into a
genuine satirist. That is the use of Sidonia. He is ostensibly but a
subordinate figure, and yet, if we struck him out, the whole composition
would be thrown out of harmony. Looking through his eyes, we can laugh,
but we laugh with that sense of dignity which arises out of the
consciousness of a secret wisdom, shadowy and indefinite in the highest
degree, perilously apt to sound like nonsense if cramped by a definite
utterance, but yet casting over the whole picture a kind of magical
colouring, which may be mere trickery or may be a genuine illumination,
but which, whilst we are not too exacting, brings out pleasant and
perplexing effects. The lights and shadows fluctuate, and solid forms
melt provokingly into mist; but we must learn to enjoy the uncertain
twilight which prevails on the border-land between romance and reality,
if we would enjoy the ambiguities and the ironies and the mysteries of
'Coningsby.'

The other two parts of the trilogy show the same qualities, but in
different proportions. 'Sybil' is chiefly devoted to what its author
calls 'an accurate and never-exaggerated picture of a remarkable period
in our social history.' We need not inquire into the accuracy. It is
enough to say that in this particular department Disraeli shows himself
capable of rivalling in force and vivacity the best of those novelists
who have tried to turn blue-books upon the condition of the people into
sparkling fiction. If he is distinctly below the few novelists of truer
purpose who have put into an artistic shape a profound and first-hand
impression of those social conditions which statisticians try to
tabulate in blue-books,--if he does not know Yorkshiremen in the sense
in which Miss Bronte knew them, and still less in the sense in which
Scott knew the Borderers--he can write a disguised pamphlet upon the
effects of trades' unions in Sheffield with a brilliancy which might
excite the envy of Mr. Charles Reade. But in 'Tancred' we again come
upon the true vein of mystery in which is Disraeli's special
idiosyncrasy; and the effect is still more bewildering than in
'Coningsby.' Giving our hands to our singular guide, we are to be led
into the most secret place, and be initiated into the very heart of the
mystery. Tancred is Coningsby once more, but Coningsby no longer
satisfied with the profound political teaching of Bolingbroke, and eager
to know the very last word of that riddle which, once solved, all
theological and