and impassive as if he were not an actor in the

Donald was a wealthy lad,
But music was not in him ;
Bagpipes always drove him mad,-
The piper could not win him.

But, alack! one summer day

He crossed Loch Leven's water; And he met, upon his way,

The piper and his daughter.
Donald looked, and Donald saw

Bonnie gray eyes glancing,
And his heart was beating time
While those eyes were dancing.
Donald gazed, with soul amazed,
While he stood before 'em ;
And never stirred, although he heard
That horrid "Tullochgorum.”

The old man played, yet Donald stayed,
Each moment seeming shorter ;
The piper's drone had changed its tone
Beside the piper's daughter.
Alack! alas! it came to pass
Young Donald crossed Loch Leven
As often, and as willingly,

As though it led to Heaven.

A wondrous change came o'er his mind,
He thought the bagpipes pleasant;
But then, the piper he was blind,
And those grey eyes were present.
Young Donald loved the old man's child,
With golden ring he sought her,
And took the pipes and piper home,
As well as piper's daughter.

ELIZA COOK.

DIAMOND DUST.

BLUNT wedges rive hard knots. CHILDHOOD and genius have the same master organ in common,-inquisitiveness.

MAN is never wrong while he lives for others; the philosopher who contemplates from the rock is a less noble image than the sailor who struggles with the storm.

SOLITUDE is necessary in the moments when grief is strongest and thought most troubled.

No man is wholly bad all at once.

IN all true humour lies its germ,-pathos. SCIENCE is not a club, it is an ocean; it is open to the cockboat as the frigate. One man carries across it a freightage of ingots; another may fish there for herrings.

EVERYTHING, when tending to decay, has a mystery it did not possess in its bloom.

THE errors of the good are often very difficult to eradicate, from being founded on mistaken views of duty.

ONE of the saddest things about human nature is, that a man may guide others in the path of life without walking in it himself; that he may be a pilot, and yet a castaway.

SUSPICION. A fungus which sprouts from the dunghill of an impure mind.

SORROW is the night of the mind.

USE not evasions when called upon to do a good thing, nor excuses when you are reproached for doing a bad one.

SELFISHNESS.-Base metal, out of which we forge rack-wheels to torture Justice.

GENUINE politeness is the first-born offspring of generosity and modesty.

THE mercy of men is to be just, the justice of women is to be merciful.

THE first and worst of all frauds is to cheat oneself; all sin is easy after that.

We do not want precepts so much as patterns. INVECTIVE and personality prove nothing, on either side, but a lamentable want of good taste and good argument.

FEMALE education is generally a gaudy and tawdry setting, which cumbers and almost hides the jewel it ought to bring out.

WISDOM has grown so used to calling aloud without attracting attention, that the good lady would be actually embarrassed if any mortal chanced to turn his head at her first summons.

No plant so much as man needs the light and the air.

THERE may be more water in a flowing stream only four feet deep, and containing more force and more health, than in a sullen pool thirty yards to the bot

GOING TO THE PLAY!

You remember your first visit to the Theatre! Who forgets that ever memorable night? The exulting expectation, the slow pace at which the hours crept on, the bounding delight at setting out,-and then the triumphant ride to the play,-the cabman all unconscious of the freight of joy which he drove thither! All was so new to us then,-even a ride in a cab! how much more so an admission to the grand mysteries of the Theatre Royal! The scene of such triumphs! Those boards which Garrick, and Siddons, and Kemble, had trod,-names which we heard spoken of in a tone of mingled exultation and pride. Often had we wistfully gazed at the Corinthian pillars of that solemnlooking old Drury,-and now we, too, were at length to be among the privileged ones admitted to share in its delights.

With what awe we entered that great portico! The huge flights of stairs, -the blaze of gas,-the company flitting to and fro,-the mystery of tickets and checks, the long passages, with their multitude of mysterious doors,-and then the entry within the theatre itself, and the sudden blaze of gas from the stage, which lay right before our eyes! Everything had an interest then! trivial circumstances, long since grown stale and contemptible from familiarity. That drop-scene, hung between two worlds, concealing unseen glories, can never be forgotten. The tuning of instruments in the orchestra, detestable now, was listened to then with interest. Then the look round the house, the burnished pilasters supporting the boxes, -the huge tiers of faces rising up to the roof,-and the confused hum of the distant "gods," produced a feeling of awe and wonder, which was only dispelled by the sharp tinkle of the little bell behind the scenes; then the full gas was put on ; the brilliancy was dazzling, and the curtain rose.

I forget the precise name of the tragedy, which I wonder at the more, as its most prominent scenes are still fresh in my mind. It belongs, doubtless, to the dead and unforgotten plays which fill the lumber rooms of theatres. Probably it would not touch me now, for I have been behind the scenes, smelt the tallow, seen the ropes and pulleys, watched the prompter, laughed at the rouge-pot and the flour-bag, out of which blushes and pallor can be got up on the shortest notice. The machinery looks clumsy enough

[PRICE 14d.

now; but how brilliant and dazzling was it then! Like life, the pleasures of the theatre at length become very flat and tasteless to those who have drunk of them long enough.

The great treat of that first night was the pantomime,-it was that which we had gone to see, for it was Christmas holiday time. What child, what boy, does not love pantomime? That quintessence of agility and vivid motion,-Harlequin, with his fair Columbine, a perfect vision of delight as she first seems to young eyes behind the dazzling gas-lights; then the Clown with his grimaces, tongue stuffed in cheek, eyes a-squint, toes twisted inward, geese and cabbages stuffed into his huge pockets, with the kicks, cuffs, and trips, which he gives to the unlucky Pantaloon; the perpetual motion, transformations, leapings, dancings, jokes, and shouts of laughter, never fail to work up the young audiences which frequent the Christmas houses, to a screaming agony of delight. Even older people often relish a pantomime more than they do a tragedy. But perhaps this may be deemed a serious reflection on those seniors' taste.

You remember Charles Lamb's description of his "First Play." After his graphic account of it, everything which I can say would seem tame. His first play was "Artaxerxes," now voted a bore. But no matter. The youthful Lamb "heard the word Darius, and at once was in the midst of Daniel. All was absorbed in vision. Gorgeous vests, gardens, palaces, provinces passed before me. I knew not players. I was in Persepolis for the time, and the burning idol of their devotion almost converted me into a worshipper. I was awe-struck, and believed those significations to be something more than elemental fires. It was all enchantment, and a dream. No such pleasure has since visited me but in dreams. -Harlequin's invasions followed; where, I remember, the transformation of the magistrates into reverend beldames, seemed to me a piece of grave historic justice, and the tailor carrying his own head, to be as sober a verity as the legend of Saint Denys."

After seeing these and other plays, six years passed before Lamb went again to a theatre. He expected to experience the same feelings again, but how much was he disappointed! At the first period he knew nothing, understood nothing, discriminated nothing: he felt all, loved all, wondered at all. But now! reason