in plot, and like most first books, flashy and
overdrawn. And yet there is a deal of power in it, and the thinly veiled
characters were speedily pointed out as living personages. Literary London
went agog, and Mrs. Austen fanned the flame by inviting "the set" to her
drawing-room to hear the great author read from his amusing work. The best
feature of the book, and probably the saving feature, is that the central
figure in the plot is Disraeli, himself, and upon his own head the author
plays his shafts of wit and ridicule. The impertinence and impudence which
he himself manifested were parodied, caricatured and played upon, to the
great delight of the uninitiated rabble, who gave themselves much credit
for having made a discovery.

The man who scorns, scoffs, gibes and jeers other men, and at the same
time is willing to drop his guard and laugh at himself, is not a bad man.
Very, very seldom is found a man under thirty who does not take himself
and all his wit seriously. But Disraeli, the lawyer's clerk, at twenty was
wise and subtle beyond all men in London Town. Mrs. Austen must have been
wise, too, for had she been like most other good women she would have
wanted her protege admired, and have rebelled in tears at the thought of
placing him in a position where society would serve him up for
tittle-tattle. Small men can be laughed down, but great ones, never.

A little American testimony as to the appearance of Disraeli in his
manhood may not here be amiss. Says N.P. Willis: "He was sitting in a
window looking on Hyde Park, the last rays of sunlight reflected from the
gorgeous gold flowers of a splendidly embroidered waistcoat.
Patent-leather pumps, a white stick with a black cord and tassel, and a
quantity of chains about his neck and pockets, served to make him a
conspicuous object. He has one of the most remarkable faces I ever saw. He
is lividly pale, and but for the energy of his action and strength of his
lungs would seem to be a victim of consumption. His eye is black as
Erebus, and has the most mocking, lying-in-wait sort of expression
conceivable. His mouth is alive with a kind of working and impatient
nervousness, and when he has burst forth, as he does constantly, with a
particularly successful cataract of expression, it assumes a curl of
triumphant scorn that would be worthy of Mephistopheles. His hair is as
extraordinary as his taste in waistcoats. A thick, heavy mass of jet-black
ringlets falls on his lef