PRINTED BY WILLIAM BLACKWOOD AND SONS, EDINBURGH.
BLACKWOOD’S
EDINBURGH MAGAZINE.
No. CCCCLXI. MARCH, 1854. Vol. LXXV.
DISRAELI: A BIOGRAPHY.[[1]]
Compliments are of various kinds. It is not always necessary that they should assume a laudatory form—they may be conveyed quite as powerfully through the medium of abuse. Some men there are whose eulogy is in itself a disgrace. Few would have cared to see their characters upheld in the columns of the Age or the Satirist—fewer still would like to hear a panegyric on their morals delivered from a hustings by the lips of Mr Reynolds. If we had to choose between total obscurity, and a reputation founded only upon the testimony of Mr Cobden, we should not, for one moment, hesitate to embrace the first alternative. To be designated in the polite circle of a sporting tavern as a “nobby cove,” or a “real swell,” is not, according to our ideas, a high object of ambition; and we should feel somewhat dubious of the real character of the individual whose praise was in the mouths of all the cabmen.
On the contrary, there can be no doubt that abuse proceeding from certain quarters is in itself a considerable recommendation, and may even be matter of pride to the party who is made the subject of it. The just Aristides never experienced a thrill of more agreeable complacency than when, at the request of the illiterate Athenian, he wrote his own name on the ostracising shell. We may rely upon it that Coriolanus felt far more gratified than incensed when the howling and hooting of the plebeians enabled him to deliver his stinging diatribe, and to express the intensity of his scorn. Virgil regarded the low ribaldry of Mævius as a direct acknowledgment of his literary accomplishments; and Cicero in one of his speeches expresses himself as being under obligations to a notorious blackguard, who had selected him as the object of his attacks.
Mr Disraeli, we think, lies under similar obligations, though the author of the book before us is simply an ineffable blockhead. Mean, however, as are his abilities, he has certainly contrived to strike out a literary novelty; though it may be doubted whether his example, if followed by men of average intellect, would tend to the improvement or increase the delights of society. In the pages of a review or the columns of a magazine, considerable freedom is used in discussing the merits of eminent living literary or political characters. Such criticisms or sketches are, no doubt, often tinted with party colours—are sometimes rather severe—but are rarely, if ever, scurrilous. But we do not remember any instance parallel to this, where a writer has selected for his subject an eminent living character, and has proceeded with deliberate, though most dull malignity, to rake up every particular of his life which he dared to touch upon, to gather every scrap which he either has or is supposed to have written from the years of his nonage upwards, and then to lay before the public, under the title of a biography, a ponderous volume of no fewer than 646 pages. Should this example be followed, and the practice become general, it appears to us that there will be strong necessity for revising the law of libel. We have grave doubts whether, under any circumstances, one man is entitled to take so gross a liberty with another. If each of us were to sit down and compile biographies of his living neighbours, this would be no world to live in. Either there would be an enormous increase of actions for defamation, or the cudgel, horse-whip, and pistol, would be brought into immediate requisition. Let us, however, concede that party animosity, personal antipathy, or private hatred may, either singly or collectively, be held to justify the perpetration of such an outrage—let us suppose that there is such an accumulation of black bile and venom in the interior of the unhappy human reptile that he must either give vent to it or be suffocated—he is at least bound to put his name on the title-page, so that the world may know what manner of man the deliberate accuser is. For aught we are told to the contrary, this volume may have been written by Jack Ketch or one of his subordinate assistants. Evidently it is not written by one who possesses the ordinary feelings of a gentleman, though it is possible that he may move in good society, bear a respectable name, and be regarded by veteran red-tapists as a young man of considerable promise. He is the counterpart of Randal Leslie in My Novel—cold, selfish, and malignant, without a spark of enthusiasm or a generous thought in his whole composition. Envy is the grand passion of his mind; and, in this case, hatred co-operates with envy. The object of this book is to run down Mr Disraeli on all points; to exhibit him as an impostor in politics, a quack in literature, a Maw-worm in religion, and a hypocrite in morals. We