itarians; but we have a shrewd suspicion that
the blow is mere swagger, to keep up his courage, or perhaps a covert
hint that though he can at times fool his friends, he is not a man to be
trifled with by his enemies. What, we must ask, would Sidonia say to
this dreariest of all shams? When Coningsby meets Sidonia in the forest,
and expresses a wish to see Athens, the mysterious stranger replies,
'The age of ruins is past; have you seen Manchester?' It would, indeed,
be absurd to infer that Disraeli does not see the weak side of
Manchester. After dilating, in 'Tancred,' upon the vitality of Damascus,
he observes, 'As yet the disciples of progress have not been able
exactly to match this instance; but it is said that they have great
faith in the future of Birkenhead.' Perhaps the true sentiment is that
the Semitic races, the unchanging depositaries of eternal principles,
look with equal indifference upon the mushroom growths of Aryan
civilisation, whether an Athens or a Birkenhead be the product, but
admit that the living has so far an advantage over the dead. To find the
moral of 'Coningsby' may be impracticable and is at any rate irrelevant.
The way to enjoy it is to look at the world through the eyes of
Sidonia. The world--at least the Gentile world--is a farce. Ninety-nine
men out of a hundred are fools. Some are prosy and reasoning fools, and
make excellent butts for stinging sarcasms; others are flighty and
imaginative fools, and can best be ridiculed by burlesquing their folly.
As for the hundredth man--the youthful Coningsby or Tancred--his
enthusiasm is refreshing, and his talent undeniable; let us watch his
game, applaud his talents, and always remember that great talent is
almost as necessary for consummate folly as for consummate success.
Adopting such maxims, we can enjoy 'Coningsby' throughout; for we need
not care whether we are laughing at the author or with him. We may
heartily enjoy his admirable flashes of wit, and, when he takes a
serious tone, may oscillate agreeably between the beliefs that he is in
solemn earnest, or in his bitterest humour; only we must not quite
forget that the farce has a touch in it of tragedy, and that there is a
real mystery somewhere. Satire, pure and simple, becomes wearisome. If a
latent sense of humour is necessary to prevent a serious man from
becoming a bore, it is still more true that some serious creed, however
misty and indefinite, is required to raise the mere mocker