Page:Memoir of B. D'Israeli.pdf/3



. B. D'Israeli is the eldest son of the celebrated author of the "Curiosities of Literature," a work which has called more thought out of gratification than almost any that we know. We are not however among those who believe in the influence of circumstance over mind, and are not therefore about to dwell on any probability of the father's pursuits having biassed those of the son. We hold that the writer of "Vivian Grey" would have written anywhere that he could have found pen, ink, and paper; or that if he had been native of an Indian forest, he would, with agitated face, and eloquent arms, and appeals that reach the heart, have riveted the attention of the whole dark circle gathered around the red fire-light of the pine-boughs. What are youths in general at the age when "Vivian Grey" was produced? Nonentities, as regards thought or creation. Pleasure has taught them no moral—sorrow has given no strength—and judgment is an impulse, not an impression. Now the chief characteristic of "Vivian Grey" was insight into motive; it was only the work of a boy in its freshness—a freshness that gave its own excitement to the narrative. The sarcasm was not merely amusing, it was reflective,—the mockery had a purpose, and purpose is that in which the young writer is generally most deficient. Years hence that work will be a literary curiosity—it will be an interesting subject to investigate by what process a mere boy could look so closely into the springs of action, and paint so true a picture of the shifting sands of society. No young man, with one touch of the eager or ambitious in his career, ever read that work without strong excitement; and the effect it took was what power ever takes,—it made enemies, because it made, envy,—and also because satire, take what shape it will, is always unwelcome. Even while enjoying a laugh at others, people have a little secret fear of the laugh coming home,—their turn may be the next; and we are all cowards at the bottom. Moreover, irony is always misunderstood; and the many would disdain Vivian Grey's velvet slippers, and petted greyhound—to whom his keen sarcasm was a sealed book. There is also an odd feeling about the generality which delights in being ill-used,—complaint has a small temporary consequence, which is just equal to their calibre. When Gay in his exquisite opera said of his caricatures— he perfectly understood the general feeling. To apply a sneer to ourselves, is a distinction, particularly when there is the right to grumble at it. This was a luxury fully enjoyed on the first appearance of "Vivian Grey." In that work there were one or two characters complete moral investigations;—the Marquis, whose very existence was a ceremony—the Marchioness's, an indolent indulgence—and Cleveland's, one of those secrets which this world can never solve. On the other side of the grave, we may learn why the glorious mind, the noble purpose, the lofty eloquence, are given—and in vain. Here, we know not why the intellectual harvest should spring up—yet no season of reaping ever arrive. "Mrs. Felix Lorraine" was another sketch strange for the conception of youth. Rochefoucauld says truly, le moindre défaut d'une femme galante est d’étre galante; and here the truth is worked out to its last severity. The succeeding series did, however, the female world full justice. Madeline Trevor is noble as a statue, instinct with spirit;—Violet Fane breathes of her name; but the