defy any one to peruse twenty pages of the work without being convinced that such was the intention of the author of Disraeli, a Biography; and yet the skulking creature has not courage enough to show himself openly. He even tries to assume a disguise so as to deceive those who might otherwise have traced him to his hole. “Conscious,” says the cockatrice, “of no motive but the public good, with little to hope or fear from any political party, strongly attached to principles, but indulgent to mere opinions, neither Whig nor Tory, but a respecter both of the sincere Conservative and the sincere Liberal, I have no dread of the partisan’s malice.” Mercy on us! who can this very mysterious person be? “No motive but the public good!”—“little to hope or fear from any political party!”—“neither Whig nor Tory!”—what sort of a politician is this? He butters Mr Gladstone, he butters Lord John Russell, he butters Lord Palmerston, he butters Mr Hume—his benevolence to every one except Mr Disraeli is quite marvellous—but more especially doth he laud and magnify the men who are now in power. “One of the humblest individuals of this great empire has thought it necessary to enter his protest against this new system of morality, which threatens to become generally prevalent!” Humility!—morality!—Brave words, Mr Randal Leslie—but it really was not worth while to add such hypocrisy to your other sins. We know you a great deal better than you suppose; and your own past history, insignificant though you are, has been too politically profligate to escape reprobation. You say you are neither Whig nor Tory, and, for once in your life, you speak the truth. But you were a Tory, and you became a Whig, and you are now a placeman; and you would hold that place of yours as readily under Mr Cobden as under Lord Aberdeen. You were once a Peelite, but you had not even the decency to wait for the fortunes of your chiefs. You lusted after office, and took the bribe the instant it was tendered by the Whigs; and in consequence you are universally looked upon and distrusted as the most venal, selfish, and unprincipled young man of your generation. It would indeed be absurd in you to entertain any “dread of the partisan’s malice.” You have placed yourself in such a position that you may defy malice of any kind. Your career, though obscure, has been so contemptible that your bitterest enemy could not make you seem worse than you were. It must, however, be allowed that you have materially added to your infamy by the present publication.
We have thought it our duty, at the outset, to make these stringent remarks, not because this writer has selected Mr Disraeli as the object of his attack, but because we altogether disapprove of, and abominate, this style of literary warfare. It is, thank heaven, as yet uncommon among us; and the best way of preventing its occurrence is to make an example of the caitiff who has introduced it. The idea, however, is not altogether original. It was engendered in Holywell Street; from which Paphian locality, as we are given to understand, various works, professing to be “Private Histories,” and “Secret Memoirs” of eminent living characters, were formerly issued; and this writer, being no doubt familiar with that sort of literature, has thought proper to extend the range of his license. We have, all of us, a decided interest in maintaining the respectability of controversy. A public career does indeed render men very amenable to criticism and comment; and it hardly can be said that there is anything unfair in contrasting public professions and public acts. A statesman, or even a less distinguished politician, must be prepared to hear his former opinions set against those which he now enunciates, and he may even consider it his duty elaborately to vindicate the change. But to compile biographies of living men—mixing up, as in this case, their mere literary effusions with their political lives, and attempting, by distortion and base inuendo, to render them contemptible in the eyes of the public—is an outrage on common decency, and must excite universal scorn and disgust.
The moral perceptions of the man who could write a book like this must, of course, be very weak; nevertheless, it is evident that even his conscience gave him an occasional twinge, by way of reminding him of the extreme dastardliness of his conduct. He could not but be aware that no honourable or chivalrous opponent of Mr Disraeli could read this tissue of malignity without experiencing a sensation of loathing; and, therefore, he has attempted, at the very outset, to vindicate himself, by representing Mr Disraeli as entitled to no quarter or courtesy, on account of his addiction to personality and satire. It may be as well to take down his own words, because we shall presently have occasion to make a few observations connected with this charge.